Located on a farm six kilometres from St. Louis, Saskatchewan, this home was occupied until about 1960. The original lean-to was torn down; the flat river-stone foundation is still visible.
Graham Chandler
Flight-Lieutenant Doug Sam in Kuala Lumpur, 1950-1951.
Courtesy of Trevor Sam.
“Bible Bill” Aberhart’s quirky Man from Mars radio series addressed social issues.
GLENBOW ARCHIVES / NA-2771-2
The only known photograph of the author’s grandfather, James Francis De Brou (1900-1953), taken from a video of home movies shot in the 1950s by the author’s father (James Francis, Junior).
France Rivet's book, published in 2014, documents the story of the Labrador Inuit who died while being exhibited at zoos in Europe in 1880–1881.
According to Calgary Police records, Cyr was arrested four times between 1913 and 1917, twice for vagrancy and twice for drunkenness. Her 1916 arrest for vagrancy ended in a sixty-day sentence with hard labour.
CALGARY POLICE SERVICE INTERPRETIVE CENTRE AND ARCHIVES
"Private Lamb has a Quiet Afternoon in the Canteen," British Columbia, December 1, 1942.
National Archives of Canada/C-135722/Gift of Molly Lamb Bobak
First page of a letter written by Willie McKnight to his friend Mike in Calgary not long after he arrived in England for training with the RAF.
Library and Archives Canada
Canadian soldiers display a Nazi flag captured after the liberation of France.
Library and Archives Canada / PA 13746
Contact! by Ted Zuber. This painting represents an event that took place on October 23-24, 1952, at "Little Gibraltor" Hill, Korea, in which friendly fire was called in to help stop Chinese soldiers from overrunning Canadian positions.
Ted Zuber / Canadian War Museum
"First Kill" depicts the artist, Ted Zuber, making his first hit as a sniper in Korea.
Ted Zuber / Canadian War Museum
Arrival of Madame Champlain at Quebec 1620, painting by Frank Craig, 1909.
Bridgeman Art Library
Helen (Jury) Armstrong was born in 1875, the eldest daughter of ten children, to a Toronto tailor. In 1897, she married George Armstrong.
Courtesy Dorothy Dyer
Scottish-born and educated, James Douglas spent most of his medical career in Quebec City after he was forced to flee the United States for illegally conducting dissection experiments.
Centre Hospitalier Robert-Giffard
Maria Lindsey Cobham’s bloodthirsty exploits were too horrible to believe.
iStock
Samuel and Jane Nesbitt of Victoria, circa 1865. Jane Nesbitt, like most of the bride-ship girls, soon became married after her arrival in British Columbia.
B.C. Archives
Blanche Lemko von Ginkel received her degree from McGill University in 1945 and subsequently studied at Le Corbusier in Paris, a hub of European Modernism.
Blanche von Ginkel
"De la salle des femmes de Hôtel-Dieu de Montreal."
COLLECTION DES RELIGIEUSES HOSPITALIERES DE SAINT-JOSEPH DE MONTREAL
John Zubek works in his lab at the University of Manitoba in this undated photo.
Courtesy University of Manitoba Archives
The asylum at 999 Queen Street West photographed in 1868.
Metro Toronto Library
Sir Francis Galton coined the term eugenics in 1883. In his influential 1869 book, Hereditary Genius, he proposed a program similar to agricultural breeding programs, in which individuals’ pedigrees and
race would identify those
“most valuable.”
Bonds were issued by the American Fenian movement around 1865. They were issued to raise money for the cause of liberating Ireland.
Area claimed by France in North America in 1750.
Matthew Yathon
Church and Horse, 1964.
National Gallery of Canada
Refugees at Bidong, Malaysia, circa 1979.
Margaret Tebbutt
The New Way: 300 pairs a day, 1880
John Henry Walker (1831-1899).
McCord Museum
Avro’s motion picture section filmed every detail of the Arrow’s development.
Courtesy of Lou Wise
Illustrated poster.
Canadian Pacific Railway Archives
The original Bluenose sails close-hauled during her first racing series in 1921.
Nova Scotia Archives/W.R. Macaskill
Tee Yee Neen Ho Ga Row (Hendrick), Emperor of the Six Nations. Hendrick was the leader of the delegation.
Library and Archives Canada
Prince Rupert, circa 1641-42, when he was about 23 years old. Painting by Gerrit van Honthorst.
National Portrait Gallery
A drawing of the Rocky Mountain locust in 1902, around the time it went extinct.
Courtesty Bill Moreau
Annapolis lighthouse, Nova Scotia.
Mark Twain Niagara graphic novel sampler.
Andy Stanleigh
December 1927 article featuring a front-page feature story about
a professional genealogist.
Courtesy of Paul Jones.
Postcard, 1929 by Tarsila do Amaral, Brazil, 1886-1973.
Photo Credit: Romulo Fialdini
A spectre at your service.
Illustration by GMB Chomichuk
Alf Shrubb followed by Tom Longboat.
Hockey Hall of Fame / Library and Archives Canada (MIKAN 3657281)
An artist’s rendition of a group of Beothuk hunting birds on an island.
Todd Kristensen and Donald Holly Jr.
St Peter's Basilica: the Canonization of Kateri Tekakwitha, Rome, Italy by Pope Benedict XVI. Kateri's image is the far left.
Max (FLickr.com/13769222@N02)
Women — such as these welders at a Canadian WW1 munitions factory — were seen as too "delicate" to handle the responsibilities of being voters.
Canadian Press
Fathers of Confederation 1864, by John Bradford MacCallum.
Sir John A. Macdonald, 1877.
Notman & Sandham, McCord Museum/11-46604.2
Feeling the Heat in Montreal: Arena fire, corner Wood Avenue & Western, Westmount, QC, 1917.
Credit: McCord Museum, MP-1977.76.168
Sailing around the island at sunset.
Vancouver Island Province Association
Captain James Cook portait by Nathaniel Dance-Holland.
Bridgeman Art Library
Numbered bricks used in the reconstruction of the King Eddy Hotel in Calgary.
George Webber
Mabel May was one of four women artists commissioned by the Canadian War Memorials Fund to depict female munitions workers. After visiting a factory, May captures the “avenues of clanking, grinding, clashing machines.”
Mabel May © Beaverbrook / Canadian War Museum
Advertisements for the corset illustrated the virtues that this undergarment held for some. Print by commercial illustrator John Henry Walker.
McCord Museum
Portrait of William Still sitting at a table.
Supporters of the Red Ensign at a
Legion convention in Winnipeg in May
of 1964.
University of Manitoba Archives
There are British and American versions of the Book. The British version here, which appears to be the original, is written in ink in a large ledger of about 156 pages. For each person entered, details run horizontally across two facing pages.
National Archives, Kew, England
Louis Riel, 1880.
McCord Museum / MP 1977.211
Nellie McClung circa 1920s.
George Stephen, 1st Baron Mount Stephen
Thompson was travelling in North Dakota, near Turtle Hill (now called the Killdeer Mountains), when a storm blew in on December 10, 1797.
Don McMaster
16/20 for Alexander Mackenzie. He took great risks and explored the most area of these five, but other contenders had bigger impact.
Samuel de Champlain, known as the “Father of New France,” established Quebec City in 1608 and laid the foundation of Canada.
Robert Carter
Klondike Kate: "We wore tights in those days. If we hadn't the Mounted Police would have run us out of the country."
Alaska's Digital Archives
Artwork Copyright George Feyer Estate
A Hudson’s Bay Company cinematographer films the Nascopie for the company’s anniversary film Romance of the Far Fur Country in 1919.
McCord Museum
An artist's rendition of a planned Inuit Art Centre in the Winnipeg Art Gallery for the world's largest collection of Inuit art.
Michael Maltzan Architecture
Happy walkers wave and smile during the Miles for Millions march in Vancouver on May 3, 1969.
© Joan Latchford
Tenth anniversary postcard commemorating the Colombo Plan mailed on June 28, 1961.
Canada Envelope Company
An undated photo of Fort Beausejour in New Brunswick shows a restored wall and musuem. Originally built in 1751, the fort was one of Canada’s first identified historic sites. Today it is known as Fort Beausejour-Fort Cumberland National Historic Site.
Library and Archives Canada/PA-05186
Arriving in August 1610, the first Europeans in Newfoundland settled at a place they named Cupers Cove, know today as Cupids. In 1997, an archaeological excavation crew uncovered & mapped the dwelling house.
William Gilbert
Forced to end his run after cancer spread to his lungs, Terry Fox prepares to board a flight from Thunder Bay, ON, to his home in British Columbia on September 2, 1980. Nearby, Terry's parents are embraced by Bill Vigars of the Canadian Cancer Society.
David Cooper/Canadian Press
This reconstruction German stoneware Bellarmine bottle was found in pieces inside the dwelling house. It dates around 1650.
John Bourne, William Gilbert, Baccalieu Trail Heritage Corporation
Top left quadrant of map, showing Prince County.
Excavation of the floor of a brewery malt house constructed in 1852, which occupied the palace site until 1970.
Archaeologist Rob Ferguson excavating a well at an Acadian farm site near, Greenwich, P.E.I., in 2004.
Scott Buchanan for Park Canada
Miniature slate ulu blade discovered at the site of a Labrador Inuit house in 2005. Nain carvers fashioned similar blades to be worn on earrings and pendants.
Andrew Chapman
Antler awl made by grinding the tip of an antler to a fine point. The awl was used to punch small holes in pieces of leather.
Artifacts from Cypress Hills, Alberta
Stanislaus Lacroix is hanged in what
is believed to be the last publicly viewed execution in Canada. It took place March 21, 1902, in Hull, Quebec.
Napoleon Belanger / LAC C-014078
King John endorses Magna Carta in 1215. While this illustration shows him signing with a quill pen, he actually affixed a wax seal to the document.
Bridgeman Art Library
Roman Catholic Church in Belleville, Ontario, circa 1855.
National Archives of Canada / C-020199
Minutes before takeoff, an amateur photographer took the above picture of the Canadian Pacific Airlines DC-3 that would take Rita Morel and 22 other passengers and crew to their deaths.
Archives national du Québec
From 1928 to 1957, men and women couldn’t drink together.
Photo by Matthew Hurst/Flickr Creative Commons.
Artist Kenneth John Petts’ conception of the “living snowman of Grindstone
Island” from a 1984 edition of Look and Learn.
Bridgeman Art Library
A close view of four sternwheelers, landed at Fort Selkirk on the Yukon River, around 1900. From left to right are the, Whitehorse, the Selkirk, the Dawson, and the Tyrell.
MacBride Museum, EV Peele Collection
Belinda Mulrooney made a fortune in the Yukon.
Yakima Valley Museum/2002-800-003
A student at Kawenni:io Private School on the Six Nations of the Grand River Reserve practises his spelling.
Wendall Simon Hill
Controversy surrounded Charles E. Courtney’s races with Ned Hanlan.
Courtesy of Richard MacFarlane & Edward English
For former CFL quarterback Ken Ploen, now seventy-two, playing in the Fog Bowl was “strange and unusual.”
Thomas Fricke
Twenty-year-old Selwyn Blaylock in his first year of employment at Canadian Smelting Works (later CM&S Co.) in 1899.
Courtesy Ron Verzuh
Justice Minister Charles Doherty (right) authored the War Measures Act in 1914. He is pictured with General David Watson in Belgium in 1919.
Library and Archives Canada
Before the advent of the secret ballot in 1874, candidates for legislatures appeared before electors who stood and openly voiced their choices, as indicated in this watercolour of an election at Perth, Upper Canada, in 1828.
QUEEN’S UNIVERSITY ARCHIVES, COLLECTION 2139 (MORRIS PAPERS), BOX 3
If Caroline Reid’s death registration is correct, then Malcolm Reid’s birth registration must be wrong (next slide).
Archives of Ontario
The Burning of the Parliament Building in Montreal, a painting
attributed to Joseph Légaré, about 1849.
McCord Museum
Jim Christie gave her the clothes and the dog.
Jim Christie
Great Auk, from The Birds of Canada by John James Audubon, 1838. The great auk was one of many birds on Funk Island that provided fresh food to sailors weary of stale provisions after the long Atlantic voyage.
National Archives of Canada / C-040380
Boris Karloff as Frankenstein's monster.
Sound engineer Douglas Shearer shows his sister, Academy Award-winning actor Norma Shearer, a wax disk recording of her voice.
Canadian Press
Mary Pickford postcard.
Mary Pickford Foundation / F.C. Johnson
In a heart-breaking scene toward the end of the film, Homer (Harold Russell) confesses to his girlfriend Wilma (Cathy O'Donell) that he doesn't believe she could feel the same way about him.
MGM
Mary Pickford at the camera.
Mary Pickford Foundation
Knud Rasmussen, centre, with Arnarulunguaq, left, and Miteq, right, in front of their sled at Point Barrow, Alaska, in May 1924 near the end of their great journey across the North. Photo from Den Store Slaederejse, by Knud Rasmussen.
Dr. Wilfrid Derome was a perfectionist with a sharp scientific mind. His expert testimony was crucial in many Montreal trials in the 1920s and 1930s.
JEAN-MARIE BENOIT
While assisting the investigation of a suspicious death, Professor Henry Holmes Croft made forensic history through his analysis of the gruesome contents contained in an ordinary pickling jar.
JEAN-MARIE BENOIT
Constable Benton Fraser, played by Paul Gross, and his wolfdog Diefenbaker in "Due South."
Alliance Communications
A.G. Irving, commissioner of the Force from 1880 to 1886, had little praise for Dickens.
National Archives of Canada/PA-42139
The case of the Beryl G came at an opportune time for Vancouver’s Inspector Cruickshank. His previous case had been messy, scandalous and unsolved — a little distance from the fallout would be good.
JEAN MARIE BENOIT
The official group photo of the first cohort of female Mounties, March 3, 1975.
ROYAL CANADIAN MOUNTED POLICE
Vancouver activist and former city councillor Jim Green sees value in the city’s heritage hotels.
Venturi + Karpa
A group of Snag residents defy the elements, February 1947. The first three men in back row, from left, are Max Bowitz, Gordon Toole, and Wilf Blezard.
Lome Street looking south, showing the Metropolitan Methodist church, the Y.W.C.A. and the Public Library. Citizens survey the damage after the storm.
Saskatchewan Archives Board
Evidence from Hudson Bay region of severe cold in the summer of 1816.
Cartoon by A. J. W. Catchpole.
Buffalo Hunting, Western Prairie, 1840, by Sir Henry James Warre, 1819–1898.
B.C. Archives/P0P00030
Martin Frobisher (Released 1968) A very hardy, vigorous, upright rose that suckers freely, flowers well and is relatively disease-free. The blush-pink blooms are semidouble and slightly fragrant, but the bush habit is very open and sparse.
AGRICULTURE AND AGRI-FOOD CANADA
April 2, 1914: Rescuers from the SS Bellaventure carry dead and injured sealers from the SS Newfoundland on stretchers.
Archives and Special Collections (Coll. 115 16.04.038), Queen Elizabeth II Library, Memorial University of Newfoundland, St. John's, NL.
Radisson & Groseilliers, an oil on canvas painting by Frederic Remington done for Collier’s magazine.
Buffalo Hill Historical Center / Gift of Mrs. Karl Frank 14.86
George Cartwright, southern Labrador, 1770s. His hat, gloves, and breeches are English, but his waist sash, snowshoes, footwear, and painted jacket are Innu. On his back is a fox trap, with fox and hatchet slung over his shoulder.
UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA PRESS, BERKELEY
A Blackfoot ceremonial bundle, 1926. The religious life of the Blackfoot centered upon medicine bundles and their associated rituals. These bundles often originated from an encounter with a supernatural spirit.
GLENBOW ARCHIVES/NA- 1700-17
Neighbour to Neighbour.
Charles Pachter
Views of the garden planted by Mr. and Mrs. J.J. Wood at Moose Factory.
The Beaver Collection
Apple tasting @ Spadina Museum.
Derek Matthew / Flickr.com
A Japanese-Canadian soldier in 1917.
Library and Archives Canada
Canadian soldiers study a German plan of the beach during the D-Day landing operations.
Lieutenant Ken Bell. Canada. Department of National Defence. LAC, PA-131438.
The Blizzard, 1858, by Cornelius Krieghoff. The artist's depiction of a harsh winter in Quebec could also have applied to the long winters of 1816 to 1818.
Bridgeman Art Library
Ethel Rogers as a student at about age 21, circa 1925.
Courtesy of Marion King.
July 21, 1836: The Dorchester is the first train to travel a public railroad in Canada.
Library and Archives Canada
British dirigible R-100 moored at St. Hubert Airport.
Dr. Louis Slotin at work, date and location unknown.
The Romany children intrigued the people of Peterborough, who rushed to get a glimpse of the strangers in their midst.
Frederick Lewis Roy
Headlines from the Daily Star.
Toronto Reference Library
1909 Canada West magazine Cover
An 1844 lithograph depicting a buffalo hunt on the prairies.
Geroge Catlin/Buffalo Bill Historical Center/Wikipedia
Wilfrid Laurier in 1874, the first year he won election to the House of Commons as a Liberal MP.
Library and Archives Canada
Interned aliens at the ice palace they built at Banff, Alberta, during a winter carnival in 1917.
Archives of Alberta / A4837
Sergeant Lew E. Weekes of the Canadian Army Film and Photo Unit taking cine pictures beside a shell damaged building near Hoogerheide, Netherlands, 15 October 1944.
Lieut. Ken Bell / Canada. Dept. of National Defence / Library and Archives Canada / PA-136214
Canadian Ranger Josephie Kiguktak fires his .303 Lee Enfield rifle as Ranger staff and fellow Rangers look on at Grise Fiord, Nunavut, 1988.
Putting these stones in position must have been comparatively easy. But why was it done?
E.H. Mitchell
Some seven thousand people attended the funeral of Peter V. Verigin on a hillside overlooking Brilliant, B.C.
Simon Fraser University Library
The Montreal Maroons with the Stanley Cup in 1935.
Courtesy of Ryan Kessler
Drawn by Italian Giacomo Gastaldi and first published in 15577, twenty years after our Tudor tourists' misadventure, this map of Newfoundland acknowledges in its illustration the early importance of the fishery.
The Tilikum embarking on its voyage from Oak Bay Victoria in May 1901.
B.C. Archives / A-06929; Coloration by Ray Phillips
Cabin Number Eight on the Yukon Telegraph line.
Jim Christie
The army or the police were often called to deal with election unrest, as on this occasion near the Montreal courthouse in winter 1860.
MCCORD MUSEUM / N-0000.193.82
Lord Elgin and Staff leaving Government House for Parliament, April 1849. Drawing by Francis Augustus Grant, about 1849.
McCord Museum
Executives of CM&S Co. in 1910, from left: John F. Miller, Selwyn Blaylock, W.H. Aldridge, and T.W. Bingay.
Trail Historical Society
The Winnipeg Blue Bombers and Hamilton Tiger-Cats play at Toronto’s Exhibition Stadium during the 1962 Grey Cup.
CP Photos
Ned Hanlan, Canadian Illustrated News, October 1878.
Courtesy of Richard MacFarlane & Edward English
Author Pierre Berton in Dawson City in July of 1982.
Canadian Press
Students of Kawenni:io Private School give a presentation to members of the Six Nations of the Grand River Reserve in southern Ontario.
Wendall Simon Hill
The Hudson's Bay Company store and residence at Fort Selkirk, Yukon, around 1946. The photograph was taken from aboard a sternwheeler.
MacBride Museum, John Valens Collection
An illustration by C.L. Doughty of the Wasp foundering off the Magdalen Islands, from a 1984 edition of Look and Learn.
Bridgeman Art Library
Canada has strict laws on how many coins you can use in one transaction.
Photo by meddygarnet/Flickr Creative Commons
Royal Tour of 1901 poses on train cowcatcher during a stop in Glacier, British Columbia.
Library and Archives
Albert Guay and his wife Rita Morel, during happier times.
Archives national du Québec
A 1225 copy of Magna Carta from Durham Cathedral in England. Numerous copies of the charter were created and distributed throughout england. Note how the seal is attached to the document.
Durham Cathedral
In 2003, archaeologists Scott Buchanan, Helen Evans and Rob Ferguson uncovered the top course of stones leading to an ancient well at the Oudy site.
Ron Whate for Parks Canada
Hastings County Courthouse and Gaol, Belleville, circa 1870, watercolour and graphite on paper, by George Ackerman (1803-1891).
Collection of Confederation Centre Art Gallery, Charlottetown / Gift of Lorna Bater and Doren Parker / CAG 98.5.1
Bone awl created by sharpening a bone splinter into a fine point. It has been heavily polished, presumably from being handled over a long period.
Artifacts from Cypress Hills, Alberta
Miniature sealing harpoon heads were found beneath a sleeping platform in one of the Inuit houses. The style dates to the late 15th century.
Peter Whitridge, Andrew Chapman
Top right quadrant of map.
Late 17th century illustration of the first Palais de l'Intendant.
Almost 500 years ago, pioneering groups of Inuit began to establish their winter villages on Labrador's coast, relocating from the High Arctic. Archaeologist Peter Whitridge has been excavating the village sites to shed light on this period of history.
Peter Whitridge
The cellar beneath the storehouse at the Cupids site was carefully excavated, revealing the depths of one of the oldest European buildings built on North American soil.
William Gilbert, Baccalieu Trail Heritage Corporation
Ten-year-old Greg Scott walks with Terry Fox at Terrace Bay, Ontario, in late August 1980. The two became instant friends. Like Terry, Greg died in 1981 when cancer spread to his lungs.
Boris Spremo/ GETSTOCK
J.B. Harkin in 1937, as photographed by Yousuf Karsh.
Artwork Copyright George Feyer Estate
From the From the Land: Materials & Message in Inuit Art Exhibition at the Winnipeg Art Gallery, 2014.
Steve Ducharme
A child receives an injection in Bangladesh, one of the Colombo Plan’s member countries.
Lutheran World Federation / Peter Solbjerghe
Marchers in Calgary hold up a banner for famine-stricken Biafra on November 3, 1968.
© Joan Latchford
A hunting scene from Nanook of the North.
McCord Museum
17/20 for David Thompson. He was solid in all areas, but got full marks for his respect and appreciation of Aboriginal traditions and practices.
In this painting, Thompson's men drag in to camp a man who went missing during the December 10 storm.
Don McMaster
Robert Bylot completed five early journeys to Canada from 1610 to 1616 exploring Baffin Bay and Hudson’s Bay (where he also left Henry Hudson).
Robert Carter
Yukoners in Dyea Canyon Alaska: Mr. Williams, Belinda Mulrooney, John Lee, Dan Fraser, Bob Menzie, Gus Biegler, Ed Hutchinson, Mr. Williams, Cleve Gillett, Marlin Mosier, and Bert Bower.
Alaska's Digital Archives
McClung with her children in Manitou, Manitoba. Jack is seated on the horse, far right.
OurNellie.com
Battle of Fish Creek by lithographic artist Fred W. Curzon, 1885.
Library and Archives Canada / C-002425
C-GEAU plane
Neil Aird's Beaver website dhc-2.com
Minister Lester B. Pearson, wearing
his military service medals, addresses the 1964 Legion convention.
University of Manitoba Archives
Richard Gallion, president of the Black Loyalist Heritage Society in Shelburne, Nova Scotia, is among the thousands of Nova Scotians who can find their ancestors’ names among the three thousand recorded in the Book of Negroes.
Shannon Hennigar
The centre corset is made for a child. Mid-eighteenth century-America.
The Kyoto Costume Institute, photo by Toru Kogure
Iroquois Chiefs from the Six Nations Reserve reading Wampum belts.
Electric Studio/Library and Archives Canada/C-085137
To make Canadians understand the horrors of war, Frederick Varley depicted what the conflict was really like. Although the rainbow could be seen as a symbol of hope, the foreground shows deceased members of a German gun crew.
Frederick Varley © Beaverbrook / Canadian War Museum
Captain James Cook meets Nootka leaders at Nootka Sound, Vancouver Island in 1778, by C.W. Jefferys.
Library and Archives Canada
Laurie Gourlay, right, is the co-founder of the Vancouver Island Province Association.
King Edward Hotel as it appears before reconstruction.
George Webber
Dion Johnstone as William Still.
90th Parallel Productions Ltd.
Prime Minister William Lyon Mackenzie King places a wreath during an event in Kingston, Ontario, on June 7, 1941, to commemorate the fiftieth anniversary of Sir John A. Macdonald’s death.
Queen’s University Archives
A Surprise Defeat: In 1938, Earl Siebert and the Chicago Black Hawks defeated the Toronto Maple Leafs in the Stanley Cup Final.
Credit: Le Studio du Hockey/Hockey Hall of Fame
John A Macdonald addresses the Fathers of Confederation in a painting by John David Kelly.
John David Kelly, McCord Museum/M993.154.60
Women learning to shoot near Toronto circa 1915. Women were seen as too "vulnerable" to be burdened with the right to vote.
Toronto City Archives
A view of the town of Plouha.
Un Canadien Français face à la gestapo
Map of the Exploits River, Newfoundland, and Beothuk villages along the riverbank, 1773.
John Cartwright / Library and Archives Canada
Canadians attending the Canonization of Kateri Tekakwitha in Rome, Italy.
Max (FLickr.com/13769222@N02)
Tom Longboat and his trainer share a meal.
Courtesy of Jay Carrier (Flickr.com/JayCarrier)
La cueva del Guácharo, 1874 by Ferdinand Bellerman.
Born 1814, Erfurt, Germany; died 1889, Berlin, Germany
Private collection, Colección Patricia Phelps de Cisneros, USA.
Mark Twain portrait.
Menton
Staff of the Banff Springs Hotel in 1963. Longtime bellhop Sam McAuley, seated in the centre, reputedly still haunts the hotel.
Courtesy of Fairmont Banff Springs
Henry Island lighthouse, Nova Scotia.
Prince Rupert, right, with his brother, Charles Louis, in a 1637 painting by Anthony Van Dyck.
Bridgeman Art Library
Etow Oh Koam (Nicholas), King of the River Nation. Nicholas was Mahican, the others were Mohawk.
Library and Archives Canada
An artist’s drawing of an Avro Canada CF-105 Arrow. (Artist unknown)
Library and Archives Canada / MIKAN 3388027
Unloading silk bales from the Achilles at the port of Vancouver in 1927.
Canadian Pacific Railway Archives / 2838
Captain Angus Walters (back row,
third from left) and crew pose on
the deck of the Bluenose in this
undated photo.
Nova Scotia Archives
UNHCR chartered helicopter transports a Canadian refugee selection team to a refugee camp on to remote Anambas Island, Indonesia.
Canadian Immigration Historical Society.
The Belleville Pottery Co. Float at the Labour Day Parade.
William James Topley/Library and Archives Canada/MIKAN no. 3386778
Horse and Train, 1954.
National Gallery of Canada
The Battle of Eccles Hill
Dr. Joseph Workman, circa 1830.
Dr. Helen MacMurchy had an influential career in public health, championing mental and physical health of women, children, and the disadvantaged.
The Great Depression bankrupted Newfoundland and people faced starvation. Confronted with rising social unrest, the Newfoundland government approached Britain
for aid.
Sample diagram for experiments involving rats or cats.
Vienna-born Eva Hollo Vecsei came to Canada in the wake of the 1957 Hungarian revolution. Vescei was trained as an architect in postwar Eastern Europe, where women architects were more common than in the West.
La Cité
Men greatly outnumbered women in 1860s British Columbia. The 1865 painting, "Bar in a Mining
Camp, B.C." by William George Richardson Hind, illustrates the troubling situation of the day.
B.C. Archives
A 1717 map of Atlantic Canada created by Jean Frédéric Bernard. The Cobhams were based at Sandy Point, on the south-west coast of Newfoundland (Terre Neuve).
Archives du Québec
A sketch of an Inuit family in a hut. The hut was built as part of the Inuit exhibit at the European zoo.
Journal Svetozer
Helen was also a woman whose opinions were made loud and clear, as expressed in many contemporary newspapers.
Champlain, fires his arquebus into a crowd of Iroquois as his Huron allies pelt their enemies with arrows, in this engraving attributed to the famed French explorer. The attack took place in 1609.
MCCORD MUSEUM/14802
"Holding at Kap-Yong" — The Princess Patricia's Canadian Light Infantry distinguished itself in this battle.
Ted Zuber / Canadian War Museum
Canadian Private Heath Matthews shows signs of exhaustion as he waits to be treated for facial wounds sustained in a night battle in June 1952.
Library and Archives Canada/Paul E. Tomelin/Department of National Defence fonds/PA-128850
"Molly Lamb Enters the Army," British Columbia, November 22, 1942
National Archives of Canada/C-135727/Gift of Molly Lamb Bobak
Willie McKnight, one of the Canadian pilots who served during the Battle of Britain, in 1940.
Imperial War Museum
Houses of ill repute located near railway track approximately fifty metres north of the railway bridge over Bow River in Calgary.
GLENBOW ARCHIVES / NA-673-9
Joseph Painchaud was a Quebec doctor and surgeon who befriended James Douglas when the latter took up Canadian residence. After the Marine and Emigrant Hospital opened in 1834, he was taken on by Douglas and worked there until his death in 1871.
Archives Nationales du Quebec/P560, P560370-481
James Francis Debrou, Junior (Dave's father).
Destitute family in Edmonton, Alberta, return to Saskatoon from the Peace River country.
GLENBOW ARCHIVES / ND-3-6742
Remains of a staircase leading to the second floor of the St. Louis home.
Graham Chandler
Three years after the death of Peter V. Verigin, his son Peter P. Verigin arrived in British Columbia from Soviet Russia to assume leadership of the Doukhobors. The son of Peter V. Verigin’s divorced first wife, he was estranged from his father.
Simon Fraser University Library
In the ceiling inside the tunnel adjacent to the Bole Building is a manhole cover that opens into the middle of the River Street sidewalk. Note the two railway tracks that support the ceiling.
Philip Jensen
Montreal Maroons players in a cigarette ad.
Courtesy of Ryan Kessler
Rattenbury was fifty-six when he met Alma Pakenham in 1923. He had had a decade of career reverses and his marriage had turned sour. She seemed to him like a new lease on life. Coincidentally, his architectural career had begun to revive.
B.C. Archives / F-02163
This photo clearly shows two stones placed one upon the other under a corner of the boulder.
E.H. Mitchell
Canadian Ranger Eli Weetaluktuk brings back the catch near Inukjuak, Nunavik, along the eastern shore of Hudson Bay in Quebec.
Infantrymen of the 48th Highlanders of Canada dealing with a German counterattack, San Leonardo di Ortona, Italy, 10 December 1943.
Frederick J. Whitcombe / Canada. Dept. of National Defence / Library and Archives Canada / PA-166566
Peter Rinsbacher's 1822 painting of Assiniboine people hunting buffalo with bows.
Library and Archives Canada
Relief camp dining hall workers pause before serving a meal. Workers were usually well fed.
Canadian Park Service, Western Regional Office, Webster Collection
Zoe Lafontaine, Laurier's wife, in 1878.
Library and Archives Canada
The Roma, or gypsies as they were called then, travelled by horse-drawn wagon in 1909.
Frederick Lewis Roy
Vapaus staff, 1927. Editor Aaro Vaara (seated, middle) would spend only another five years in Canada.
Archives of Ontario Archives
1913 Canada West magazine Cover
The young scientist poses on the plinth of the Nelson column, London, circa 1934.
John Edlund inside his life-preserving valise.
Logan's Octant, a precisely machined survey instrument for measuring angles up to 45 degrees.
Geological Survey of Canada
10 Août 1876: Alexander Graham Bell, illustré ci-dessus, fut celui qui reçut le premier appel à longue distance au monde.
Musée des sciences et de la technologie du Canada
Ethel Rogers in China while on her world tour, 1933.
Courtesy of Marion King.
The cloudy skies of Weymouth Bay, 1816, by John Constable, suggest volcanic dust from the Tambora volcano.
Bridgeman Art Library
Official start of
development
work on Île
Sainte-Hélène
and Île Notre-
Dame, August
12, 1963,
attended by
Montreal mayor
Jean Drapeau,
archbishop of Prime
Minister Lester
Pearso.
Immigrants deported from Canada, 1912.
U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum
Lt. John MacIsaac (left), Royal Canadian Artillery, discusses D-Day fire plan tactics with Bombardier Charles Zerowel aboard a landing ship tank, in Southampton, June 4, 1944.
Lieutenant Frank L. Dubervill. Canada. Department of National Defence. LAC, PA-190936.
Views of the garden planted by Mr and Mrs J.J. Wood at Moose Factory.
The Beaver Collection
Eldon Yellowhorn is Blackfoot born and raised in the tiny town of Brocket on the Peigan reserve of southwestern Alberta. He grew up learning traditional lore from elders as well as what archaeologists were discovering about his heritage.
GRAHAM CHANDLER
Turnip harvest in the snow, Hebron, circa 1885. Having access to fresh food and reducing reliance on costly imported goods encouraged pioneers in Labrador to experiment with gardens.
BEAVER COLLECTION / NEILS JANNASCH
Place d’Armes Square and Bank of Montreal, about 1910.
Jens Munk (Released 1974) A rugosa hybrid with an upright arching form. The blooms are semi-double, medium-pink and fragrant. It flowers freely in June, has an excellent flush in the fall and some bloom inbetween.
AGRICULTURE AND AGRI-FOOD CANADA
An excerpt from the Fort George journal, September 27 and 28, 1816: "None of the Grass, or anything else has come to perfection this season," it says.
September 1889, the “Champlain Street Disaster” – a landslide buried the homes of almost thirty families in its path.
Jules-Ernest Livernois / LAC/PA-023921
Path of Death. Legend to area damaged by the storm.
My grandfather’s cousin, Thomas Dawson, being helped off the SS Bellaventure after spending two nights stranded on the ice floes.
Archives and Special Collections (Coll. 115 16.04.048), Queen Elizabeth II Library, Memorial University of Newfoundland, St. John's, NL.
Map of area where Snag is located.
Hotel Balmoral in modern day.
Venturi + Karpa
Owen (Cannonball) Baker (right) on his way to Vancouver for trial. He would be one of two men hanged at Okalla Prison for the murder of the
Beryl G#&8217;s captain and his son.
Seattle Post-Intelligencer Collection /Seattle Museum of History & Industry / 1986.5G.43
In 1975, Donna Burns became engaged to a fellow Mountie, Ronald Morse. The couple caused headaches for RCMP brass because the force had no policy dealing with marriage between two officers.
Donna Morse
Big Bear, chief of the Plains Cree, considered Dickens a fair man. Because of this, the Cree promised the inhabitants of Fort Pitt a safe retreat in return for their surrender.
Otto B. Buell/National Archives of Canada/C-1873
Collage of a national icon, images from popular media.
DE HAVILLAND CANADA; DAVE BROADFOOT PRODUCTIONS INC; THE RCMP; NATIONAL ARCHIVES OF CANADA; THE RCMP MUSEUM
A true Renaissance man, Henry Holmes Croft’s interests extended beyond the sciences. He was an accomplished pianist and a member of the Philharmonic Society, among other
organizations.
UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO ARCHIVES / 2004-16-4MS
Author Stephen R. Bown
Craig Douce
Dr. Wilfrid Derome in 1915, during his first year of operating the Laboratoire de recherches médico-légales at 179 Craig Street East.
MUSÉE DE LA CIVILISATION, QUÉBEC
Homer lets down his guard and reminisces with Butch (played by Hoagy Carmichael), owner of the drinking parlour he'd frequented before the war.
MGM
Gladys Louise Smith began her theatre career at age eight. She supported her mother and two siblings by performing in theatre troupes. In 1907 she changed her name to Mary Pickford.
Mary Pickford Foundation
Douglas Shearer (right), Greta Garbo, and William Daniels on the set of Anna Christie in 1930.
Canadian Press
William Pratt, more familiarly known as Boris Karloff.
Henry Wise Wood, president of the United Farmers of Alberta from 1916 to 1931, declined to become premier though he played a strong role in determining the government of Alberta’s policies and programs.
GLENBOW ARCHIVES / NB-16-247
Dave De Brou, author, stands beside his grandfather’s unmarked grave in St. James Cemetery in Toronto. He taught Canadian history and specialized in Quebec.
Built in 1894 in Duck Lake, Saskatchewan, this Métis folk house is one of the few still inhabited today.
Graham Chandler
In 1845, Douglas had 81 mentally ill men and women, who had previously been languishing in prisons and hospitals in Trois-Rivieres, Montreal, and Quebec, to the asylum.
Centre Hospitaler Robert-Giffard
Alice Jamieson, Calgary, 1913. Jamieson’s first legal appointment, in 1914, was as judge of a juvenile court.
GLENBOW ARCHIVES / NA-2315-1
An 1886 drawing of the shaman Tigianniak (left), his wife Paingu,and daughter Nuggasak, who were among the Labrador Inuit who toured Europe in 1880–1881
E. Krell
"Fall Fashions of 1943," September 1942.
National Archives of Canada/C-135764/Gift of Molly Lamb Bobak
Allied pilots run to their aircraft during the Battle of Britain.
Imperial War Museum
Former Canadian POWs enroute to a dressing station. Len Badowich is fifth from left.
Courtesy Jim Lynch
"Incoming" depicts a Canadian position under attack by Chinese forces in Korea.
Ted Zuber / Canadian War Museum
Champlain’s 1632 book, "Les Voyages de la Nouvelle France occidentale,
dicte Canada."
Bridgeman Art Library
George Armstrong, who was born on a farm in Ontario in 1870, met Helen in her father's Toronto tailor shop.
Courtesy Elsie Friesen
Amor De Cosmos. The photo was taken between 1872 and 1874.
B.C Archives
Donald Hebb, head of the psychology
department at McGill University, became a pioneer in sensory deprivation research in the 1950s.
MCCORD MUSEUM
"L'Hôtel-Dieu de Quebec," by Francesco Iacurto, 1938.
Musée des Augustines de L'Hôtel-Dieu de Quebec
George Brown, editor of "The Globe"
Metro Toronto Library
After long being regarded by Britain as a fishing base, not a colony, Newfoundland was in 1824 granted a civilian governor and an appointed legislative council. In 1832, an elected council began sitting with
the appointed body.
Board of Directors, United Farm Workers of Alberta, 1921 (with Margaret Gunn, sixth from the left, on chair arm). Founded in 1914, the UFWA was an influential lobby group with interests in education, health care, and women’s rights.
And now for something completely different: on governance from "Monty Python and the Holy Grail"
"Fenian Raid," John Henry Walker (1831–1899) about 1870.
MCCORD MUSEUM/M930.50.8.376
Living Room, 1999-2000.
National Gallery of Canada
Refugees and immigration workers at Galang Refugee Camp on Galang Island in Indonesia, 1980.
John McEachern
Location of Saint-Pierre and Miquelon.
Public Domain
Soldiers receive mail from home. The letters they wrote back were censored.
Library and Archives Canada
Steveston Salmon Strike, July 1900
Henry Joseph Woodside / Library and Archives Canada / PA-017207
Bluenose crosses the finish line
to win the 1931 International Fishermen’s Trophy series and defend the championship against the Gertrude L. Thebaud.
Nova Scotia Archives
Standing in the hold of a ship waiting for the crane.
Canadian National Railway Archives / CN001592
The official rollout of the Avro Arrow at Malton, Ontario, in 1957.
Library and Archives Canada / MIKAN 3596416
Ho Nee Yeath Taw No Row (John), King of Generethgarich. The wolf at his feet represents his clan.
Library and Archives Canada
Prince Rupert, circa 1670, when he was about 51 years old and became the first governor of the Hudson's Bay Company. Portrait from the studio of Sir Peter Lely.
National Portrait Gallery
Sandy Point lighthouse, Nova Scotia.
Saving Mark Twain.
Hawei Hou
Cotopaxi, 1855 by Frederic Edwin Church. United States, 1826-1900.
The Museum of Fine Arts, Houston
Fancy footwork frightens visitors at the Bytown Museum.
Illustration by GMB Chomichuk
Canadian runners Tom Longboat, Abbie Wood and A. Meadows with American runner Bill Queal. The men participated in a sports exhibition at Ebbets Field, Brooklyn, New York City on July 26, 1913.
Library of Congress
"Lily of the Mohawks"
Steve Grant (Flickr.com/PatentBoy)
A compilation comparing the shapes and designs of carved Beothuk bone pendants with the feet and feathers of sea birds.
Todd Kristensen and Donald Holly Jr.
All that remains of the House of Alphonse.
Un Canadien Français face à la gestapo
It was OK for women to work side by side with men in the fields but they were seen as too "weak" to withstand the rough and tumble of politics.
Library and Archives Canada
An 1878 bust of Macdonald portrays him in Roman dress.
Anonymous, McCord Museum/MP000.25.949
Who Cancelled the Stanley Cup? The Globe prints an article announcing that the Stanley Cup is cancelled.
Credit: The Globe, Toronto, Wednesday April 2, 1919.
Sir John A. Macdonald in 1883.
Library and Archives Canada
Vancouver Island issued its own stamp in 1865.
Slaves working in the fields.
Library of Congress
Nineteenth century engraving by John Henry Walker illustrates a booth set up by the Crompton Corset Company at an exhibition to promote its wares.
McCord Museum
Man of Nootka Sound by John Webber, an artist who accompanied Captain James Cook on his voyages.
Wikipedia/Library and Archives Canada
Construction of the new National Music Centre.
George Webber
Ernest Fosbery painted Sgt. Tommy Holmes, looking much younger than his 20 years. Around the time Holmes earned his medal, Fosbery recommended that a “Canadian series of portraits be done by Canadian artists.”
Ernest Fosbery © Beaverbrook / Canadian War Museum
Beaver pelts like this were used as currency in the 1600s.
by Napa/Wikimedia Commons
The new Canadian Maple Leaf flag is raised for the first time at the Centre Block of the Parliament Buildings on February 15, 1965.
Library and Archives Canada
Gabriel Dumont, military commander of the Metis forces during the North-West Rebellion, circa 1880s.
Strong / Library and Archives Canada / PA- 178147
One copy of the Book of Negroes, a hand-written, bound list of black passengers leaving New York on British ships in 1783 during the American Revolutionary War, is stored at the Nova Scotia Archives in Halifax.
Having run out of food, Thompson, his men, and his dogs suffer hunger and weakness until they manage to shoot at buffalo on December 12, 1797.
Don McMaster
Dutch Kid: Dawson dance hall girl... note on image says she became a nurse. Possibly also known as Kate Wilson.
Alaska's Digital Archives
In 1793 Alexander Mackenzie completed the first overland journey across the Rocky Mountains to the Pacific Ocean.
Robert Carter
13/20 for Lady Jane Franklin. She covered a lot of ground (and water), but was not so advanced with aboriginal relations or taking risks.
Artwork Copyright George Feyer Estate
Nanook, his wife Nyla, and Bob Stewart, Port Harrison post manager.
The Robert and Frances Flaherty Study Centre, Claremont School of Theology, California
From the From the Land: Materials & Message in Inuit Art Exhibition at the Winnipeg Art Gallery, 2014.
Steve Ducharme
A diesel locomotive is loaded at a pier at St. John’s, Newfoundland, in March 1958 as part of the Canadian government’s participation in the Colombo Plan.
Library and Archives Canada / PA-111541
The gateway to Rocky Mountains Park at Exshaw, Alberta, in 1916. Cars gradually replaced horses as the main form of transporation in parks.
WHYTE MUSEUM Of THE CANADIAN ROCKIES//V263/NA-3432
Billy Patterson raised $150 for the Marathon of Hope.
Michael Stuparyk/ GETSTOCK
Posts of the 1690 palisade during excavation.
Tin-glazed apothecary jar fragment found behind the chimney at the dwelling house. It dates to between 1580 and 1640.
John Bourne, William Gilbert, Baccalieu Trail Heritage Corporation
Bottom left quadrant of map, showing Queens County.
In August 2003, Greg Beaton, Mark Penney and Susie Merkuratsuk excavated the second od 15 sod winter houses at the Nachvak VIllage site.
Peter Whitridge
Bone bead was made by cutting off a section of a hollow bone.
Artifacts from Cypress Hills, Alberta
Images of King John's Magna Carta seal, shown from both sides.
Bridgeman Art Library
Fragments of the exploded plane were presented at trial as part of the Crown's evidence against Albert Guay.
Archives national du Québec
When the constable taking the Aylwards to jail in Belleville stopped for refreshments in Madoc (shown here in the 1860s), two of the prime pieces of evidence, the scythe and the shotgun, were taken by an unknown person.
Hastings County Historical Society HC-2083
Locomotive at the entrance to the Rockies, circa 1923.
McCord Museum
A pistol duel in the 1800s.
Augustin Le Bourdais strikes a calm pose in a photo taken many years after his death-defying ordeal.
Musée de la Mer
Ione Christensen, September, 1948.
MacBride Museum
Miners cross Bonanza Creek about 1898.
McCord Museum/MP0000.103.34
Professor John Steckley of Humber College has written a Wyandot dictionary.
Cassondra Reagan Howard
Portrait of Ned Hanlan, published in The Canadian
Illustrated News, July 26, 1879.
Courtesy of Richard MacFarlane & Edward English
Seabiscuit, the armoured vehicle used to protect the Trail heavy water plant and smelter from sabotage during World War Two.
Courtesy Ron Verzuh
Hamilton coach Jim Trimble.
Winnipeg Tribune Collection, Manitoba Archives
Lillian Alling had to climb over thin summit on her way to Dawson.
Jim Christie
Norman Kenny Luxton was a young journalist and adventurer when he met Captain John Voss in a Victoria bar, where the two plotted their 1901 voyage.
Eleanor Luxton Historical Foundation / Whyte Museum of the Canadian Rockies
James Bruce, Earl of Elgin. Painting by Cornelius Krieghoff, about 1845.
McCord Museum
London merchant Richard Hore, who organized the New World tourist expedition, decided that to reduce the financial risk he would have one of his two ships load up on codfish.
National Archives of Canada / C-021115
Movie poster for the re-release of Frankenstein: The Man Who Made a Monster.
Courtesy of Jack Theakston
Canadian-born, Second World War veteran and amputee Harold Russell captured two Academy Awards, making him the only actor to ever win two Oscars for the same role.
Academy award-winning actress, Norma Shearer, Douglas' sister. Douglas paid for her to travel to New York and embark on her modeling and acting career.
Canadian Press
Seen here in 1926 on the set of Sparrows. Hollywood's first female superstar, Mary Pickford became "America's Sweetheart" playing sweet, innocent, but plucky heroines.
Mary Pickford Foundation
Murder victim Raoul Delorme.
Jack Warner of Warner Brothers.
Warner Brothers Studios
Built in 1856, the “Croft Chapter House,” named after the
venerated professor who used it as his chemistry laboratory at the University of King’s College (today’s University of
Toronto), is a unique round structure that still stands today.
SANDRA ALEXANDER
The Mountie began slowly in American fiction, appearing in bit parts in Jack London’s "A Daughter of the Snows"(1902), but then becoming very popular in the work of James Oliver Curwood "Steele of the Royal Mounted," 1911.
By the time the Beryl G was found adrift in Georgia Strait, prohibition was lifting through much of Canada.
The Beaver Collection
Dickens commanding his men, Fort Pitt, c. 1885.
National Archives of Canada/PA-118770
Hotel Balmoral
Venturi + Karpa
Gordon Toole on the trail in later life.
Eleventh Avenue looking west, a scene of terrible destruction.
Saskatchewan Archives Board
Created by Morgan MacDonald, this memorial depicts the true story of a father and son who were found frozen in an embrace.
Home from the Sea
This image captures the enormity of the Frank Rockslide that devastated the small community in 1903.
Geological Survey of Canada / LAC/PA-045467
Henry Hudson (Released 1976) A dense, relatively low-growing rugosa hybrid with good foliage. The pink buds open to semidouble white flowers. There are masses of bloom, but they don't drop cleanly.
AGRICULTURE AND AGRI-FOOD CANADA
The Stock Exchange building in Montreal, about 1905
A map detailing John Macoun's expeditions from 1872 through to 1880.
Dawn Huck
Blackfoot tobacco ceremonies in southern Alberta, circa 1910. Like other Plains cultures, the Blackfoot had age-graded men’s societies, each with its own distinctive songs, dances, and regalia.
GLENBOW ARCHIVES/NA-809-1
Views of the garden planted by Mr and Mrs J.J. Wood at Moose Factory.
The Beaver Collection
Camouflage netting hides the large D-day invasion fleet anchored in England, June 4, 1944.
Lieutenant Frank L. Dubervill. Canada. Department of National Defence. LAC, PA-137130.
MS St. Louis, filled with Jewish refugees, in Hamburg, Germany, 1939.
U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum
La Ronde, the
amusement
park at Expo
67.
Sir Donald Smith
Library and Archives Canada
Ethel Rogers marries British army doctor Denis Mulvany in India in 1933.
Courtesy of Marion King.
Sheep creek Laundry and Bath in British Columbia's East Kootenays, c. 1900.
Geological Survey of Canada
John Edlund with his life-preserving valise.
Slotin at an unknown location, late 1930s or early 1940. He told his friends that he had fought in Spain.
1915 Canada West magazine Cover
An 1822 painting by Peter Rindisbacher of Metis hunting buffalo with guns. The Metis used firearms while groups native to the prairies tended to retain the use of bows.
Peter Rindisbacher/Library and Archives Canada
Sir Wilfrid Laurier delivering a speech in Fort Erie, Ontario, in 1913.
City of Toronto Archives
Internees outside their sleeping tents at Elk Island National Park, Alberta, in the early 1930's. The destitute men banked hay bales around their tents to keep warm.
Canadian Park Service, Western Regional Office, Webster Collection
Lieutenant Donald I. Grant of the Canadian Army Film and Photo Unit, who holds an Anniversary Speed Graphic Camera, England, 11 May, 1944.
Lieut. L. Frank Dubervill / Canada. Dept. of National Defence/ Library and Archives Canada / PA-137026
Canadian Rangers on Operation Kigliqaqvik Ranger celebrate reaching the magnetic North Pole off Cape Isaachsen in 2002.
The supports are not so clearly visible in this picture; however, they are there, partly hidden by the snow.
E.H. Mitchell
Though only in her midtwenties when she met Rattenbury, Alma Pakenham had had a full life. She had buried one husband and divorced another, and was the mother of an infant son. A musician, she resumed a concert and songwriting career after the war.
Courtesy John Rattenbury
River Street, circa 1912, looking west. River, along with Manitoba and View Streets, was the centre of vice in Moose Jaw in the early decades of the twentieth century.
Moose Jaw Public Library Archives / Lewis Rice Collection
Peter Vasilevich Verigin, second from left, in 1924, shortly before his death, with his companion Mary Strelaeff.
Simon Fraser University Library
The Montreal Forum soon after it first opened in 1924. The arena was originally built for the Maroons.
Courtesy of Ryan Kessler
Jim Christie and friend at Cabin Eight.
Jim Christie
John Claus Voss, born in Germany in 1858, first went to sea at nineteen. Prior to his Tilikum journey, he was proprietor of a hotel in Chemainus, B.C.
Maritime Museum of British Columbia / 3345P
The burning of the legislature of Canada. Engraving by John Henry Walker, 1850–1885.
McCord Museum
Defenders of Eccles Hill Fenian Raid, near Franklin, Vermont, about 1870.
MCCORD MUSEUM/MP-0000.107/DETAIL
Soldiers read the Canadian Daily Record, a government-issued newspaper published to keep up morale.
Library and Archives Canada
Writer Pierre Berton's Maclean's article claiming workers at the Trail heavy water plant were controlled by a communist union.
Courtesy Ron Verzuh
Ned Hanlan and his sliding-seat scull, date unknown.
Courtesy of Richard MacFarlane & Edward English
Winnipeg’s Leo Lewis (29) runs the ball as Hamilton defenders go for a tackle, Players lost sight of long passes and punts, and from the stands the game was quickly devolving into a confusion of shadows and grunts.
CP Photos
Wyandot artist Richard Zane Smith with his grandsons.
Courtesy of Richard Zane Smith.
Front Street in Dawson City as it appears today.
First Light
Fort Selkirk Historic Site.
Yukon Government and Dawn Huck
Canadian soldiers travelling by rail during 1885 Rebellion.
CPR Archives
Margarine was illegal in Canada from 1886 to 1948.
Photo by Helge Höpfner/Wikimedia Commons
The Reverend John Brennan, St. Michael's first curate and nephew to Michael Brennan, accompanied the Aylwards to the scaffold.
St. Michael's Roman Catholic Church Archives
A 1300 edition of Magna Carta that will tour Canada in 2015.
Bridgeman Art Library
Chipped stone tool used to cut or scrape various materials.
Artifacts from Cypress Hills, Alberta
Miniature soapstone cooking pot with a stylized mountain landscape engraved at its base.
Peter Whitridge, Andrew Chapman
Bottom right quadrant of map, showing Kings County.
The cover of Maclean's on January 12, 1981, a few weeks before Terry reached his goal of raising a dollar for cancer research for every Canadian.
Pipe dating to around 1600.
John Bourne, William Gilbert, Baccalieu Trail Heritage Corporation
From the From the Land: Materials & Message in Inuit Art Exhibition at the Winnipeg Art Gallery, 2014.
Steve Ducharme
Water is served to thirsty walkers in Vancouver on May 3, 1969.
© Joan Latchford
Artwork Copyright George Feyer Estate
H.M. Wyckoff uses a hand-cranked camera while balanced in a kayak to shoot Romance of the Far Fur Country in 1919.
McCord Museum
14/20 for Robert Bylot. He maxed out on risk, but fell a little short in other areas.
David Thompson was a surveyor and explorer who mapped routes across Western Canada from 1792 to 1812.
Robert Carter
Ethel Neile, the Oregon mare, Dawson dance hall [girl], 1898, in rhinestone-trimmed black dress.
Alaska's Digital Archives
At Dog Tent Hill (now called Dog Den Butte, North Dakota), Thompson's party stays clear of a party of unfriendly Sioux on December 24,1797.
Don McMaster
Lindy Louttit at Moose River School
Major General Frederick Middleton, on white horse, with various commanding officers of the North-West Field Force, by artist William Blatchly (1838–1903). Date unknown.
Library and Archives Canada / 550
Born in Newfoundland in 1738 where his father served as governor, Sir Henry Clinton was appointed commander-in-chief of the British forces in North America in 1778. His 1779 Philipsburg Proclamation promised eventual freedom.
The American Museum in Britain
Playing card money from the 1600s looked similar to this circa 1900 playing card money.
Captain George Sharp drew this whimsical self-portrait, making light of the war... appearing unconcerned by the rambunctious rats around him. In fact, he received the Military Cross and bar for two acts of “great courage and devotion to duty.”
George Sharp © Beaverbrook / Canadian War Museum
People of Nootka Sound by John Webber, an artist who accompanied Captain James Cook on his voyages.
British Museum
The King Eddy's neon sign comes vividly to life at dusk in Calgary.
George Webber
Corset made of silk, 1891. Maison Léoty (French, late 19th century).
The Metropolitan Museum of Art
Free Black family in front of home.
Archives of Ontario
The funeral of Sir John A. Macdonald at Cataraqui Cemetery, Kingston, Ontario, 1891.
Library and Archives Canada
John A. Macdonald shares a drink with Montreal newspaperman John Dougall in this cartoon by John Henry Walker.
John Henry Walker, McCord Museum/M930.50.6-5
It was argued that voting would distract women from their roles as mothers and wives. This 1866 illustration from La Mode Illustrée presents an idyllic view of home life.
Schlesingler Library
Lucien Dumais and Raymond LaBrosse in 1984, with a woman who was a member of the French Resistance. The former spies were in France to mark the 40th anniversary of the operation that rescued dozens of Allied airmen.
Photo courtesy of Tom Douglas
Beothuk carved bone pendants in the shapes of birds feet and feathers, with a one-dollar coin to show size.
Todd Kristensen and Donald Holly Jr.
Saint Kateri in stained glass
Michael Swan (Flickr.com/michael_swan)
James Duffy, Breward Buxton; Milton Fenn; Tom Longboat; Jim Coritery
Hockey Hall of Fame / Library and Archives Canada (MIKAN 3657283)
Colts on the pampa, c. 1930 by Pedro Figari, Uruguay,1861-1938.
Collection of Museo de Arte Latinoamericanos de Buenos Aires, Costantini Foundation, Buenos Aires
Ottawa's Bytown Museum is haunted by strange footsteps.
Courtesy of Bytown Museum
Mark Twain on a train.
Ben Shannon
Rupert's Land in 1670, shown in green, covered the entire Hudson Bay drainage area.
Matthew Yathon
Sa Ga Yeath Qua Pieth Tow (Brant), King of the Maquas. He was the grandfather of Joseph Brant, after whom Brantford, Ontario, was named.
Library and Archives Canada
Men work on the inside of the hull of Bluenose II at Lunenburg, Nova Scotia, 1963.
Nova Scotia Archives
Transfer of silk bales from a shed to a waiting CPR train.
Canadian Pacific Railway Archives / 6940
Avro photographer Hugh MacKechnie photographs the Arrow in flight using a highspeed camera in a CF-100 chase plane.
Courtesy of Lou Wise
Porcupine strike leaders in the Timmins, ON jail in 1913.
Henry Peters/Library and Archives Canada/PA-029974.
Target Pistol and Man, 1980.
National Gallery of Canada
Flag of Saint-Pierre and Miquelon.
Public Domain
Young refugess attend classes in a camp on Anambus Island, Indonesia, in 1980.
John MacEachern
Among the first women to vote in Canada were Canadian military nurses stationed in France during World War I. To help him win the general election in 1917, Prime Minister Robert Borden extended the franchise to females in the armed forces.
IBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA / PA 227 9
Insane Asylum, Canada West, 15 August 1848, an ink and wash sketch by August Kollner.
National Archives of Canada
Charles Davenport (1866–1944), American director of the Eugenics Record Office, was an eminent biologist who gave eugenics much of its scientific credibility. But its scientific claims actually obscured a number of research flaws.
A popular vote in favour of responsible government led to Philip Francis Little becoming Newfoundland’s first prime minister in 1855. The colony became a dominion in 1907.
The constitution of the Augustinian order enjoined the sisters to treat a patient as if he were Christ himself. Despite the primitive conditions under which they worked, the nuns were to exhibit neither distaste nor despair in their work.
Musée des Augustines
The Allan Memorial Institute in Montreal, which is today a respected psychiatric hospital, was the site of CIA-funded mind-control experiments from 1957 to 1964.
MCCORD MUSEUM
Place Bonaventure, built between 1964 and 1968, contained a two-level retail arcade, topped by a 23,000-square-metre exhibition space, five levels of merchandising mart, an international trade centre, and a 400-room hotel.
City of Montreal Archives
Mrs. Thomas George Askey, née Isabel Julia Curtis. The beautiful Isabel Curtis was married at fifteen and whisked away to a cabin on the dark
forested shores of what is now the town of Chemainus on Vancouver Island.
B.C. Archives
Alfred Jury, Helen's father - a Toronto tailor and well-known labour leader whose shop was a gathering place for political discussion.
Courtesy Dorothy Dyer
With fellow doctors Joseph Morrin (left) and Charles-Jacques Fremont (right), James Douglas bought Robert Giffard de Moncel's manor house at Beauport and converted it into an insane asylum.
Centre Hospitalier Robert-Giffard
False portrait of Samuel de Champlain, based on an engraved portrait of Michael Particelli d'Emery by Balthazar Moncornet, dated 1654.
Library and Archives Canada/C-00643
"Contact!" by Ted Zuber. This painting represents an event that took place on October 23-24, 1952, at "Little Gibraltor" Hill, Korea, in which friendly fire was called in to help stop Chinese soliders from overrunning Canadian positions.
Ted Zuber / Canadian War Museum
Ex-POW George Griffiths downs his first Canadian-style meal in ten months; it will make him sick.
Courtesy Jim Lynch
"Private Roy, Canadian Women's Army Corps." Oil on masonite.
Canadian War Museum/Beaverbrook Collection of War Art/AN 1971 0261-1626 CN 12082
Members of RAF 242 Squadron, a mostly Canadian squadron commanded by Douglas Bader, (fourth from left) who had artificial legs. Willie McKnight, (fifth from left, behind Bader) was Bader's wingman.
Imperial War Museum
John McKinley Cameron in 1918. Though the Nova Scotia-born lawyer was a Conservative and a member of the Calgary establishment, he was also a vigorous advocate of social justice and the rights of all Canadians.
GLENBOW ARCHIVES / NA-4691-6
For a period in the late nineteenth century until 1905, a map of western Canada would have looked like this one.
Exterior of a Métis house, 1874. Engraving by Henri Julien.
Glenbow Archives/ NA-47-11
The De Brou family tree from Austin's side.
Police chief Walter Johnson (centre, front) with the Moose Jaw police force, circa 1915. Johnson, chief from 1905 to 1927, took a pragmatic approach to the vice in the town.
Moose Jaw Public Library Archives / Lewis Rice Collection
For ambitious young man-about-town Francis Rattenbury, Florence Eleanor Nunn seemed an unlikely choice of bride. She was rather plain and retiring and her family was neither wealthy nor well-connected, but she had a sweet nature.
BC. Archives / B-07986
This great mass of rock was beyond the powers of the Toonik to raise. But the stones were apparently placed ready at the corners.
E.H. Mitchell
Canadian Rangers Paul Atagootak, Uluriak (Star) Amarualik, and Caleb Sangoya on Operation Nanook, Resolute, Nunavut, August 2010. Women started joining the Rangers in the late 1980s.
At Prince Albert National Park, Saskatchewan, conscientious objectors clear fire trails during the 1940s.
Library and Archives Canada / C131651
Lieutenant Frank L. Dubervill of the Canadian Army Film and Photo Unit, holding an Anniversary Speed Graphic Camera, England, 11 May 1944.
Canada. Dept. of National Defence / Library and Archives Canada / PA-115507
Sir Wilfrid Laurier at a political meeting in Simcoe, Ontario, circa 1912.
City of Toronto Archives
Romany men pose for the photographer.
Frederick Lewis Roy
1921 Canada West magazine Cover
John Edlund floating in his life-preserving valise.
Logan's notebook
Geological Survey of Canada
February 23, 1909: J.A.D. McCurdy flies the Silver Dart, the first powered flight in Canada.
Library and Archives Canada
Canada, Ontario,
Quebec, and
France pavilions
at night.
Civilian prisoners in Singapore, circa 1945. They were required to bow to their Japanese captors during daily roll call.
Getty
Passengers aboard the Komagata Maru in Vancouver in 1914. They were not allowed to come ashore, and most had to return to India because of Canadian exclusion laws.
Library and Archives Canada
Landing Craft Assault (LCAs) going ashore from H.M.C.S. Prince Henry during a D-Day training exercise somewhere off the south coast of England circa May 1944.
Lieutenant Frank L. Dubervill. Canada. Department of National Defence. LAC, PA-135889.
Pembina, from a sketch by John Fleming, 1857.
Sir John. A.
Charles Pachter
Neglected site of the original McIntosh tree, Dundela, Ontario.
The tobacco society had exclusive responsibility for the cultivation of tobacco, which had both medicinal and ceremonial value. It served as a stimulant, a hunger and thirst depressant, and an analgesic.
GLENBOW ARCHIVES/NA-731-2
Driving the last spike for the transcontinental railway at Craigellachie, British Columbia in 1885.
John Cabot (Released 1978) A very thorny, large-arching kordesii hybrid that can be used as a climber. The double flowers are dark orchid-pink. Has two main flushes of bloom and repeats much better if grown in full sun and fed well.
AGRICULTURE AND AGRI-FOOD CANADA
The Metropolitan Church (left) and the Y.W.C.A. (right) were just two buildings damaged by the Regina Cyclone of 1912.
Western Development Museum / LAC/PA-038519
Donna Morse in May 2011 at her home in southwestern British Columbia.
Robert Karpa
Alexander von Humboldt (1769-1859) is considered one of the founders of modern geography. In South America, he analyzed the cool ocean current named for him off the coast of Peru.
National Archives of Canada
Survivors sift through the rubble of heavily damaged homes on Smith Street.
Saskatchewan Archives Board
The Hotel Balmoral in modern day.
Venturi + Karpa
Dudley Do-Right, the lovely Nell, and the nefarious Snidely Whiplash.
Copyright 1998 by Ward Productions Inc, courtesy of Universal Studios Publishing Rights, a division of Universal Studios Inc, all rights reserved.
Officer Francis Dickens, second from left, appears in this first known photograph of the North-West Mounted Police taken in 1874.
GLENBOW ARCHIVES, CALGARY, CANADA, NA-2826-1
The Marsh test was a highly sensitive method used to detect arsenic. Developed by chemist James Marsh, trace amounts of arsenic — as little as 0.02 mg — would form a silvery-black deposit.
National Library of Medicine, Marsh test apparatus, Steel engraving, 1867
In 1968, Karloff shared a Grammy award for The Grinch Who Stole Christmas. This actor famous for horror roles won in the Best Recording for Children category.
Murder suspect — and half brother — Reverend Adélard Delorme.
In 1919, Pickford partnered with her then-husband Douglas Fairbanks, Charlie Chaplin and D.W. Griffith to start the production company United Artists.
Mary Pickford Foundation
This lion, named Jackie, provided the first audible roar for MGM's Leo the Lion logo in the 1928 movie White Shadows in the South Seas.
Interior of a Métis house, 1874. Engraving by Henri Julien.
Glenbow Archives/ NA-47-10
German prisoners of war at Whitewater Camp in Riding Mountain National Park, Manitoba, where they were held from 1943 to 1945.
Josef Gabski
Statement of death for James Francis De Brou (1900-1953) destroyed the author’s notion of French origins for either of his grandparents.
Nellie McClung, Alice Jamieson, and Emily Murphy, 1918. McClung and Murphy, along with Louise McKinney, Irene Palby, and Henriette Muir Edwards, were the Famous Five.
CITY OF EDMONTON ARCHIVES/EA-10-2070
An 1881 image from a poster advertising the Inuit at the Hamburg zoo.
Courtesy of Hans-Josef Rollmann
Beauport Lunatic Asylum
Centre Hospital Robert-Giffard
Stan Turner, one of the Canadian pilots who served during the Battle of Britain, circa 1940.
Imperial War Museum
"Canadian Women's Corps Sleeping Quarters in the Administration Building, Oct 45, 1st Echelon, Bad Zwischenhan, Germany." Watercolour, ink, and graphite on paper.
Canadian War Museum/Beaverbrook Collection/AN 1971 0261-6261 1588 CN 12044
"TOPP High" illustrates Ted Zuber's experience in a bomb shelter after a Scud missile strike during the Gulf War in 1991.
Ted Zuber / Canadian War Museum
"Foundation of Quebec City by
Samuel de Champlain 1608," a work in stained glass at the National Assembly in the parliament of Quebec.
Made by Gauthier et frères in 1920.
Hemis/Philippe Renault
The author (right) discusses a scene Liz Jarvis during a shoot for The Notorious Mrs. Armstrong.
Courtesy Charles Shiliday
Female pirates were rare, but not unheard of. This nineteenth-century image by an unknown artist depicts
Charlotte de Berry, who, like
Maria Lindsey Cobham, often
wore a naval officer's coat.
Bridgeman Art Library
The innovative Telephone Pavilion at Expo 67 featured a 360 degree film screen that surrounded the viewer. Its project architect was Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan-born Dorice Brown.
City of Montreal Archives
The mission of the sisters was to restore souls as well as bodies. Masses were said on the wards; devotional paintings were frequently changed; and each bed was dedicated to a particular saint.
Courtesty Les Augustines de la Misericorde de Jesus
John Zubek experiments with rats in the 1950s. Zubek began his career with Donald Hebb at McGill’s psychology department.
Montreal Standard
Susanna Moodie, a modern portrait made for the University of Toronto Press by John Elphick.
A couple of thousand year-round residents of Newfoundland were governed by the arbitrary rules of fishing admirals until 1729, when British naval Captain Henry Osborne established constables and justices of the peace.
"Better Baby” contest at Cathedral Parish, St. Paul, Minnesota. Such contests became popular at country fairs and exhibits throughout Canada and the U.S. The contests encouraged the “best and brightest” to procreate.
MINNESOTA HISTORICAL SOCIETY
The road to today’s universal adult franchise has been not only incremental, it’s often been corrupt, violent, and not awfully democratic.
Refugees undergo medical screening at CFB Griesbach, Edmonton, 1979.
Murray Mosher
Soldier and Girl at Station, 1953.
National Gallery of Canada.
Boxes of whiskey loaded on pier at Saint-Pierre during American Prohibition in the 1930s.
Public Domain
Christmas at an internment camp during the First World War. Internment of "enemy aliens" was not widely publicized.
Library and Archives Canada
Labor Day Winnipeg, 1908
mage courtesy of Peel's Prairie Provinces, a digital initiative of the University of Alberta Libraries
Much of the film department’s work involved making enlargements and reproductions for the project’s engineers. Here they are taping a blueprint to a vacuum board.
Courtesy of Lou Wise
Bluenose II in full sail in 1969.
Nova Scotia Archives
A CPR silk train picks up speed as it leaves Vancouver.
Canadian Pacific Railway Archives / N56940
Author and historian Carolyn Harris specializes in the history of royalty.
Courtesy of Carolyn Harris
Neils Harbour lighthouse, Nova Scotia.
Grounded Icebergs (Disco Bay), c.1931 by Lawren Harris. Born 1885 in Brantford, Ontario, Canada; died 1970 in Vancouver, British, Columbia, Canada.
Art Gallery of Ontario, Toronto, Canada, Gift from the Estate of R. Fraser Elliott, 2005,
The burning bride.
Illustration by GMB Chomichuk
The remains of human skeletons and other items found at a Beothuk burial site. Photographed by Samuel .H. Parsons of St. John’s, Newfoundland, circa 1890–1900.
The Rooms Provincial Archives
Tom Longboat takes the lead
Hockey Hall of Fame / Library and Archives Canada (MIKAN 3657282)
The Motor Gun Boat 503 that evacuated "packages" from Operation Bonaparte.
Un Canadien Français face à la gestapo
Statue of Kateri washing her hair.
WP Lynn (Flickr.com/warrenlynn)
As this image from an 1897 medical text suggests, women were seen as too mentally unstable to participate in elections.
Internet Book Archive
Macdonald created the the North-West Mounted Police in 1873.
Auderton George, McCord Museum/11-80118.0.1
Canada Mines Olympic Gold: The Winnipeg Falcons are depicted before they represent Canada in the 1920 Summer Olympic Games.
Credit: Heritage Minute
Scene from The Underground Railroad: Still keeping meticulous records of the Freedom Seekers who pass through his station.
90th Parallel Productions Ltd.
The Lady's Newspaper and Court Chronicles targeted a female readership. The newspaper was published in London, English and became available in Canada in the late nineteenth century.
McCord Museum
Sea otter by John Webber, an artist who accompanied Captain James Cook on his voyages.
Wikipedia/Library of Congress
Workers use a crane to remove the building's iconic neon sight.
Chat Schroter-Gillespie
This painting by Arthur Lismer, future Group of Seven artist, depicts the arrival of the Olympic in Halifax Harbour, Nova Scotia, December 14, 1918. The Olympic, a sister ship of the Titanic, transported 200,000 returning soldiers between 1914 and 1919.
Arthur Lismer © Beaverbrook / Canadian War Museum
Rose Fortune came to Nova Scotia with her family after the American Revolutionary War, likely in June 1784. She worked as a “trucker,” carrying baggage with a wheelbarrow for passengers travelling on the Saint John-Digby-Annapolis ferry.
Nova Scotia Archives / 1979-147-56
This 1859 notice to postmasters indicates that charges will be made in decimal currency following the introduction of the Currency, which established decimal currency.
Cree Chief Poundmaker photographed at the police barracks in Regina, 1885.
O.B. Buell / Library and Archives Canada / C-001875
Thompson greets the chief of a Mandan village on December 30, 1797.
Don McMaster
A "fair" staker, 1898, dressed in practical clothing, boots and hat.
Alaska's Digital Archives
18/20 for Samuel de Champlain. We thought Champlain was the leader in all areas, losing points only for the scope of ground that he covered.
Between 1850 and 1857 Lady Jane Franklin funded five ships to search for her husband, explorer Sir John Franklin, thus contributing to the mapping of extensive portions of Canada’s north.
Robert Carter
Artwork Copyright George Feyer Estate
A St John Ambulance worker attends to a boy’s blistered foot during the 1969 Vancouver march.
© Joan Latchford
Poster of the movie Nanook of the North.
From the From the Land: Materials & Message in Inuit Art Exhibition at the Winnipeg Art Gallery, 2014.
Steve Ducharme
Artifacts from Cupids, Newfoundland: Minted around 1561, this Elizabethan silver four-pence coin was uncovered east of the Cupids dwelling house.
John Bourne, William Gilbert, Baccalieu Trail Heritage Corporation
Runners at Woodbine Beach in Toronto on September 17, 2000, during the annual Terry Fox Run.
Richard Lautens/ Canadian Press
Archaeology students taking part in the Great Plains stampede site excavation in 2002.
Gerald Oetelaar
Wooden doll recovered on the floor of the entrance tunnel to a sod house.
Peter Whitridge, Andrew Chapman
The Royal Proclamation of 1763, which required the Crown to negotiate treaties with First Nations, has been described as the "Indian Magna Carta."
Bridgeman Art Library
In 1862, John Sandfield Macdonald (1812-1872) was leader and attorney general in the Reform gov't of the Prov. of Canada. A Roman Catholic in a largely Protestant bloc, he was put in an unenviable position by the publicity surrounding the Aylward trail.
National Archives of Canada / PA 12855
It was allegedly illegal to kill Sasquatch in British Columbia in the 1800s.
Image by CryptoTom/Wikimedia Commons
Local children hold a sign to greet the governor general, Viscount Alexander. Inscribed on the sign are the words, "Welcome to Selkirk–the coldest place in North America."
MacBride Museum, John Valens Collection
Lady Agnes Macdonald.
Library and Archives Canada
Miners in Dawson pay for supplies with gold dust in the fall of 1899.
First Light
First Nations students at the University of Winnipeg, where Cree and Ojibway are taught.
University of Winnipeg
Bomber coach Bud Grant.
Winnipeg Tribune Collection, Manitoba Archives
The Great Scullers Race on the St. Lawrence at Lachine, Canada, Oct 3, 1878. This cartoon by Currier & Ives shows Ned Hanlan, right,
and his American rival, Charles Courtney, left.
Courtesy of Richard MacFarlane & Edward English
Home Guards pose with captured Fenian artillery piece after the Battle of Eccles Hill.
MISSISQUOI HISTORICAL SOCIETY
Ruins of the Great Fire at Montreal. Engraving by John
Henry Walker, 1850–1885.
McCord Museum
Captain Voss had modified the native whaling canoe, traditionally propelled by paddles, with the addition of three masts, four sails, and a steering cockpit (among other things), effectively changing it into a sailing vessel.
One of the biographies about Boris Karloff.
Keystone Kop comedies owed their success to Mack Sennett's editing which gave them a manic energy. While other films were deferential to police, Sennett's comedies deliberately thumbed their noses at authority.
Jay Silverheels as "Tonto."
In 1823, a thesis on nine patterns found in fingerprints was published by University of Breslau professor John Evangelist Purkinji.
An early Henri Julien drawing depicting the Great March West: settings made for heroes.
THE RCMP
Dr. Wilfrid Derome preparing ballistics evidence by rolling bullets onto carbon paper and examining the unique striations created when fired.
MUSÉE DE LA CIVILISATION, QUÉBEC
"The Siege of Fort Pitt," as depicted in the Canadian Illustrated War News; police and civilians were outnumbered and surrounded.
National Archives of Canada/C-1725
The Regent Hotel in 1923.
CITY OF VANCOUVER ARCHIVES
Heather Ann Phyllis registers to become a new RCMP recruit on September 16, 1974.
Canadian Press
The path of the twister across Wascana Lake into the city centre.
Toole's team benighted near Snag.
John Macoun, at left examining a bird's nest and egg, had an interest in botany was nurtured in the fields and woods of the farm on which his parents settled.
Men pose against the damage caused by Regina’s 1912 cyclone.
Peel's Prairie Provinces, a digital initiative of the University of Alberta Libraries
David Thompson (Released 1979) A rugosa hybrid that forms a large, round shrub. The blooms are semi-double, deep mauve-pink with some white streaks toward the centre. The flowers lack form, but repeat bloom is excellent.
AGRICULTURE AND AGRI-FOOD CANADA
A 1913 postcard exaggerates claims of giant wheat crops in order to encourage
immigration to Canada.
Two Blackfoot, Sun Calf (left, with tobacco pipe) and Jack Sun Calf, circa 1920.
GLENBOW ARCHIVES / NA-603-3
Tree grown from a graft of the original McIntosh tree, Smyth's Apple Orchards, Dundela.
Vegetable garden at York Factory, 1880.
The Beaver Collection
Dressage.
Charles Pachter.
Members of the 9th Canadian Infantry Brigade come ashore at Nan White Beach during the D-day assault on June 6, 1944.
Gilbert Alexander Milne. Canada. Department of National Defence. LAC, PA-137013.
Attention-grabbing
architecture
A boy in Africville, a black community in Halifax razed in the 1960s.
Bob Brooks/Nova Scotia Archives
A portrait of Ethel Mulvany done by artist Joan Stanley-Cary while Mulvany was imprisoned in Singapore.
Courtesy of Marion King.
October 14, 1912: Thomas Wilby and Jack Haney ride in a 1912 REO, taking forty-nine days to cross Canada by automobile.
Library and Archives Canada
Marie Leclerc washing clothes outside her Cantal, Saskatchewan house, with a washing machine operated by a small motor, c. 1921.
A sketch from Logan's journal, 1843.
"The women present a fantastic appearance to say the least," wrote the Peterborough Evening Examiner.
Frederick Lewis Roy
1922 Canada West magazine Cover
Sub-Artic bow-hunters stalk caribou.
Matthew Parker
Sir Wilfrid Laurier on his last trip to Western Canada in 1911.
Library and Archives Canada
Lieutenant Ken Bell of the Canadian Army Film and Photo Unit digging a slit trench in the Normandy beachhead, France, 10 June 1944.
Canada. Dept. of National Defence / Library and Archives Canada / PA-131443
Canadian Ranger Paul Atagootak instructs members of the Arctic Response Company Group on Operation Nanook 10 in Resolute, Nunavut, August 2010.
Alma Clarke was a bright and vivacious child, with a prodigious musical talent. After an early performing career, she married Vancouver realtor Caledon Dolling. She joined the French Red Cross after he died at the battle of the Somme in 1916.
Courtesy John Rattenbury
By the 1920s, when this picture was taken, Chinese had taken roles in the service economy—opening laundries and restaurants—while being denied full rights of citizenship and broader economic opportunities in white-dominated society.
Moose Jaw Public Library Archives
The journey of the Tilikum from 1901–1904.
Dawn Huck
Louis-Hippolyte Lafontaine, about 1880.
McCord Museum
Quarterback and family man Ken Ploen at home with his wife Janet and three children.
Courtesy of Ken Ploen
The Seattle Hotel in Dawson City, 1898.
Glenbow Archives NA-876-3
High Park Toboggan Runs, 1914.
City of Toronto Archives, Fonds 1244, Item 441A.
Train robber Bill Miner, circa 1906.
Glenbow Museum
The Reverend Michael Brennan (1796-1869), first pastor of St.Michael's Roman Catholic Church, Belleville, was one of the leaders of sympathizers who sought to have the death penalty for Richard and Mary Aylward rescinded.
St. Michael's Roman Catholic Church Archives
Projectile point, or stone tip, used on hunting weapons. It was designed to be used with a dart that was propelled by a spear thrower.
Artifacts from Cypress Hills, Alberta
The map from Holland's second visit to P.E.I.
Thimble dating to between 1600 and 1650.
John Bourne, William Gilbert, Baccalieu Trail Heritage Corporation
Terry Fox leaves city hall in St John's at the start of his Marathon of Hope on April 12, 1980.
Canadian Press
First Nations people in traditional clothing were among those who watched the premier of Romance of the Far Fur Country at Winnipeg’s Allen Theatre in 1920.
L.B. Foote / HBC Archives, Archives of Manitoba, HBCA 1987/363-A-15/129
A girl walks and reads during the 1968 Calgary event.
© Joan Latchford
Artwork Copyright George Feyer Estate
Captain Robert (Bob) Bartlett was a sea captain from Newfoundland who sailed with countless artic explorations. This included taking American Robert Peary to the North Pole in 1909.
Robert Carter
The Gypsy Queen: Wife of Curley Monroe, Dawson; a variety singer, dancer, etc., bedecked in pearl bodice, choker, and crown.
Alaska's Digital Archives
"Lindy" Lindbergh John Louttit gravesite.
This passport belonged to Cato Ramsay, allowing him to immigrate. Some refugees without passports would be made to return to their place of origin — to a life of slavery. We see here that Ramsay gained his freedom by escaping to the British lines.
Nova Scotia Archives / Gideon White Family
Chief Big Bear in police custody in Regina, circa 1885.
Glenbow Archives / NA-1270-1
The front and back of an 1861 Confederate States of American half-dollar coin.
Absecon 59/Wikimedia Commons
Illustration from the Ladies Home Journal, October 1900, contrasting the old Victorian corseted silhouette with the new Edwardian "S-bend" corseted silhouette.
Anonymous, Wikipedia commons
The new National Music Centre begins to take shape.
George Webber
Scene from The Underground Railroad: Freedom seekers escaping by boat under the cover of darkness.
90th Parallel Productions Ltd.
Canada’s “Goal of the Century”: Canada’s NHL stars stand in line before a Summit Series game against the U.S.S.R in Moscow in 1972.
Credit: ITAR-TASS
In 1885 he sent troops to quell the North-west Rebellion, led by Louis Riel.
Anonymous, McCord Museum/MP-1977.211
Icelandic women in 1910 iron and starch the laundry. It was thought women were far too busy with domestic duties to take time off to vote.
Reykjavik Museum of Photography/Magnus Olafsson
Saint Kateri in front of Santa Fe Cathedral
Raymond Bucko (Flickr.com/kishka_king)
Drawings by Shanawdithit, one of the last of the Beothuks, representing a variety of subjects, such as cups, spears and a “Red Indian devil.”
Library and Archives Canada
Tom Longboat: Marathon man.
Hockey Hall of Fame / Library and Archives Canada (MIKAN 3656298)
Two Hummingbirds with an Orchid, 1875 by Martin Johnson Heade. Born 1819 in Lumberville, Pennsylvania, United States; died 1904 in St. Augustine, Florida, United States.
High Museum of Art, Atlanta, United States
The "Burning Bride" has been seen on this staircase at the Fairmont Banff Springs Hotel.
Courtesy of Fairmont Banff Springs
Battery Point lighthouse, Nova Scotia.
Avro's film department did its own developing on-site.
Courtesy of Lou Wise
Workers place a plank into position during the refurbishing of the
Bluenose II.
Nova Scotia Archives
Temporary living quarters at CFB Griesbach, Edmonton.
Murray Mosher
Montreal.-The Lachine Canal Laborers' Strike
Henri Julien, January 5, 1878.
McCord Museum
To Prince Edward Island, 1965.
National Gallery of Canada
Women and children at an internment camp in Quebec circa 1914-20. Internment of "enemy aliens" took place under the War Measures Act.
Library and Archives Canada.
The Free French submarine Surcouf led an invasion of Saint-Pierre and Miquelon in December of 1941, which liberated the islands from the pro-Axis government of Vichy France during the Second World War.
Public Domain
Canadian militiamen stand over the dead body of Fenian John Rowe of Burlington, Vermont on 25, May 1870.
MISSISQUOI HISTORICAL SOCIETY
Union with Canada was considered in the early 1860s but the public quashed the idea in the 1869 election. The notion was revisited in 1895 after a series of disasters left Newfoundland destitute, but talks went nowhere.
John Zubek and an assistant prepare a special dome used in sensory deprivation experiments at his University of Manitoba laboratory in 1959.
David Portigal and Co., Courtesy of University of Manitoba Archives
Street scene, Toronto, 1851, a water-colour and pencil sketch by A. R.V. Crease.
Metro Tornto Library
Esther Marjorie Hill, the first woman graduate in architecture in Canada, on her graduation day, June 4, 1920. Her peers cheered but her professor refused to attend the ceremony.
University of Toronto Archives, 2002-17-4MS
Circa 1877: the sisters praying for the sick and injured.
Courtesy Les Augustines de la Misericorde de Jésus
"Foundation of the city of
Quebec by Samuel de Champlain in 1608." Painting by Ambroise-
Louis Garneray, 1848.
Bridgeman Art Library
Born in Montreal, Zuber studied
art at École des Beaux-Arts de
Montreal, and constantly carried a
sketchbook with him on the front lines in Korea.
Raymond LaBrosse, a Canadian spy, used this falsified identification document during his rescue missions in France.
Courtesy Raymond LaBrosse
"Canteen, Nijmegen, Holland." Oil and ink on canvas, 1945.
Canadian War Museum/Beaverbrook Collection of War Art/AN 1971 0261-6172 120170
In April 1850, 172 inmates were transferred from the too-small manor house at Beauport to a new institution designed for 250 nearby.
Centre Hospitalier Robert-Giffard
An 1880 drawing shows Tigianniak with his dogs outside his tent.
Journal Svetozor
Inaugurated on October 18, 2000, on Parliament Hill, this monument, entitled "Women are Persons!" honours the Famous Five.
Marriage certificate of James Francis De Brou and Margaret Amy Holdstock revealed the groom’s parents’ names and the author’s link to his English cousin, Austin. But the groom’s birthplace and date were at odds with other information.
Lawrence “Moon” Mullin (right), eleven years old. Mullin says he and other boys, including his cousin Ray (left), were recruited as tunnel crawlers to pass messages back and forth during Prohibition.
Courtesy of Lawrence Mullin
Francis Mawson Rattenbury was only twenty-five when he won the 1893 competition to design nothing less than the legislative buildings for the province of British Columbia.
Terry Reksten
Canadian Ranger TooToo, an Inuk from Churchill, Manitoba, relays information to Mobile Striking Force personnel in a Penguin snow vehicle during Exercise Bulldog II in 1954.
Lieutenant I. Macdonald (with binoculars) of the 48th Highlanders of Canada preparing to give the order to infantrymen of his platoon, San Leonardo di Ortona, Italy, 10 December 1943.
Lieut. Frederick G. Whitcombe / Canada. Dept. of National Defence / Library and Archives Canada / PA-163411
Alternative service workers pose under the entrance to Riding Mountain National Park in Manitoba.
H. Sawatzky
Wilfrid Laurier's campaign poster for the 1908 federal election.
McGill University
A painting by John White, of Martin Frobisher's second Arctic expedition, shows Inuit using bows in a skirmish with Frobisher's men in 1577.
John White/The British Museum
Stephen George claimed to be chief of three tribes of approximately fifty people each. He was the father of Rosie, “the Gypsie Queen."
Frederick Lewis Roy
1923 Canada West magazine Cover
Logan's collecting basket
Geological Survey of Canada
The "dolly" or washboard make, which has two corrugated boards for rubbing the dirt out.
Marc Garneau becomes the first Canadian to reach outer space. He served as a payload specialist aboard the space shuttle Challenger.
NASA
Ethel Muvany's cookbook, a collection of recipes supplied by fellow civilian prisoners in Singapore during the Second World War.
Canadian Museum of History.
Eleanor Roosevelt, widow of former U.S. President Franklin Roosevelt, holds a copy of the United Nations Declaration of Human Rights in 1948.
United Nations
The Supremes.
Charles Pachter
A pitchfork, unearthed at Fort Severn, and a hay-making scene at Rupert's House are reminders of the days when the HBC kept cattle on the shores of Hudson and James Bay.
The Beaver Collection
Wounded Canadian soldiers at Courseulles-sur-Mer await transfer to a Casualty Clearing Station of the Royal Canadian Army Medical Corps (R.C.A.M.C.) on June 6, 1944.
Lieutenant Frank L. Dubervill. Canada. Department of National Defence. LAC, PA-132384.
Allan McIntosh with the original McIntosh Red tree around the time it was damaged by fire in the 1890s.
John Franklin (Released 1980) A small shrub with dark foliage and continuous bloom. The flowers are semi-double with dark-red frilly petals. Very susceptible to blackspot and more tender than most Explorers.
AGRICULTURE AND AGRI-FOOD CANADA
By producing optimistic assessments of the prairies that supported the federal government's plans for the region, John Macoun became a favourite of the Conservative party.
This photo captures the remains of a house that was destroyed by the Newfoundland tsunami in 1929.
LAC/C-026492
Christmas cheer at the Snag weather station.
The Regent Hotel in the modern-day.
Venturi + Karpa
In 1998, Gwen Boniface becomes the first woman commissioner of the Ontario Provincial Police.
To this day, RCMP headquarters receives letters from children saying they want to come to Canada and become Mounties. Others complain they visited Canada and didn’t see a single Mountie, unaware the red uniforms haven’t been worn in action since the '30s.
Dr. Rosario Fontaine, fresh from receiving a diploma in legal medicine from the University of Paris, was appointed assistant director of Montreal’s forensic science laboratory in 1922.
MUSÉE DE LA CIVILISATION, QUÉBEC
Mack Sennett gave up the Keystone trademark in 1917 when he dissolved his business partnership with D.W. Griffith & Thomas H. Ince. He organized a new production company called Mack Sennett Comedies.
Clipping from the Times of London for July 21,1921, reporting on the murder trial of John Louis De Brou, the author’s great-uncle (1887-1926); his prison photograph.
"Victory Japan Celebrations." Oil and watercolour on paper.
Canadian War Museum/Beaverbrook Collection of War Art/AN 1971 0261-1650 CN 12106
"Henry IV, King of France and
Navarre", circa 1595, French
school (16th century).
The nuns maintained high standards of cleanliness, disposed of wasted quickly, and - a novelty for the seventeenth century - provided each patient with his or her own bed.
Courtesy Les Augustines de la Misericorde de Jésus
The Winnipeg Free Press reports on Zubek's experiments in 1959.
David Portigal and Co., Courtesy of University of Manitoba Archives
Inuit leader Johannes Lampe, left, with Adrian Jacobsen and Kerstin Bedranowsky, grandson and great-grand-daughter of Johan Adrian Jacobsen, the ship captain who took the Inuit group to Europe in 1880.
Courtesy France Rivet
To design his Toronto home, Group of Seven painter Lawren Harris chose Russin-émigré architect Alexandra Biriukova, who was the first woman to register with the Ontario Association of Architects.
Trained as a carpenter, George went wherever work was available.
A postcard depicting the union between Canada (beaver) and Newfoundland (dog) signed by Smallwood.
Canadian Press
A twenty-franc note used during the 1950s and 1960s on St. Pierre and Miquelon. Today the islands use the euro.
Public Domain
A young refugees picks his first Canadian breakfast -- a box of cereal.
Murray Mosher
Montreal: the strike of labourers in the port.
Anonyme - Anonymous, 1877.
McCord Museum
This full-scale non-flying replica of the Avro Arrow, unveiled in October 2006, was built by Toronto Aerospace Museum volunteers. It took ten years to build.
ArtEye Photo / Flickr
The refurbished Bluenose II's interior sheathing begins to take shape.
Mark Doucette
Cliffs of Green River 1874 by Thomas Moran. Born Bolton, United Kingdom, 1837; died Santa Barbara, California, United States, 1926.
Amon Carter Museum of American Art, Fort Worth, Texas
Ghost soldiers at the Plains of Abraham.
Illustration by GMB Chomichuk
Private Tom Longboat buying a paper from a young French newspaper boy, June 1917.
Canada. Dept. of National Defence / Library and Archives Canada (MIKAN 3194329)
Statue of Saint Kateri
Jeff S. PhotoArt (Flickr.com/jeff_sch)
This summer dwelling of the Beothuk as sketch by John Cartwright on his map of the Exploits River, circa 1773.
Library and Archives Canada / Memorial University of Newfoundland
Physicist Irene Joliet-Curie accepts an honourary degree on behalf of her mother, Marie Curie, in 1921. Both won Nobel prizes. At one time it was argued that women were not intelligent enough to participate in politics.
Smithsonian Institution/James Stockley
Canadian spy Lucien Dumais used several false identities, including the name “Lucien Desbien,” while operating in France.
Un Canadien Français face à la gestapo
Donald Smith drives the last spike at Craigallachie, B.C., in 1885.
Alexander Ross, McCord Museum/MP-0000.158.125
Scene from The Underground Railroad: Still is reunited with his brother Peter who has been “sold down the river” after Still’s mother escaped to the North.
90th Parallel Productions Ltd.
Dominion of Canada’s paper money from 1898.
This painting is of spruce harvesting for aircraft production in B.C. Charles Simpson, an artist with the Canadian War Memorials Fund, first painted in England before dwindling resources forced the Fund to assign him to a subject closer to home.
Charles Simpson © Beaverbrook / Canadian War Museum
The Capture of Batoche, a colour lithograph from an 1885 battlefield sketch by Sergeant Grundyand others.
Library and Archives Canada
C-FLUB Plane
Neil Aird's Beaver website dhc-2.com/
On June 10, 1799, Thompson marries Charlotte Small, who was of Cree and Scottish ancestry. She becomes Thompson's devoted wife for 59 years, accompanying him on many of his travels and bearing him 13 children.
Don McMaster
At Dawson-Klondike, July 1900. George A. Jeffery, Mrs. Deborah S. Wickersham, James Wickersham, his son Howard, Albert R. Heilig and son Reed, Mrs. Heilig and her daughter Florence (front, right).
Alaska's Digital Archives
Originally from Manitoba, Vilhjalmur Stefansson was the founder and leader of the 1913–1918 Canadian Arctic Expedition.
Robert Carter
Artwork Copyright George Feyer Estate
Terry Fox near Thunder Bay on September 1, 1980, the final day of his Marathon of Hope.
Canadian Press
Chipped stone tool used to cut or scrape various materials.
Artifacts from Cypress Hills, Alberta
Nisga'a leader Frank Calder speaks with reporters February 8, 1973, following a meeting with Prime Minister Trudeau after the Supreme Court of Canada affirmed Aboriginal rights under what one judge called the "Indian Magna Carta" of 1763.
Canadian Press
William Henry Draper (1801-1877) became the first colonial politician to be styled "premier." In 1856 he became chief justice of the Court of Common Pleas of Upper Canada, the position he held when the Aylwards were brought before him.
National Archives of Canada / RD-000715
Poster of Jumbo the elephant, circa 1880s.
The Pigeon Hill (Eccles Hill) Camp of the 60th Battalion, which played a major part in the Fenian Raid of
25 May 1870.
William Sawyer / Library and Archives Canada / C-033036
After a mob sets fire to the Parliament Building in Montreal, the capital moves to Toronto. However, there is continuing debate about the most suitable location for the seat of government.
From the bow, the Tilikum today as she sits in the Maritime Museum of British Columbia.
dillgaf / Wildguzzi.com
James Newill played Sergeant Renfrew of the RCMP in a series of films in the late 1930s. The Renfrew character first appeared in the novels of Laurie York Erskine in the early 1920s.
1910 - Creation of the world’s second forensic science laboratory in Lyon, France, headed by Edmond
Locard.
In 1878 Dr. William Hodgeson Ellis testified at a rape murder case using bloodstain pattern analysis.
The Patricia Hotel and Café in 1917.
CITY OF VANCOUVER ARCHIVES
In 2006, Beverley Busson is appointed, on an interim basis, as the RCMP’s first female commissioner.
Weathermen near Snag airport, February 1947.
John Palliser (at left), sportsman and heir to an Irish landowner, explored western Canada for nearly three years, from 1857 to 1860, as the instigator and leader of the Palliser Expedition.
National Archives of Canada
The 1946 earthquake in Courtenay, B.C. caused major damage to the streets.
Vancouver Public Library 41752C
Champlain (Released 1982) A small shrub that shows its Floribunda heritage in its masses of bloom. The semi-double flowers are deep red and repeat profusely all season. One of the most popular (and least hardy) Explorers.
AGRICULTURE AND AGRI-FOOD CANADA
The 1996 Canadian Silver Dollar coin, designed by artist Roger Hill, to commemorate "Canada's Premiere Apple".
Royal Canadian Mint
German prisoners captured during the D-Day assault are marched along a beach prior to embarking for England circa July 5, 1944.
Lieutenant Ken Bell. Canada. Department of National Defence. LAC, PA-132474.
Cumberland House, from a sketch by John Fleming, 1858.
Canadian tire.
Charles Pachter.
A Syrian refugee family arrives in Toronto in December 2015.
Canadian Press
A quilt made at Changi prison in 1942 by female internees.
London Red Cross.
National Archives of Canada
A wheel odometer, a distance-measuring device, this wooden odometer is wheeled along the ground and counts revolutions to gauge the distance covered.
Geological Survey of Canada
1923 Canada West magazine Cover
The Roma travelled by horse-drawn wagon in 1909.
Frederick Lewis Roy
An Inuit man in Alaska hunts with a bow and arrow, circa 1905.
Penn Museum Archives, Suzanne R. Bernardi Jeffrey
Sir Wilfrid Laurier and his wife Zoe celebrate their fiftieth wedding anniversary in 1918.
Wilfrid Laurier Universtiy Archives
A bunkhouse for interned relief workers at Riding Mountain Park, Manitoba, during the early 1930s. The men slept two in a bunk.
Parks Canada, Western Regional Office, Webster Collection
The Canadian Army Film and Photo Unit shooting a film about the production of the United Kingdom edition of the Maple Leaf newspaper, London, England, 7 June 1945
Capt. Harold D. Robinson / Canada. Dept. of National Defence / Library and Archives Canada / PA-142581
Rattenbury’s design for the B.C. Legislature, a pastiche of Romanesque and Italianate style with a nod to neo-Gothic, was chosen from sixty-seven entries. The public was galvanized by its grandeur when it opened in 1898.
BC. Archives / I-26336
From the stern, the Tilikum today in the Maritime Museum of British Columbia.
dillgaf / Wildguzzi.com
Government rotates Parliament between Toronto and Quebec City every four years, a system known as perambulation. When the building in Quebec accidently burns down, the government moves to the Quebec Music Hall and Courthouse.
Silk train illustration which appeared in the December 2005-January 2006 issue of The Beaver.
Canadian Pacific Railway Archives
Terry Fox, with Prime Minister Pierre Trudeau on July 2, 1980, demonstrates how his prosthetic leg works.
Canadian Press
Artwork Copyright George Feyer Estate
Jessie Jones dressed up in costume for a performance on stage as Richelieu in 'Article 5th.'
Alaska's Digital Archives
A canoe brigade traversing Lake of the Woods is intercepted by local aboriginals demanding toll to permit passage through their territory.
Don McMaster
A Grip magazine cartoon dated May 23,1885, depicts Prime Minister John A. Macdonald’s indecision over the fate of Louis Riel after the Metis leader’s surrender.
Glenbow Archives / NA-3012-4
S. Chatwood Burton painted a German pilot leaping from a burning aircraft. We know that he could not survive the fall, since pilots were not issued with parachutes. Above, the British winner of this dogfight continues on. Burton enlisted August 1918.
S. Chatwood Burton © Beaverbrook / Canadian War Museum
A poster advertising war savings stamps.
The town of Plouha, France, where Allied airmen were hidden until they could be evacuated.
Un Canadien Français face à la gestapo
It was feared that women would become "unladylike" if they voted, perhaps resembling the male voter shown in this early twentieth century satirical cartoon.
Schlesinger Library
La sombra del Popo, 1942 by Gerardo Murillo “Dr. Atl”, Mexico, 1875-1964.
Museo Nacional de Arte / Instituto Nacional de Bellas Artes y Literatura, 2014
Brewing beyond the grave, Alexander Keith.
Illustration by GMB Chomichuk
Lou Wise, at the airfield.
Courtesy of Lou Wise
Low Point lighthouse, Nova Scotia.
Float of the Steel Company of Canada Ltd. in the Labour Day Parade.
William James Topley/Library and Archives Canada/MIKAN no. 3386779
The new Bluenose II with a
fresh coat of paint.
Nova Scotia Archives
Saint-Pierre is known for its colourfully painted houses.
Gord McKenna/Flickr
"Never give to Canada the right of taxing us."
An unidentified test subject is fitted with electrodes for one of John Zubek’s experiments.
David Portigal and Co., Courtesy of University of Manitoba Archives
Helen Armstrong with daughters in Winnipeg.
Courtesy Bob Waters
Design for a circular school by Quebec architect Janet Leys Shaw Mactavish, printed in Canadian Builder, October 1956.
Annmarie Adams
Huron, Montagnais, and Algonquin warriors perform a war dance in 1609 outside Champlain’s Quebec habitation, under the looming shadow of Cap Diamant, in this 1978
illustration, "Champlain," by
Jean-Léon Huens.
Jean-Léon Huens, Champlain, first published in "Great Adventures that Changed our World: the World's Great Explorers, their Triumphs and Tragedies. Reader's Digest Association 1978. © SOFAM (BRUSSELS) / SODART (MONTREAL) 2007.
Lieutenant Molly Lamb painting, June 1945.
National Archives of Canada/PA-113711
The Beauport Asylum still exists, but now looks more like one of the prisons from which James Douglas liberated his first patients.
Louisa Blair
The De Brou family tree from Dave's side.
The chateau style was the signature of CPR hotels at the turn of the century, which Rattenbury accommodated in his design for Victoria’s Empress Hotel. By 1906, frustrated at demands for last-minute changes to his plans, he resigned from the project.
BC. Archives / B-04740
A German POW with a dugout canoe built by the prisoners at Whitewater Camp in Riding Mountain National Park, Manitoba, during the Second World War.
Josef Gabski
The title frame for one of the film unit's productions.
Library and Archives Canada
Early twentieth-century quiver and snakeskin-covered bow used by the Blackfoot of the Alberta Plains.
Andrew Workman/HBC Collection/Manitoba Museum
1925 Canada West magazine Cover
Logan's 1863 map of the geology of Canada.
Geological Survey of Canada
A Rinso ad from the February 1934 edition of Chatelaine.
Early Rose potatoes, a variety shipped through the Bay, perhaps a century ago.
John Macfie
Rifleman R.A. Marshall of the Queen’s Own Rifles of Canada points out a hole in his helmet made by a German sniper’s bullet. Near Bretteville-Orgueilleuse, France, June 20, 1944.
Lieutenant Frank L. Dubervill. Canada. Department of National Defence. LAC, PA-190906.
Apple harvest at Abbotsford, Quebec, 1930s.
National Archives of Canada
Charles Albanel (Released 1982) A low growing, very hardy rugosa hybrid with deep-pink, double, fragrant flowers that repeat very well. An excellent short shrub.
AGRICULTURE AND AGRI-FOOD CANADA
Proposed and actual routes of the Canadian Pacific Railway.
Dawn Huck
A man surveys the damage to Courtenay Elementary School in B.C. after an earthquake shook the area in 1946.
Vancouver Public Library 41750
The first female mounties stand for inspection during graduation cereonies at the Regina Depot on March 3, 1975.
Ric Hall
RCAF plane at Snag airport; a link to "outside".
The Patricia Hotel/403 Hastings.
Venturi + Karpa
A Study in Scarlet, the first Sherlock Holmes mystery by Author Conan Doyle, was published in 1887.
Official word has always been that the governor general, Lord Dufferin, wanted the police to wear the imperial red of the Empire; this way the NWMP would be easily distinguishable from the U.S. Cavalry, who wore a more traditional police blue.
Sir Lomer Gouin, attorney general and premier of Quebec, creates the first forensic lab in North America. It opens in Montreal in 1914.
Molly Lamb Bobak
Courtesy Philip Jensen
Submiting to immobilization in Zubek’s lab. Few could endure more than twelve hours of complete immobility.
David Portigal and Co., Courtesy of University of Manitoba Archives
With economic stability restored, voters in 1948 chose between commission government, self-government, or union with Canada. Union won by fifty-two percent on a second referendum and Joseph Smallwood became the first premier in 1949.
Refugees prepare to board a bus that will take them to their sponsor community.
Murray Mosher
Gabarus lighthouse, Nova Scotia.
Lady in red spooks guests at the Fairmont Hotel Vancouver.
Illustration by GMB Chomichuk
Black Mesa Landscape, New Mexico/Out Back of Marie’s II, 1930 by Georgia O’Keefe,
United States, 1887—1986.
Malcom Varon, 2001. Georgia O’Keeffe Museum, Santa Fe/Art Resources, NY
Raymond LaBrosse in New York in 1964.
Un Canadien Français face à la gestapo
Statue of Tom Longboat.
Geoffrey Gilmour-Taylor (Flickr.com/giltay)
Examples of Diefendollars that made their way across the country.
Soldier-artist Daniel Sherrin painted this work while hospitalized in London, England. He had fought at the Battle of Flers-Courcelette, France, in September 1916, when tanks were used for the first time.
Daniel Sherrin © Beaverbrook / Canadian War Museum
A young "Lindy" Lindbergh John Louttit
Turbulent rapids make canoeing hazardous for fur traders who must follow a narrow section of the Winnipeg River.
Don McMaster
Kate Rockwell (perhaps Klondike Kate). ca. 1899.
Alaska's Digital Archives
Artwork Copyright George Feyer Estate
Higilaq, along with her husband Ikpukkuaq, shared Inuit traditions and ways of life with researcher Diamond Jenness during the 1913–1918 Canadian Arctic Expedition.
Robert Carter
Terry Fox watches a national telethon in his honour from his hospital bed on September 9, 1980.
Andy Clark/Canadian Press
Over the Rockies in an Observation Car, an 1891 woodcut by Charles Graham.
Charles Graham
1920 - Dr. Wilfrid Derorme publishes his textbook Précis de médecine légale.
In 1890, Alphonse Bertillon discovers that each individual fingerprint has unique characteristics. Fingerprinting
quickly gains recognition.
Photographic proof, taken at Mayo, 3 February 1947.
G.A. McIntyre, Mayo
Residents of Winnipeg navigate the 1950 floodwaters on a makeshift wooden path.
Peel's Prairie Provinces, a digital initiative of the University of Alberta Libraries
William Baffin (Released 1983) Most vigorous, one of the hardiest. Its upright form allows it to be used as a climber or a dense shrub, but it must be well fed to perform its best. The semi-double, bright-pink blooms are produced prolifically all season.
AGRICULTURE AND AGRI-FOOD CANADA
The McIntosh accounts for over half of the 17 million bushels of apples produced in Canada every year.
The first nursing sisters of the Royal Canadian Army Medical Corps to land in France after D-Day, July 17, 1944.
Lieutenant Frank L. Dubervill. Canada. Department of National Defence. LAC, PA-204952
Cattle at Fort St. James.
Archives of B.C.
1949 Procter & Gamble advertisement for laundry soap.
Rising 1,150 metres above sea level, Mount Logan, Quebec, 200 kilometres west of the town of Gaspé, is one of two mountains dedicated to William Logan.
1927 Canada West magazine Cover
Internees working at a gravel pit in Riding Mountain National Park, Manitoba, in August 1933.
Parks Canada, Western Regional Office, Webster Collection
Private Nadie Manning of the Canadian Army Film and Photo Unit in a film vault at Merton Film Studios, London, England, 19 December 1944.
Capt. Jack H. Smith / Canada. Dept. of National Defence / Library and Archives Canada / PA-152104
Scottish immigrants in Quebec, circa 1911.
Library and Archives Canada
Artwork Copyright George Feyer Estate
Dr. R. M. Anderson was a mammalogist and zoologist who extensively documented arctic flora and fauna during the 1913–1918 Canadian Arctic Expedition.
Robert Carter
Possibly Fabruda Manzar, famed "Little Egypt" of Chicago World's Fair, who later performed in Skagway and Dawson during the gold rush.
Alaska's Digital Archives
On July 31, 1824, Thompson's party sets up a stone marker to designate a northwest corner of Lake of the Woods.
Don McMaster
Future Group of Seven artist A. Y. Jackson painted the ruined French village of Riaumont as the fighting raged around him. Jackson enlisted in June 1915 and was wounded a year later. While recuperating he painted for the Fund.
A. Y. Jackson © Beaverbrook / Canadian War Museum
This is one of three 1936 Canadian pennies with a dot below the date. One of these three coins was auctioned off for $402,500 in 2010.
Heritage Auction Galleries
The deserted beach in Dieppe.
Un Canadien Français face à la gestapo
Classic Landscape, 1931 by Charles Sheeler. Born 1883 in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, United States; died 1965 in Dobbs Ferry, New York, United States.
National Gallery of Art, Landover United States, Collection of Barney A. Ebsworth
Polly want a stiff drink? Parrot haunts a gold-rush era hotel.
Illustration by GMB Chomichuk
Cape Forchu lighthouse, Nova Scotia.
Chris Mills
A stamp issued by Newfoundland in 1894.
Zubek, circa 1959–1960, after spending nearly fifteen days in the isolation dome. He is wearing translucent goggles and has been listening to “white noise” for the duration of his stay.
David Portigal and Co., Courtesy of University of Manitoba Archives
A bunkhouse for interned relief workers at Riding Mountain Park, Manitoba, during the early 1930s. The men slept two to a bunk.
Parks Canada, Western Regional Office, Webster Collection
Sergeant A.H. Calder of the Canadian Army Film and Photo Unit, who carries a camera and tripod, examining one of the miniature two-man submarines discovered in a shipyard at Kiel, Germany, 18 May 1945
Lieut. Charles H. Richter / Canada. Dept. of National Defence / Library and Archives Canada / PA-167754
1927 Canada West magazine Cover
McLeod's Lake, 1906.
Archives of B.C.
Lieutenant Leslie Herbert Browne of the Royal Canadian Engineers plays his David Glen bagpipes aboard a ship en route to France on D-Day, 6 June 1944.
Lieutenant Donald I. Grant. Lieut. Donald I. Grant. Canada. Department of National Defence. LAC, PA-163778.
Ontario apple logo.
Ontario Apple Marketing Commission
Henry Kelsey (Released 1984) A kordesii hybrid with semi-double, dark-red flowers with showy yellow stamens. It blooms prolifically, but the lower leaves may blackspot. This rose has hardiness problems in the coldest areas.
AGRICULTURE AND AGRI-FOOD CANADA
Fingerprints were first used in 1892 to prove guilt when Argentine police officer Juan Vucetich proves guilt of murderer Francisca Roja.
Lotus Hotel, 1918.
CITY OF VANCOUVER ARCHIVES
1931 - Dr. Wilfrid Derorme dies.
The hooding of prisoners is seen by some as an outgrowth of sensory deprivation research. This hooded Iraqi became a symbol for abuses at the Abu Ghraib prison in Iraq in 2004.
Canadian Press
The Caribou Hotel in Yukon is haunted by the ghost of Bessie Gideon and her parrot. She is pictured fourth from left.
Courtesy of Caribou Hotel
Baía de Guanabara Vista da Ilha das Cobras, c.1830 by Félix Emile Taunay. Born 1795 in Montmorency, France; died 1881 in Rio de Janeiro City, Brazil.
Photo Credit: Sérgio Schnaider
The Ker'yan Manor in Penhars, Quimper, where Captain Dumais resided for a time.
Un Canadien Français face à la gestapo
Cyril Barraud became an official war artist in Nov. 1917. The drawings he made are some of the only remaining depictions of buildings destroyed during the war. Here, three Canadian soldiers sit with the distant smoke of Ypres rising in the back.
Cyril Barraud © Beaverbrook / Canadian War Museum
Lucy Lovell, Dawson dance hall (actress). Chair is made of antler and horn.
Alaska's Digital Archives
Patsy Klengenberg, the son of a Danish trader and an Inupiat woman, served as the interpreter on the 1913–1918 Canadian Arctic Expedition.
Robert Carter
Wartime poster for film about Chinese Labour Corps.
Paramount Pictures
After his earlier consultations with Dr. Wilfrid Derome, J. Edgar Hoover opens the FBI forensic lab in 1932.
Alexander Mackenzie (Released l985) A vigorous arching shrub with soft-red, fragrant blooms and healthy foliage, except for a little blackspot on the lower leaves. It is relatively hardy but may suffer some dieback in very cold areas.
AGRICULTURE AND AGRI-FOOD CANADA
Lotus Hotel, modern day.
Venturi + Karpa
The Macintosh Computer.
Apple Canada Inc.
Signalman Owen Dolan (left) and Leading Seaman Chuck Roman, dressed as German soldiers, celebrate the news of D-Day aboard H.M.C.S. Prince David, June 9, 1944.
PO Donovan J. Thorndick. Canada. Department of National Defence. LAC, PA-184993.
Fort Langley, 1894.
Archives of B.C.
Second World War Japanese internees arrive at the Yellowhead-Blue River Road project, a 200 km highway between Jasper, Alberta and Bluer River, British Columbia.
Parks Canada, Western Regional Office, Webster Collection
Sergeant Alan Grayston of the Canadian Army Film and Photo Unit filming a Canadian demonstration of German infantry tactics, Polegate, England, 28 March 1943
Lieut. Jack H. Smith / Canada Dept. of National Defence / Library and Archives Canada / PA-150146
Train and tourist in the Rockies, circa 1954.
Library and Archives Canada
May Stanley, Dawson dance hall girl.
Alaska's Digital Archives
Canadian Gyrth Russell became an official war artist in early 1918. “I hated [the war]... it was [not] just the fear of death... but... of being buried alive in a filthy trench and my body serving to fertilize a French peasant’s crop of root vegetables!”
Gyrth Russell © Beaverbrook / Canadian War Museum
Rebel in a frock coat... could it be William Lyon Mackenzie?
Illustration by GMB Chomichuk
Cañada de Metlac, 1893 by José María Velasco. Mexico, 1840—1912.
Museo Nacional de Arte / Instituto Nacional de Bellas Artes y Literatura, 2014
A group of interned Japanese-Canadian men at a road camp on the Yellowhead Pass, March 1942.
Library and Archives Canada / PA-118000
An apple tree said to be planted in 1826 by Dr John McLoughlin at Fort Vancouver from seeds brought from England by A Emilius Simpson.
John Davis (Released 1986) A vigorous arching plant with healthy foliage that can be used as a climber if well fed. The medium-pink, lightly fragrant flowers repeat all season. The plant can survive temperatures of -35°C with no damage.
AGRICULTURE AND AGRI-FOOD CANADA
During the Guay trial, involving the explosion of a plane in Quebec, forensic analysis of debris is admitted into evidence for the first time.
The New Fountain Hotel in 1969.
CITY OF VANCOUVER ARCHIVES
Sergeant Gordon D. Petty of the Canadian Army Film and Photo Unit taking cine pictures beside a shell-damaged building near Hoogerheide, Netherlands, 15 October 1944.
Lieut. Ken Bell / Canada Dept. of National Defence / Library and Archives Canada / PA-136212
Cataras del Iguazú (Iguazú Falls), 1916 by Pedro Blanes Viale. Uruguay, 1879-1926.
Martin Castillo-Galeria Sur, Montevideo, Uruguay
Mackenzie House in Toronto is said to be haunted by William Lyon Mackenzie.
Courtesy James Careless
First World War internees at Yoho National Park, British Columbia, clearing a new road along Kicking Horse Canyon.
Library and Archives Canada C81374
Frederick Clemesha’s tranquil print is of Château d’Olhain, a Canadian billet in northern France. His wartime experiences, however, were far from tranquil. He was a member of the “Suicide Battalion,” which had a 91.5 percent casualty rate.
Frederick Clemesha © Beaverbrook / Canadian War Museum
Rose Blumkin, Dawson fairy, 1898.
Alaska's Digital Archives
Riding the rails near Frank, Alberta, circa 1930.
Glenbow Museum
Funeral of Sergeant Jimmie Campbell of the Canadian Army Film and Photo Unit, Fleur-sur-Orne, France, 22 July 1944.
Lieut. Ken Bell / Canada. Dept. of National Defence / Library and Archives Canada / PA-130160
Captain Samuel Holland (Released 1992) A vigorous kordesii hybrid with long, arching shoots that can be used as a pillar or climber. The clusters of deep-pink flowers open flat. The plant is extremely healthy, hardy and repeats well.
AGRICULTURE AND AGRI-FOOD CANADA
The New Fountain/21-53 West Cordova.
Venturi + Karpa
Fort Vancouver 1845, from a drawing by Lieutenant H. J. Warre.
School train near Chapleau, Ontario, circa 1950.
Library and Archives Canada
John Humphries’ untitled watercolour depicts an ambulance and a soldier on horseback, making their way down a wet road at sunset. In 1919, a house He billeted became “a shrine to Canadians” after he painted images on the walls.
John Humphries © Beaverbrook / Canadian War Museum
The ghosts of Signal Hill include a mother mourning the loss of her baby.
Illustration by GMB Chomichuk
Fort Nisqually.
Archives of B.C.
Camp Otter, a First World War internment camp at Yoho National Park, British Columbia.
Library and Archives Canada C81373
Frontenac (Released 1992) This compact shrub has semi-double, medium-pink flowers with white at the base of the petals. Frontenac is very floriferous, healthy, hardy and makes an excellent small specimen.
AGRICULTURE AND AGRI-FOOD CANADA
Sergeant Karen M. Hermeston of the Canadian Army Film and Photo Unit during the VJ-Day celebrations in Picadilly Circus, London, England, 10 August 1945. Hermeston photographed the work of the Canadian Women's Army Corps.
Lieut. Ken Bell / Canada. Dept. of National Defence / Library and Archives Canada / PA-152103
Spirits on the move in Calgary's Heritage Park Historical Village.
Illustration by GMB Chomichuk
Douglas Culham shows men and horses transporting ammunition needed for guns during the chaos of the Battle of Passchendaele. At Passchendaele, Culham and his fellow soldiers used horses to bring ammunition to the guns every night.
Douglas Culham © Beaverbrook / Canadian War Museum
Confederation train, Montreal, 1967.
Yvon Bellemare
Louis Jolliet (Released 1992) A large shrub with long, thorny canes. The plant blooms profusely and the double, deep-pink decorative flowers appear in clusters along the stems.
AGRICULTURE AND AGRI-FOOD CANADA
Haying at Lower Fort Garry, 1860.
William Beatty painted the aftermath of a massive explosion. Deeply disturbed by the destructive power of modern warfare, Beatty, a veteran of the 1885 Northwest Resistance, stopped wearing his campaign medal when he returned to Canada.
William Beatty © Beaverbrook / Canadian War Museum
Disaster victims haunt restaurant that used to be the funeral home that handled the fatalities from the Titanic and the Halifax Explosion.
Illustration by GMB Chomichuk
Simon Fraser (Released 1992) A small, sprawling shrub with glossy leaves and salmon-pink flowers. Often a young bush produces single flowers, but as the plant matures the flowers grow several more petals. Seems prone to mildew and blackspot.
AGRICULTURE AND AGRI-FOOD CANADA
Victims of the Titanic are among those who supposedly haunt the Five Fishermen Restaurant in Halifax.
Courtesy Five Fishermen Restaurant
This watercolour by Vivian Cummings is a rare depiction of a poppy field on the Western Front. It may have been inspired by John McCrae’s popular 1915 poem, In Flanders Fields, which made the poppy a well-known symbol of remembrance.
Vivian Cummings © Beaverbrook / Canadian War Museum
Soldier-artist Thurston Topham had only been in France for two weeks when he painted this watercolour. He captures part of the June 1916 bombardment of the village of Fricourt that opened the five-month Battle of the Somme.
Thurston Topham © Beaverbrook / Canadian War Museum
George Vancouver (Released 1994) A semi-double, decorative dark-red bloom that becomes pink with age and repeats well all season.
AGRICULTURE AND AGRI-FOOD CANADA
Captain Geoffrey d’Easum has drawn Hospital Corner, a sheltered spot near Vimy Ridge in France. The Pimple, the northernmost tip of the ridge, is visible in the distance. D’Easum enlisted in May 1916, later receiving the Military Cross.
Geoffrey d’Easum © Beaverbrook / Canadian War Museum
Quadra (Released 1995) A velvety red rose with very double blooms. They have a light fragrance, bloom in clusters and repeat well all season. The plant is disease-free, hardy and can be used as a climber.
AGRICULTURE AND AGRI-FOOD CANADA
Marie-Victorin (Released 1998) The buds and newly opened flowers are pale peach, which is an unusual colour in a hardy rose.
AGRICULTURE AND AGRI-FOOD CANADA
William Booth (Released 1999) The last rose in the Explorer series. The single, red flowers have white eyes and repeat well. The bush is quite vigorous and can be used as a pillar.
AGRICULTURE AND AGRI-FOOD CANADA
Explorer Rose: Lambert Closse (Released 1995)
AGRICULTURE AND AGRI-FOOD CANADA
Explorer Rose: J.P. Connell (Released 1987)
AGRICULTURE AND AGRI-FOOD CANADA
Explorer Rose: Royal Edward (Released 1995)
AGRICULTURE AND AGRI-FOOD CANADA
Explorer Rose: De Montarville (Released 1997)
AGRICULTURE AND AGRI-FOOD CANADA
Explorer Rose: Nicolas (Released 1996)
AGRICULTURE AND AGRI-FOOD CANADA
Loyalty waning among historians when it comes to studying pre-twentieth century?
Are Canadian historians too focused on the twentieth century? Have they abandoned the study of earlier, more traditional subjects such as the Loyalists? And is that impacting our understanding of this crucial period of Canada’s past?
These are tough questions, and they were top-of-mind during a wide-ranging discussion on the “New History of Loyalism in the British Atlantic World” during the Canadian Historical Association’s annual conference in Fredericton, New Brunswick.
Jerry Bannister, a historian at Dalhousie University in Halifax, laments the collective shift of focus away from traditional, older histories of Canada toward more modern events. Not that these twentieth-century stories aren’t important, but rather, that it means fewer historians are doing the research to further flesh out our understanding of Canada and its histories during the eighteenth century.
“There is a relentless shift in myopia, a shrinking in our field of vision and we are becoming increasing captivated by twentieth-century history,” Bannister said following his research presentation. “The problem is: even if that is the way we want to go — let’s re-orient our university curriculum even our school curriculum and study the twentieth century — even if, you can’t do that without an understanding of the nineteenth century. Twentieth-century Canada doesn’t make sense without nineteenth century Canada. And 1867 (the date of Confederation) doesn’t make sense without 1776 (the launch of the American Revolution)."
Bannister’s research paper was titled, "Revolution in the Loyalist Era: The Remaking of British America (1745-1800)." He isn’t sure why the study of loyalism has fallen out of vogue. In the United States, he said, Americans remain fascinated by that period of their history. To them, it’s the story of forging a nation in the crucible of war, of standing up against British oppression and fighting for liberty and justice. You see continued interest today in the likes of the modern “Tea Party” movement, where right-wing Americans are banding together to repudiate what they see is a shift to the left in their country. This is not the case in Canada, where many Canadians would be hard pressed to remember the details of the Loyalist influx into Canada following the American Revolution.
New Brunswick, the site of the CHA annual meeting, is likely the exception to this rule. Saint John, New Brunswick, for instance, is known as the Loyalist City, and in fact, a giant caricature of a staunch, smiling Loyalist, greets visitors to that city.
Among the key questions academics are pondering when it comes to loyalists is, exactly what is a loyalist? The traditional definition has been a group of elite British citizens living in the thirteen colonies who refused to join the American Revolution.
However, this definition excludes the first nations who fought on the British side during the Revolutionary War, as well as the black slaves who fought against the fledging United States forces in an attempt to win their freedom. Bannister says he hopes academics and others re-engage with the study of loyalism, and accept the challenge of making it their focus of research.
“What I would advocate is both a vigorous scholarly and pubic debate about Loyalists and loyalism,” he said. “What I feel passionately about is that it needs to be discussed and debated. I would rather have a debate and have people say the wrong things, than have no debate at all.”
Text by Neil Babaluk
Here’s Margaret Conrad talking about her History Idol, Tommy Douglas.
Beating out Terry Fox, Pierre Trudeau, and Frederick Banting to be named the Greatest Canadian in a CBC poll is quite an accomplishment.
Tommy Douglas — who was at times labelled a “Red” and a “Communist” by his political opponents — won the honour largely for his belief that every Canadian deserved the right to have quality health care, regardless of their economic or social situation.
This conviction likely stemmed from his social gospel roots in Manitoba, and continued during his days as Premier of Saskatchewan and later as leader of the federal NDP.
“The Father of Medicare” saw his Medicare plan enacted in Saskatchewan in 1962 and later by the federal Pearson government in 1966. His social activism inspired many Canadians from coast to coast, including a conservative-minded history student from Nova Scotia.
Margaret Conrad is an honourary research professor at the University of New Brunswick. She became an Officer of the Order of Canada in 2004 and is a director of Canada’s History Society.
Conrad was a member of the Progressive Conservative Students Society at Acadia University in the late 1960s when she witnessed a speech given by Douglas. This experience turned her personal politics on its head. “He captured everyone in the room no matter what their political affiliation was,” she says.
She says she’ll never forget Douglas’s comments on social justice. He said, “Social justice is like taking a bath. You have to do it every day or pretty soon you start to stink.”
To Conrad, Douglas was defined by his altruism and his belief that the role of government is to help create a better society and a better Canada.
“I see him as one of the greats of Canadian history.”

Tommy Douglas is born in Falkirk, Scotland on Oct. 20, 1904. Six years later, he immigrates to Canada with his family, settling in the booming railroad city of Winnipeg.
He enters Brandon College in 1924, to study theology. Among the golden wheat fields of Western Manitoba, he meets Stanley Knowles, who becomes a life-long friend and political ally. His fellow students and professors introduce Douglas to the ideas of the social gospel. These ideas will become the keystone of his life and his politics.
With the Great Depression raging through drought-ravaged Saskatchewan, Douglas witnesses great human suffering first hand. Seeing farmers unable to afford medical care for their families, he joins the Saskatchewan Labour Party in 1932, believing he could do more as a politician than as a priest. The SLP forms the backbone for the creation of the Cooperative Commonwealth Federation.
Three years later, Douglas becomes one of the first CCF Members of Parliament, the beginning of a nine-year run as an MP. The fiery debates of Parliament give him a chance to polish his oratory skills that had served him in the pulpit. The CCF is constantly in conflict with the established Liberal and Conservative parties and Douglas dives into these debates headfirst.
With the leadership of the Saskatchewan provincial CCF vacant, Douglas returns home in 1942 to lead the party. He leads the CCF to a resounding victory in the 1944 provincial election, kicking off five terms as Premier of Saskatchewan. His government is the first social democratic government elected in North America. The opposition derides him as a communist or worse, but Douglas sets out modernize rural Saskatchewan. He brings electricity to family farms and provides a much needed expansion of health care in the province.
Tommy Douglas had long been a believer in universal health care, a belief borne out of his social gospel background and seeing farmers unable to afford health care during the Great Depression. 1959 is the year that Douglas is finally able to make his Medicare plan public. His plan covers every person in Saskatchewan with pre-paid, publicly administered health care. Saskatchewan doctors and Douglas’ political opponents attack the plan viciously. Yet by the time Medicare is adopted in Saskatchewan in 1962, these attacks dissipate. Douglas does not see Medicare implemented under his watch, as he leaves provincial politics in 1961.
By 1960, the national CCF has fallen on hard times. The party’s brain trust decides that the only way it can be saved is to develop a relationship with the Canadian labour movement. Out of the ashes of the CCF, the New Democratic Party rose in 1961 with Tommy Douglas as its national leader. Douglas leads the NDP from its birth until 1971. He continues to serve as an MP until he retires from politics in 1979. In 1966, the Pearson Liberal government enacts a national Medicare scheme whose basis is the success of Douglas’ Saskatchewan Medicare plan.
Tommy Douglas dies of cancer, in Ottawa, on Feb. 24, 1986. He is 81 years old.
On Nov. 29, 2004, Tommy Douglas is named The Greatest Canadian of all time by voters across Canada. Douglas’ social democratic legacy is widely appreciated by people from coast to coast and his legacy can be seen in the social and medical programs that serve Canadians.
A Witness to War
The Memory Project: Stories of the Second World War, is a nationwide bilingual project aimed at recording and preserving the first-hand accounts of those who served Canada in World War II. The Historica-Dominion Institute has recorded the stories of thousands of veterans. Here is Margarita Trull speaking about her experiences in the Royal Canadian Navy in World War II.
Visit TheMemoryProject.com to listen to their entire collection, or sample the following stories here.
Here is J.A. René Brunette speaking about his experiences in the Royal Canadian Navy in World War II. You can also visit The Memory Project for more stories.
Translation of Audio Transcript
I was French-speaking and we knew a little bit of English but not a lot, eh! I always participated in a lot of things, so English... At our house, we read newspapers like Le Devoir and Le Journal that existed during that time. So we knew a bit of English, and my father always worked in French and English so we had a general idea. But in my line of work, I would say that it was often the English-speaking people who gave me a chance.
When I boarded the ship, there were two gentleman from Ottawa, one named Bonham and one named Burke. We were delegated to that ship, and then the coxswain, who was the assistant officer and in charge of the all of the people, he approached me and he said, “If you have any trouble who those English, you tell me Brunette!” But he was English-speaking himself, his last name was Cunningham and he was from Dorval.
They sent us to Sydney, Nova Scotia to board our ship. When we got there, we had to sleep in a big garage that had beds set up on benches. The next morning when we got up and looked outside, there was a big ship called a corvette. We didn't even know what that was! So we boarded the ship; we were three young men from Ottawa who were assigned to that ship.
The corvette was called HMCS Hepatica. It was an English name, since the ship was based on a style of ship from England that served the coasts, so it wasn't very wide. It was 30 feet wide and 200 feet long and there were over 270 people aboard. So it was a bit cramped! There was a device called sonar, which was a device placed on the bottom of the ship. It was something like a barrel under the ship which sent frequencies underwater and received them back four times faster than they were sent out, so that we could detect a whale or a submarine or an old shipwreck or anything like that, or rocks or fish. It was very handy.
It was early on during the war, and all the supply ships and things like that operated on their own. So when the submarines detected them one by one, they had a chance to shoot. So Mr. Churchill [the Prime Minister of Great Britain] decided that no ship should ever go out alone from any give place; they had to go out together in a convoys. If we hadn't have been able to bring over the munitions, the food supplies, things like that, the transport of the troups, then England... Because it was Germans who were in the submarines.
So first off, the submarines: after they invaded France, they were building submarines in Brest off the Atlantic, that was the starting point. So they were banding together in groups. Sometimes there were up to 20 submarines that banded together in a group to try and stop our convoys. Then us, the convoys, we managed to slip out to protect our ships, even though we had lost a lot of supply ships by then, we slipped out to protect them.
Often people say that it was the Air Force that won the battle, but in our opinion, it was us, the marines and the Navy who helped a lot and who helped to save England. Because if we hadn't have been able to bring over the food supplies, the munitions, the shells and and other things like that, then the Air Force wouldn't have been able to move. Oil, gas, things like that; we provided the support. In my opinion, we were the backbone of the entire organization. Some of the frigates were built in Canada and they were given the names of cities as often as possible. They were a bit bigger and faster than the other ships.
The HMCS La Hulloise was a frigate that was a bit bigger and faster and it had 150 passengers aboard. It was more modern and was equipped with everything imaginable; sonar and we even had something new, a grenade called the “hedgehog” [an anti-submarine weapon]. It was installed on the ship's front deck, in front of both canons, and it could launch. It was about 20 inches long and 3 inches in diameter, and it could launch grenades ahead at submarines when they were close.
So we had just left the group, the convoy, and we were escorting ships to various different cities such as Liverpool and Southampton and places like that. So were were three ships together, two others and us, and we received an order to go patrol the Irish sea around the northwest coast of Ireland. So we departed northwards and at around 11 o'clock at night, the sonar picked up something.
No, I am sorry, I mean the radar picked up something. It indicated that there was a submarine ahead of us. We didn't think that it could be possible. We were so close to the coast that we could see the red lights on the buoys, like on the Ottawa river. We were so close to land. The captain said, “How could it be?” And then the sonar repeated its signal that there was a submarine ahead of us.
So then we did something that we were never supposed to do during a time of war, but the captain took a chance — we approached and the captain turned on a huge spotlight so that we could clearly see the submarine. When it saw us, and the light from spotlight, it started to descend — to “crash” you could say — to descend quickly to the bottom of the ocean or the bay, I mean the bay. So we relayed the coordinates to the two other boats that were with us and we started dropping charges/torpedoes on them. After a few minutes, say within 10 minutes of having started our attack, we saw some flotsam come up through the water. I would say that the attack lasted about 40 minutes all in all and then we started patrolling the waters again until the following morning.
The next day, we went back to see if there were any survivors and there were none. There were 40 dead marines. We even picked up a notebook that included a letter which a young marine was undoubtedly writing to his mother... He thought that he would be home for Easter. It was March 8th. I will never forget that date since my mother's birthday is the following day. A lot of us cried and prayed for them, we were all under a lot of pressure. We figured out that there were 44 men aboard and it was very touching, very touching.
Here is Carol Duffus speaking about her experiences in the Royal Canadian Navy in World War II. You can also visit The Memory Project for more stories.
Audio Transcript
My name is Carol Duffus, formerly Hendrie. I was born in Toronto, September 25th, 1918. I did finally get called up in March of 1943. So, I stayed in until September 1945. Then I served as a WREN. We were called WRENS. The British women in the navy were called WRENS too and we took that name on only we called ourselves WRENs with a C, WRCNS, Women’s Royal Canadian Naval Service. And we were associated with the navy. In Britain, it wasn’t so, they were a separate unit.
And then after a while, I, I, a position came free in the training office, a staff officer training was leaving, and so I took over at the staff officer training. And turned into the person who arranged training for the crews of any of the ships that came in, escort ships, when they needed training and tactical work or action stations or signaling or gunnery. I assigned the training in that job to, to anyone who needed it. So that was kind of interesting too. It was a good job.
The tactical table was to teach the tactics to the escort vessels when they were taking a convoy across the Atlantic. And it was six of the WREN officers took over a on a, well the tactical table wasn’t really a table, it was more like a, sort of a gym floor. Only, it had a wall all the way around it, about a little bit above a waist level.
And the WRENS, who were taking over, whenever the escorts went out, there were six taking a convoy across. So we had representatives from six escort vessels there on, on the other side of a wall, they couldn’t see us, but we could look over at them. So each of us was assigned a ship. And each ship in this escort group would send their captain and their navigating officer and the signals man up. And they would sit on the other side of the wall, they couldn’t see what we were doing up on the table. And each of us was assigned a ship so they would give us the instructions that that ship would take, in so many periods of time. It was a tactical game that was, given to the escorts, in this case, a game, a tactical game where they were taking a convoy across. There would be one at the head of the convoy and one at the stern. And then there would be one stationed on each quarter of the convoy. And they were to protect the convoy from submarine attacks.

Tactical Table Operations Photograph, 1944. Duffus at Right.
So it was a game played, it was sort of set and they would give them situations and it was all plotted out on the table by, by the WRENS who were doing the plotting on the table. It was all marked off in sections and we would chalk everything down as they’d tell us. Each of us would have one ship. They would instruct us what that ship was to do and we would plot it on the table, which was really the floor. We were down on our hands and knees for that.
And so they would play the game as situations arose, in this imaginary game that would happen. Perhaps it would be announced that there was a submarine sighted somewhere or someone had seen a, a ship blow up, so they knew a submarine had done that. These were all just cases that might happen, that was the game.
So we were, we were given these little chits every two minutes or so from our ship, each one of us had their ship and we would plot it on this tactical table. And this would go on for perhaps an hour, maybe two, as the situation arose and the uh, training commander would be there giving the instructions.

Tactical Table Operations Photograph, 1944
So at the end of the game, all the people who were doing the plotting, the captains and so on, came up on the table and they would see what they had done. And the training commander, who would review the whole situation, would see what had been done over the whole period of time by us plotting their instructions to us, as they would say, I’m going, you know, a certain degree for so, for so long and we would plot that.
So it was all laid down in chalk and when the game was over, everybody would come up on the table and then the whole thing would be criticized by the training commander. He would say to each of them, now, in this case, perhaps it would have been better if you had done this or that and so on. So it was very, it was a good educational tool and tactics, and they learned a lot that way I think.
And you often hear about women looking, being looked down on because they were women, doing a certain job. But I never, never, never felt that, ever. I was treated with tremendous respect and, and knowledge of what I was doing. And so you know, I, I think that was probably why I advanced to the staff officer training because I was respected and that I knew what I was doing and why I was there. So it was, it was fine. I had no problem at all being a woman.
An awful lot of people don’t know what the women did in the services during the war. And I think they should have a little more publicity because if it weren’t for what they did, a lot of things would not have been done. So I felt that I was able to do something useful. That was good and I think there are an awful lot of other women too who did useful things and they would never probably be recognized for what they did. I’d like to have people know that they did serve, they were very important.
[end of tape]
Here is Tom Rappel speaking about his experiences in the Royal Canadian Navy in World War II. You can also visit The Memory Project for more stories.
Audio Transcript
I joined in 1942, up on Donnacona barracks up on Mountain Street [in Montreal]. I was 17, but I put my age up a year. All my friends, some older and some younger than me, they were joining up, so I figured I’d take my kick at the can too.
And so I’ve had a happy career with the service. I’ve been to sea but I got sick as hell. (laughs) That was just on the St. Lawrence River. But then I was drafted to a ship called the Niagara, HMCS Niagara. It was one of the first four stackers, that means four-funnel destroyers.
I was on her for a time and was drafted off of her and overseas where I joined a crew again. There were four tribal class destroyers. There was the Haida, the Huron, the Iroquois and the Athabaskan.
We were up in Russia [then part of the USSR], this time up there, 15 miles south of Murmansk and it was Christmas Day. And in the Navy, the youngest man on the ship becomes captain for a day. We’re talking about the seaman branch now. But then we come into the engine room branch…my leading stoker was a fellow by the name of Bob Scott. And he said, “We’ll make the young fellow here engineer officer for a day.” So this they did and that’s tradition too, eh, but they just changed it to suit themselves.
But anyway, when I went on the Haida, we called it the Hay-da but since I come to Ottawa, it’s the High-da. But nevertheless, we were out with the Athabaskan the night she was sunk, in that action. My captain was Harry DeWolf. And he was one of the most famous people known in the service. So other than that, that’s as far as I can take you on that one.
I left the Haida and went back to the railway, finished my apprenticeship, then I rejoined the Navy and was in for a term, in which it, it’s all there on my papers on my wall and so forth. And when I come here to the hospital, someone come up to me one day and said, “Congratulations.” I said, “For what?” It was a lady that said this. She said, “They just nominated you as vice president of the Veterans Council.” And that’s the job I’m doing now.
Here is Cyril Roach speaking about his experiences in the Royal Canadian Navy in World War II. You can also visit The Memory Project for more stories.
Audio Transcript
My name is Cyril Roach and I was born on the 21st of October, 1924. I went through training and I became an engineer officer aboard an LST, which was a double decker landing ship. Which was used at the time of our landings in France. On June the 5th, we were destined to leave from Portsmouth, with troops. We landed on the three beaches, which was at that time deemed the British sector.
On D-Day, we arrived in France, having left the Isle of Wight on the night of the 5th of June, about 11:00. We arrived off Le Havre, which was in the sector near Ouistreham. This of course was a point where troops landing with the objective of Caen. On landing, the ship dropped the anchor a half a mile out and we then put full speed ahead onto the beaches so that we were able to land the troops and light equipment, which supported also part of the sixth airborne division as well as other contingents of the army.
At that time, we were being shelled very heavily from the high ridge over Le Havre and the sea was full of ships as far as you could see. And there were thousands of aircraft, overhead — bombers, fighters — and many of the gliders that were towed in to support the landing of the ground troops.
However, at that time, shortly after our arrival, we started to unload and there were three Messerschmidts that then strafed the beaches. Regretfully, we lost many men. I also was injured at the time. However, I survived, I’m happy to say.
I was the engineer officer aboard that ship. I was a senior, second in command and of course, we had stokers in the engine room. All of my crew were actually Canadians from out west. And they did an excellent job. But of course, the most important thing was that at the time, the diesels were 1,500 horsepower diesels that drove the ship, twin crews. And my responsibility was to ensure that we, the equipment, everything was fully operational.
I will be quite honest with you, the moment we were landing, I thought, who’s mother’s son dies today? Not just our own boys, but our enemy as well. I learned unfortunately that Hitler Youth were in exercise in that general area and those boys were only 14, 15, 16, just kids. They never saw their homes again.
However, I can only put it just the way I saw it. And the time was, the action, one… I can’t say I was scared. I was just doing my job. And my boys did their job. And like everything else, when you’re called into action, you have to concentrate on what you’re doing and also to ensure that we survived and looked after the boys when we picked them up. But it wasn’t a day that one would forget. I assure you.
(end of tape)
Text by Amanda Hope
The name Lord Durham is one that few Canadians recognize. This, despite the fact that he is the father of responsible government in Canada, and that he recommended the union of Upper and Lower Canada — an act that was officially passed on 10 February, 1841.
It is for these reasons that Richard Pound has chosen Lord Durham as his History Idol.
Pound is currently a partner in the Montreal office of Stikeman Elliott, and is included in the 2010 edition of The Best Lawyers in Canada. He was the founding Chairman of the World Anti-Doping Agency (1999–2007), and was named to Time magazine’s list of one hundred most influential people in the world for his relentless efforts to rid sport of performance-enhancing drugs.
He is also a member of the International Olympic Committee, was Chairman of the Olympic Games Study Commission, and was a director of the Vancouver Organizing Committee for the 2010 Olympic and Paralympic Winter Games.
Richard Pound
A former Olympic swimmer, Pound attended both McGill University and Concordia University, and was Chancellor of McGill University from 1999-2009. He was admitted to the bar in Quebec in 1968, and in Ontario in 1980.
In addition to the above accomplishments, Pound sits on the Board of Directors of Canada’s History.


John George Lambtom Durham is born in London, England.
Durham is elected to the British House of Commons.
Durham is raised to the British House of Lords.
Helps to draft the Representation of the People Act, otherwise known as the Reform Act, which dramatically affected the way seats were divided in the House of Commons, and increased the number of citizens who were entitled to vote.
After resigning from government, he is named ambassador to Russia and serves in the position for two years.
Durham accepts position of Governor General of Canada, and is given a specific mandate: to investigate and report on the rebellions in Upper and Lower Canada in 1837.
Durham resigned as Governor General only four months after accepting the position, but he carries out his assignment, and submits his now-famous report in early 1839. It is officially titled Report on the Affairs of British North America. The key recommendation is that colonies be governed by "responsible government."
Lord Durham dies in England of tuberculosis in July of this year.
The principles of responsible government are recognized by the British government. One year later, they are put into practice in Nova Scotia, which becomes the first colony to adopt responsible government.
The Canadian Historical Association held its annual awards gala in Montreal recently, where it handed out the François-Xavier Garneau Medal. This is the most prestigious history award in Canada. It is only offered every five years, and goes to the book that displays "exceptional merit" in the preceding five-year period.
This year’s winner was John C. Weaver, for his 2003 book, "The Great Land Rush and the Making of the Modern World, 1650-1900. Weaver, a professor of history at McMaster University in Hamilton, spoke to Canada’s History shortly after winning his award.
Dr. Mary Lynn Stewart, the president of the Canadian Historical Association, recently presided over the CHA’s annual meeting, held this year in Montreal to coincide with the annual Congress of the Humanities and Social Sciences.
Dr. Stewart is a historian at Simon Fraser University in British Columbia. She spoke to Canada’s History following the CHA meeting.
Does The Beaver magazine hold the key to a legal battle in New York State? Randy Boswell reported yesterday on the legal battle to recover a shipwreck at the bottom of Lake Erie. Part of the legal battle centres on an article in the Beaver magazine from 1934. Read the article and the judge for yourself. Is the ship at the bottom of Lake Erie the Caledonia?
In this issue's Roots, Paul Jones notes that genealogists have their work cut out for them if ancestors have adopted new spellings of their names, or have changed them entirely.
However, if your ancestor is a performer, those changes are well-documented.
How many of the following can you match with their stage names?
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Gladys Marie Smith
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Monte Halparin
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Michael A. Fox (yes, "A")
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David Henry Thomsett
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Louis Weingarten
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Eilleen Regina Edwards
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Roberta Joan Anderson
Quiz Answers:
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Gladys Marie Smith › Mary Pickford
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Monte Halparin › Monty Hall
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Michael A. Fox › Michael J. Fox (sorry, trick question)
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David Henry Thomsett › David Clayton-Thomas
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Louis Weingarten › Johnny Wayne
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Eilleen Regina Edwards › Shania Twain
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Roberta Joan Anderson › Joni Mitchell
As a young man, Brown travelled to New York with his father Peter in 1837. But the dry goods store they opened soon bored the politically active pair. Peter, assisted by his eager son, began a string of journalistic endeavors, and after a move north to Toronto, they created the Toronto Globe.
Brown, spearheading the newspaper, wrote politically charged editorials exploring issues including separation of church and state and representation by population in elections. Brown was particularly concerned that the French-Canadians, and the Roman Catholic Church, held a disproportionate amount of political control.
For the outspoken journalist, it was an easy move into the political realm, and the Globe soon became the mouthpiece for the Reform movement (the forerunner of the Liberal Party). In 1851 Brown was elected to the Legislative Assembly of Canada as a Reform Party representative.
Christopher Moore, writer, popular historian, and long-time columnist with Canada's History, admires Brown's fiery passion.
“Brown stands out for me because he was a man of tremendous political views, a great polemicist ... he liked arguing with people about politics.”
According to Moore, Brown's defining moment came in the summer of 1864, when he signed onto a coalition that would work toward uniting all British North American colonies. Despite their differences, Brown successfully negotiated with George-Étienne Cartier, French-Canadian leader and John A. Macdonald ally.
“Accommodation between regions and between interests and between ideologies has always been an essential part of the Canadian confederation and it's a model that George Brown's very intimately related with,” Moore said.
Moore also admires Brown for declining to seek the office of prime minister. Moore says today’s political climate overemphasizes the power of the government leader, and that politicians today could learn a thing or two from Brown’s example.
“The thing I liked about George Brown is how he evoked a political world where people with strong views and political effectiveness could put their ideas forward and sometimes even get them through — it wasn't all about who's prime minister and who's not prime minister,” Moore said. “I do think that we're much too leader-centric in our politics today.”
Here's Chris Moore talking about his History Idol, George Brown.
— Text by Sandy Klowak
In the August/September issue of Canada's History magazine, Danielle Conolly wrote about her grandfather, "Frenchie Sibilleau." She reflected on the risky work of being a lineman who helped electrify Manitoba's rural communities.
Here are the rest of the images depicting the life and times of working on the line.
When it comes to singing lonesome songs of heart and heartache, Canadian crooners are more than a match for their American neighbours.
The following musicians represent only a smattering of the country music talent Canada has produced. For a timeline of Canadian country music, and more video clips, see our article Country in Canada.
Don Messer & his Islanders
Don Messer formed the Islanders in 1939 and this band went strong until the 1960s. One of the defining characteristics of the band was Messer’s violin playing and the extensive backing band, which sometimes consisted of up to seventeen people. He performed with Charlie Chamberlain and Marg Osburne for almost his entire career, as they were the lead singers of the Islanders, and they become the three most identifiable performers of the group. During the 1960s, Messer had his own show on CBC, “Don Messer’s Jubilee,” which consisted of the band playing with a guest performer for each half-hour slot. This introduced new country performers to the viewers of CBC and gave country-wide recognition to such singers like Stompin' Tom Connors and Catherine McKinnon.
Wilf Carter
Carter has been called the father of Canadian country music because he was the first full-fledged country music full star. He was also known as Montana Slim. A talented singer- songwriter, Carter wrote hundreds of songs in the country/folk genre and also introduced yodeling to the public, and included it in many of his songs. During the 1940s, Carter was in a severe car accident and did not perform for nine years. He continued to release music throughout this hiatus, however, and in 1949, he returned to the stage. Carter performed his last tour in 1993, when he was eighty-nine years old. He died three years later.
Tommy Hunter
Tommy Hunter is a Canadian country singer who created his own radio show in 1960s, and turned it into a successful television variety show that ran until 1992. He is known as Canada’s Country Gentleman. “The Tommy Hunter Show” featured guest performers on a regular basis such as Donna and LeRoy Anderson, Al Cherny, as well as well known guests like Anne Murray and American stars like Garth Brooks and the Judds. At the age of thirteen — while still called Eilleen Twain — Shania Twain appeared on Hunter’s show. Hunter himself had a couple of hit singles; “Cup of Disgrace,” “Battle of the Little Big Horn,” and “Wait for Sunday” were popular songs for him. He has performed at the Grand Ole Opry and still travels and performs shows on a regular basis.
Stompin' Tom Connors
Charles Thomas Connors, otherwise known as Stompin’ Tom Connors, was known for stomping his left foot in order to keep rhythm while playing the guitar. One of his most famous songs, “The Hockey Song,” is played in Canadian hockey rinks all over the country. Most of Connor’s songs are written about real life events or people. His national hits such as “Big Joe Mufferaw,” “Luke’s Guitar” and “The Bridge Came Tumbling Down” were all based on events or people that influenced Stompin’ Tom. He was inducted into the Canadian Country Music Hall of Fame in 1993, but refused to accept the honour, and he also received a SOCAN National Achievement Award for songwriting in 1999.
Hank Snow
Snow is acknowledged as a father of Canadian country music, along with Wilf Carter. However, Snow spent a fair amount of his career in the United States developing his career and performing with the likes of Willie Nelson and mentoring Elvis Presley. He even became a regular performer on the Grand Ole’ Opry in Nashville, and this became his adopted hometown. “I’m Movin On” was one of his most famous songs. He charted almost eighty-five songs on Billboard during his career, and around twenty-five reached top five positions, including number one. Later on in his career, Snow returned to Canada and toured with Wilf Carter in 1981, and returned periodically after. He has since been inducted into the Juno Hall of Fame, CCMA Hall of Fame, and the Canadian Songwriters Hall of Fame.
Anne Murray
Anne Murray is one of Canada’s most established and celebrated singers. She has won countless Junos and three Canadian Country Music Awards and also has success internationally with four Grammys and three Country Music Awards. Anne started on “Singalong Jubilee,” a CBC variety show in the 1960s. From there, Anne recorded her first album, “What About Me,” and soon she recorded “This Way is My Way,” which contained her breakout hit “Snowbird.” In 1997, Anne Murray released a very popular album of duets: “Anne Murray Duets: Friends & Legends.”
Shania Twain
Shania Twain, born Eilleen Twain, was born in Timmins, Ontario, and grew up in a low-income family. Because of her money situation, Shania began to sing at clubs and bars at around the age of thirteen to help support her family. Shania performed on “The Tommy Hunter Show” when she was thirteen, and eventually made it to Nashville where she started writing and recording songs. In 1993, she released her first CD, Shania Twain, which did not reach much commercial success. In 1995, she released “The Woman in Me,” which became her breakthrough album. She had four number one hits from this CD and she was well on her way to becoming the star that she would become. “Come On Over” and “UP!” were her next two albums, and these solidified her in both country and pop. In 1999 she was named Entertainer of the Year by the Academy of Country Music and the Country Music Association. Shania is now creating a show for Oprah’s network OWN, which will launch in 2011.
If you haven't already watched the old video clips, be sure to check out History Spotlight: Canadian Country Legends.

First recording of traditional instrumental country music by French-Canadian fiddler J.B. Roy.
Country music first introduced to Canada through U.S. radio airwaves from Fort Worth, Texas.
First Canadian-made country music radio broadcast, playing music by George Wade and the Cornhuskers.
First Canadian country music hit single called My Swiss Moonlight Lullaby by Wilf Carter.
Hank Snow’s hit single I’m Movin’ On was ranked number one on the country music charts for 22 weeks, making it one of the greatest singles released in the first fifty years of recorded country music.
Anne Murray’s first hit single Snowbird is released, launching her career in both Canada and the United States.
Stompin’ Tom Connors releases his album The Hockey Song, featuring the single of the same name that has become a favourite for Canadian hockey fans.
k. d. lang won a Grammy Award (Best Female Country Vocal Performance) for her album Absolute Torch and Twang.
Shania Twain’s album Come on Over is released, becoming the best-selling country album of all time.
Canadian Country Music Awards to be held in Edmonton, Alberta.
Canada's History (Formerly The Beaver) earned two top prizes on October 16 during a gala ceremony in Vancouver. The magazine captured awards for photography that appeared in the October-November 2009 edition of The Beaver magazine.
The award-winning work was titled “Saving Skid Row” — a photo essay on historical hotels in Vancouver's Downtown Eastside.
Photographers Jessica Venturi and Robert Karpa, of Venturi + Karpa, won the category of Best Portrait, and also, Best Photo Essay. Text for the article was written by Vancouver writer Christopher Pollon.
The award-winning article was designed by Art Director Michel Groleau, and edited by Associate Editor Nelle Oosterom.
Canada's History congratulates everyone involved with the article. The magazine was also a finalist in two other categories: Magazine of the Year (Manitoba) and Best Magazine Feature (Manitoba).
The “Saving Skid Row” article begins with "The old buildings of Vancouver's Downtown Eastside have a checkered past. Is there shady heritage worth saving?"
Decide for yourself: we provide the article below as it appeared it print.
Who was the man who became Canada’s seventh prime minister?
Roy MacSkimming, author of the recently published Laurier in Love, shared his thoughts about the man with Assistant Editor Bev Tallon in this podcast (Duration: 15 minutes, 42 seconds).
Wilfrid Laurier was born in 1841 at St. Lin, Quebec of humble beginnings. The son of a farmer, he was sent to the nearby town of new Glasgow at a young age to learn English. After seven years at a Roman Catholic college, Laurier studied law at McGill University. He delivered the valedictory address for his class in 1864 and made his first of many speeches appealing for sympathy and union between the French and English. He embarked on a law career in Montreal, however ill health, which he believed to be tuberculosis but turned out to be chronic bronchitis, caused him to move in 1866. He lived first in L’Avenir, then Victoriaville, Quebec, where in 1867 he opened a law firm — the start of a thirty year practice. As a supporter of the Liberal party or “parti rouge,” Laurier took the job of editor of Le Défricheur, opposing the terms of Confederation and defending Liberal policies until the paper’s demise that year.
In 1868 he married Zoe Lafontaine. In Arthabaska Regional County he was elected alderman, mayor, and in 1881, county warden. The couple built a large house in the municipality’s seat, Victoriaville, in 1878. There they became part of the local society until Laurier’s political career necessitated moving to Ottawa in 1897. The Laurier’s former residence was also the home of Prime Minister Mackenzie and is now being used as a museum.

Photo: Sir Wilfrid and Lady Zoë Laurier going to the Parliamentary luncheon in London, England, 1907. / Library and Archives Canada/Joseph Schull fonds/C-033388
In 1871 Laurier won a seat as a liberal member, as was the Minister of Inland Revenue for one year. He resigned in 1874 and was elected to the House of Commons the same year. Although he was re-elected in Québec-Est, he was less interested in political debate due to his party’s electoral defeats in 1878 and 1882. However, he energetically defended Louis Riel’s cause and the unification of the French and English in Canada. When Liberal leader Edward Blake resigned in 1887, Laurier succeeded him.
In 1896, after eighteen years with a Conservative government the Liberals won, and Laurier became the first francophone prime minister of Canada. After defeating Charles Tupper in 1896 he compromised on the Manitoba Schools Question — the issue of education rights of the Catholic minority in Manitoba — with the Laurier-Greenway agreement, which said religious instruction could be obtained during the last half-hour of the school day in a language other than English. He also tackled the creation of the Yukon Territory in 1898, Canada’s participation in the South African War (1899 – 1902), and the Alaska Boundary Dispute in 1903.
During his second term in 1903, Laurier revealed a decision to construct a second transcontinental railway, with the Grand Trunk Pacific constructing a line from Winnipeg westward and the government building the National Transcontinental section from Moncton and Quebec to Winnipeg.
Laurier saw through the creation of two new provinces in 1905 — Saskatchewan and Alberta — where he once again gave in to the popular belief that the Catholic minority should not have the right to separate schools. In 1910-11 he passed two more unpopular bills: the Naval Service Act, establishing a Canadian navy, and a reciprocity bill, providing free trade and reduced duty on several natural resources to the United States. This sealed his political defeat as prime minister. He continued to lead the Liberal party but division developed due to Laurier’s support of voluntary enlistment rather than conscription in WWI.

Laurier House / Peregrine981.
He died in February 1919, at the age of seventy-eight, after serving for forty-five years in the House of Commons. Fifty thousand people lined the streets of Ottawa for his funeral procession, which was lead by dignitaries and political officials. It was to become one of the first public events in Canada to be preserved on film.
– Text by Beverley Tallon

Wilfrid Laurier was born on November 20.
Laurier graduates with a law degree from McGill University on October 3.
Laurier begins his political career as a member of the Legislative Assembly of Quebec.
Laurier is elected to the House of Commons and appointed Minister of Inland Revenue in 1877.
Laurier is elected Prime Minister of Canada, a position he will hold for fifteen years, the longest undefeated mandate in Canadian history. Also: Laurier and Manitoba Premier Thomas Greenway create compromise legislation on The Manitoba Schools Question –– Catholics in Manitoba are permitted to have a Catholic education in public schools on a school-to-school basis and be taught in French (or other language) if there is a minimum of 10 students who speak that language. Re-establishment of a Catholic school board but no government funding.
Prime Minister Laurier represents Canada at Queen Victoria’s diamond jubilee and receives a knighthood.
Second Boer War –– Laurier opposes sending the Militia to assist a British colonial war, proposing a volunteer component only.
Laurier creates the Railway Bill, which allows for the development of two more transcontinental railways.
1905: Laurier oversees the creation of two new provinces — Saskatchewan and Alberta.
Laurier proposes the Naval Service Act. The bill is passed and Laurier creates the Royal Canadian Navy.
Sir Wilfrid Laurier has a stroke and dies on February 17 at the age of seventy-seven.

William Lyon Mackenzie King / Yousuf Karsh, Library and Archives Canada, Arch ref. no. R613-747, e010752291.
He’s been called boring, a waffler, and a kook. But William Lyon Mackenzie King is also the longest serving Canadian prime minister. And there’s no denying that under his leadership, Canada was transformed from a minor player in the British Empire into a modern middle power, with great influence on the world stage.
He’s also the history idol of historian Jack Granatstein who gives us a list of reasons to support his position in this podcast interview with Canada's History editor-in-chief Mark Reid.
Trent University professor Dr. John Milloy is one of Canada’s foremost experts on the residential school system — and he calls it the way he sees it. Dr. Milloy speaks with Canada’s History Associate Editor Nelle Oosterom in this video interview.
Dr. Tim Cook’s bestselling new book, The Madman and the Butcher, details the war of wills between two of Canada’s military titans. Cook is the First World War Curator at the Canadian War Museum, and a member of the Canada’s History Society board of directors. Cook sees Sir Arthur Currie as one of our greatest military leaders — a man who did what was necessary to help win a meat-grinder war, while always seeking ways to protect his troops from outright slaughter.
Listen and watch as Dr. Cook explains why Currie is his History Idol.
About Sir Arthur Currie
The Americans have their MacArthur and Patton, the British, their “Monty.”
But when it comes to glorifying our military leaders, few Canadians would likely recognize the name their most respected general, Sir Arthur Currie. Born in 1875, near Strathroy, Ontario, Currie was a school teacher and militia member who rose quickly through the ranks during the First World War.
He wasn’t an affable, charismatic leader, but he was efficient, intelligent and an expert at getting the most out of his men. Like all men who aspire to powerful positions, he made enemies — the worst being Sam Hughes, the federal minister of milita in the Borden government. When Currie refused to promote Sam Hughes’ son, Garnet, and reward him with a key leadership position in the Canadian army, Sam Hughes vowed his revenge.
From his perch in the House of Commons, the elder Hughes launched a blistering character assassination of Currie, accusing him of butchering his men in needless battles to pad his political and military resume.
Other online extras
The National Film Board has a microsite called Images of a Forgotten War: Films of the Canadian Expeditionary Force in the Great War. Watch Sir Arthur Currie being decorated by General Orth in 1918.
The Great One
Born in Brantford, Ontario, on January 26, 1961, hockey star Wayne Gretzky celebrates his fiftieth birthday this year.
Gretzky first started skating at the age of two years and ten months, at his paternal grandparent’s farm. His father Walter Gretzky made the family a back yard rink, nicknamed the “Wally Coliseum.” Along with his brothers, Keith, Brent, and Glen, his father taught them how to follow the puck. The sport was a family affair with his mother and sister Kim joining in and all gathering around the television to watch Hockey Night in Canada. It soon became apparent that in spite of his stature Wayne excelled and exceeded others of his age and older.
Gretzky played on his first team at the age of six with a group of ten-year-olds. It was then that he started his trademark of tucking his sweater into the right side of his pants, as the jersey was far too big for him. By age ten he had scored 378 goals and 139 assists in one season with the Brantford Nadrofsky Steelers. By thirteen he had scored well over one thousand goals. All of the attention made young Wayne unpopular with his teammates and their parents. When Gretzky was fourteen, his parents challenged the Canadian Amateur Hockey Association for the right for him to play elsewhere.
His family won and Gretzky moved to Toronto to play Junior B hockey with the Toronto Nationals, earning him Rookie of the Year honours in 1975-76, with 60 points in 28 games. The next year he made 72 points in 32 games with the Seneca Nationals, played three games with the Peterborough Petes and signed with his first agent, Bob Behnke.
In 1977 the sixteen-year-old Gretzky was selected third pick with the Sault Ste. Marie Greyhounds. With the team’s heavy traveling schedule, the young Gretzky was required to live with a local family in the northern Ontario city. It was with the Greyhounds that he first wore the number 99 on his jersey. He had wanted to wear number 9 for his hockey hero Gordie Howe; however, it was already taken by his teammate Brian Gualzazzo. That year he won Rookie of the Year and Most Sportsmanlike awards at the major junior level.
Wayne Gretzky’s career highlights:
World Hockey Association (WHA) – 1978-1979
- Indianapolis Racers (1978-1979)
- Edmonton Oilers (1978-1979)
National Hockey League (NHL) 1979-1999
- Edmonton Oilers (1979-1988)
- Los Angeles Kings (1988-1996)
- St. Louis Blues (1996)
- New York Rangers (1996-1999)
Gretzky’s final game of his professional career was played at Madison Square Garden on April 18, 1999, at the age of thirty-eight. His team, the New York Rangers, lost to the Pittsburgh Penguins 2–1 in overtime.
But winning was not everything to Gretzky, as was apparent in his comment to Canadian sports journalist Scott Morrison: “My last game in New York was my greatest day in hockey … Everything you enjoy about the sport of hockey as a kid, driving to practice with mom and dad, driving to the game with mom and dad, looking at the stands and seeing your mom and dad and your fiends, that all came together in that last game in New York.”
International performance:
- Bronze medal – World Junior Championships, Team Canada (1978)
- Silver medal – Canada Cup, Team Canada (1981)
- Bronze medal – World Championships, Team Canada (1982)
- Gold – Canada Cup, Team Canada (1984)
- Rendez-vous ’87, NHL All-Stars (1987 – medal n/a)
- Gold – Canada Cup, Team Canada (1987)
- Gold – Canada Cup, Team Canada (1991)
- Silver – World Cup, Team Canada (1996)
- Winter Olympics – Team Canada (1998 - no medal)
Gretzky retired from international play holding the records for most goals (20), most assists (28), and most overall points (48) in Best-on-best hockey.
In the 2010 Winter Olympics in Vancouver, Gretzky was named Special Advisor to the Canada men’s national ice hockey team and the final torchbearer of the games.
On November 22, 2003, Gretzky put on his skates to help celebrate the Edmonton Oiler’s 25th anniversary as an NHL team. Known as the Heritage Classic, it was the first NHL game to be play outdoors. The Mega Stars game heralded the occasion, where Gretzky and many of his Oiler teammates played against a group of retired Montreal Canadiens to a crowd of 57,167. Several million viewers also watched the game on television. The Edmonton team beat the Megastars 2–0.
Online extras
Official website for Wayne Gretzky
ESPN
CBC digital archives
Legends of hockey
Read “99 Great Moments” of Wayne Gretzky’s career
by Nelle Oosterom
That’s the question we asked ourselves here at Canada’s History magazine. And what a daunting question it was. There are so many amazing sites — well over 150 — to choose from. And these are just the sites administered by Parks Canada, which is celebrating its one-hundredth anniversary this year. There are almost 800 other National Historic Sites, owned by custodians, including individual Canadians, historical societies, businesses, or other levels of government.
We chose our top ten based on their historical significance and the quality of visitors’ experiences. We also wanted to cover a broad time period and represent as much of the country as possible.
If you were to go on this road trip, the stories of Canada would come alive in ways you never thought of: Imagine sitting by the fire in a Viking sod house in Newfoundland; covering your ears against the booming cannons of Louisbourg; watching actors play out the story of the Acadian expulsion; looking down from the ramparts of Old Quebec; paddling past quaint villages along the Rideau Canal; packing fur at HBC’s Lower Fort Garry; walking past the rifle pits used by the Metis’ during their last stand at Batoche; swinging a lasso at the Bar U Ranch; following Haida Watchmen to their sacred sites; and panning for gold in the Klondike.
Perhaps you already have fond memories of some of these places, or of others not mentioned here. We’d like to hear your stories: submit your stories to us with a photo and possibly win a dream vacation — see contest details (Update: contest is now closed).
In the meantime, here's a look at what your once-in-a-lifetime trip into Canada’s past could look like.
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L'Anse aux Meadows, Newfoundland & Labrador
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Fortifications of Québec, Québec
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Grand Pré, Nova Scotia
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Fortress of Louisbourg, Nova Scotia
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Rideau Canal, Ontario
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Lower Fort Garry, Manitoba
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Batoche, Saskatchewan
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Bar U Ranch, Alberta
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Nan Sdins, British Columbia
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Dawson, Yukon Territory
by Nelle Oosterom
This reconstructed Viking village is on the isolated northern tip of Newfoundland’s Northern Peninsula. Tales of Vikings travelling to North America are contained in ancient Norse stories known as the Vinland Sagas. The sagas say that about a thousand years ago, Leif Eriksson landed on the continent, which he called Vinland, Land of Wine, because wild grapes were found.
Other Vikings followed, according to the sagas, but proof of their presence did not materialize until 1960, when Norwegian explorer Helge Ingstad conducted an extensive search along the coast. Local resident George Decker led him to an area of overgrown mounds and ridges. Ingstad and his wife, archaeologist Anne Stine Ingstad, spent the next eight years leading an international excavation of the site.
They uncovered the ruins of buildings, cooking pits, and an iron forge. They also found smaller artifacts such as a bronze cloak-fastening pin, bone needle, and spindle whorl. The latter two items for sewing and knitting suggested there were women in the settlement. It was likely a seasonal camp for obtaining timber and game to be transported back to Greenland.
The Vikings did not stay at L’Anse aux Meadows long. The sagas tell of clashes between the Norsemen and the indigenous people, who they called Skraelings. Vastly outnumbered, the Norse returned to Greenland after a few years.
The place is now a UNESCO World Heritage Site.
Time period: 1000 AD.
Things to do: Wander the reconstructed Viking encampment, where costumed actors play the parts of ship captain, captain’s wife, servant, and crew members. Listen to sagas in the chief ’s sod house. View demonstrations on how iron was first forged in the New World and learn about the making of textiles, the cooking of food and other daily activities in the settlement. Drink in the harsh but beautiful landscape of this rugged land.
Getting there: L’Anse aux Meadows is about a four- to five-hour drive north of Gros Morne National Park on Newfoundland’s Northern Peninsula. An airport is located at Deer Lake, just south of Gros Morne.
Visit Parks Canada's website
by Nelle Oosterom
Its location on a fogbound, isolated corner of Cape Breton looks a little lonely today. But back in the early eighteenth century, Louisbourg was one of the busiest seaports in North America, thanks largely to the lucrative cod fishery of the Grand Banks.
Because of its deep harbour and strategic position of guarding the entrance to the St. Lawrence, France spent twenty-six years and vast sums of money to build what became the strongest, most impressive fortress on the continent. After the British took possession following a siege in 1758, they dismantled every stone and brick so that the French could never again use it as a fortified base.
The government of Canada began reconstructing one quarter of the original walled town in 1961. It is the largest historical reconstruction in Canada, with fifty buildings over five hectares. It takes a full day to tour it.
Time period: 1720–1740
Things to do: Enjoy French comedie theatre in a period tavern, take culinary workshops that teach period cooking, or eat hearty at one of the site’s three period restaurants. Take in a murder mystery tour, or a ghost tour, with costumed interpreters. View archaeological digs. At the nearby beaches, dip your toes into the Atlantic and imagine wading to shore in full military gear as a British soldier during the amphibious assault of 1758.
Getting there: On Cape Breton Island, a long but scenic six-hour drive from Halifax. About a half-hour drive from the airport in Sydney. The restaurants on site offer authentic period dishes, such as fish soup and French pastry.
Visit Parks Canada's website
by Nelle Oosterom
Grand-Pré was the epicentre for one of the saddest events in Acadian history. On September 5, 1755, Acadian men and boys were summoned to the old church, where British Lieutenant-Colonel John Winslow read out an order to have all the French-speaking settlers expelled from the region. Thus began the Great Upheaval, the forced removal of Acadians from the Maritime provinces to Britain, France, and various British colonies, with thousands dying along the way.
Grand-Pré itself disappeared and might have been forgotten, except that Henry Wadsworth Longfellow published Evangeline, a poem about the expulsion, in 1847. American tourists started pouring in but found only dike lands and old willow trees. Over time, a statue of Evangeline was erected and a commemorative church was built.
Today’s Grand-Pré is both a memorial to the Acadians and a celebration of their way of life before the expulsions. It was designated a National Historic Site in 1961.
Time period: 1682–1755.
Things to do: Visit the Memorial Church and take in the famous paintings of the deportation by Claude Picard. View ongoing work at the archaeological site. Enjoy outdoor interactive theatre portraying life in Grand-Pré before the expulsion. Stroll among the old French willow trees, the orchard, and the duck pond, and gaze over the rolling farmland. Time your visit to take in a host of events during Acadian Days in July.
Getting there: Grand-Pré is the Annapolis Valley, about an hour’s drive from Halifax. From Route 101, take Exit 10 towards Wolfville and follow Route 1 west for one kilometre then north for another kilometre on Grand-Pré Road.
Visit Parks Canada's website
by Nelle Oosterom
The remains of Old Quebec are a palimpsest — layer upon layer of military history dating back four centuries to the time of Champlain. The UNESCO World Heritage Site tells the story of how Old Quebec was strategically situated on high cliffs for optimum defence. It thrived for a century and a half as a French colony before the British takeover in 1759. Under England, Old Quebec continued to function as a bastion, this time against the continuing threat of invasion from the United States.
The spectacular views of the St. Lawrence River and surrounding area make it a natural tourist attraction. Built overtop of Champlain’s original Habitation, the imposing ramparts and wide ditches recall the era of walled cities of the seventeenth to nineteenth centuries. At the heart of the fortifications stands La Citadelle, built in 1820–31.
The fortifications were headed for ruin after the British military pulled out in 1871. But Lord Dufferin, the Governor General of Canada from 1872 to 1878, loved Old Quebec, and established La Citadelle as a second residence. He persuaded local politicians to save the old French walls from destruction.
One of Canada’s most visited historic sites, Old Quebec gets about 500,000 visitors a year.
Time Period: Early 1600s to late 1800s.
Things to do: Take a bilingual guided tour of the ramparts and the heights of Quebec. The walking tour includes a stop at an ongoing archaeological project. At La Citadelle, take in the museum of the Royal 22e Regiment — the famed Van Doos. Time your visit around a five-day annual festival celebrating life in New France. There are also theme days, school programs, and a variety of special events, including concerts and talks.
Getting there: The Fortifications of Quebec are in the heart of Quebec City.
Visit Parks Canada's website
by Nelle Oosterom
The beauty and recreational value of this 202-kilometre-long waterway belies its origins as an early nineteenth-century defence strategy. After the War of 1812, there was continuing tension between British North America and the United States. The vital shipping link between Montreal and the Great Lakes — much of which formed the border between the two countries — was vulnerable to being shut down in a future conflict.
For this reason, an alternative route was built from Ottawa to Kingston, linking lakes and rivers with a system of canals and forty-seven locks. It was a considerable engineering feat that took five years (1827–1832) to accomplish and required the labour of thousands of workers, many of them recent Irish immigrants. Malaria contracted from swamps along the way is estimated to have killed five hundred of them.
When it was finished, the 800,000-pound-sterling price tag — sixty per cent over budget — put the British Parliament into shock. It’s heyday as a commercial waterway was short-lived, but it eventually became a recreational haven. It was named a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 2007.
Time period: 1827 to the present.
Things to do: Travel the canal by boat to view the scenic countryside, historic towns, and quaint villages of Eastern Ontario. Take in the summer heritage theatre series by Parks Canada Players that brings history to life with performances in towns or cities along the canal. Skate on a section of the canal in downtown Ottawa in winter.
Getting there: The canal begins in Ottawa and ends in Kingston and can be accessed at many places along the way.
Visit Parks Canada's website
by Nelle Oosterom
This peaceful-looking village on the banks of the South Saskatchewan River was the final battlefield of the Northwest Rebellion of 1885. The seeds of the rebellion originated years earlier when the Métis — descendants of fur traders and indigenous people — found their existence threatened by settlers pouring in from Eastern Canada. After Louis Riel’s failed Red River Rebellion in 1869, many Métis moved west to Saskatchewan for a fresh start.
When the Métis failed to receive the protection they were seeking from Ottawa, they again turned to Riel, who came out of exile and established Batoche as the seat of the provisional government of Saskatchewan. Dominion troops poured in quickly on the newly built railway. The small Métis force had a few victories but was finally surrounded at Batoche by soldiers who outnumbered them by more than two to one.
Armed only with rifles against a force equipped with a rapid-fire Gatling gun and four nine-pounder cannons, the Métis resisted fiercely for four days before being overwhelmed. Riel and co-leader Gabriel Dumont escaped, but Riel later turned himself in and was eventually hanged for treason.
What occurred here reverberates to this day. Riel remains a controversial figure and Métis rights continue to be an issue.
Time period: 1860–1900.
Things to do: Take in the award-winning audio-visual presentation at the visitor centre, then wander the site for a self-guided tour. View the restored buildings, such as the church, with its bullet holes above the doorway, tangible evidence of the battle. Walk a hiking trail that passes the cemetery and rifle pits used by the Métis defenders. Time your visit for special events, such as the annual "Back to Batoche Days," a large Métis festival that takes place on the third weekend in July.
Getting there: Batoche is about an hour's drive northeast of Saskatoon.
Visit Parks Canada's website
by Nelle Oosterom
The coming of the railway, the disappearance of the bison, and the post-Confederation push to settle the West helped bring gigantic ranches like the Bar U into existence. Established in 1881, it became legendary in part for the colourful characters who passed through its corrals.
For instance, famed cowboy John Ware, a freed black slave from Southern Carolina, performed many marvels at the Bar U, including saving a herd of cattle from a deadly winter storm. And the visiting Prince of Wales — who later, as Edward VIII, abdicated the throne — loved the Bar U so much that he bought the ranch next door. Harry Longabaugh, otherwise known as the Sundance Kid, worked here as a dollar-a-day horse breaker until drawn to more lucrative work as a train robber.
In its time, the Bar U included 650 square kilometres (65,000 hectares) of unfenced grassland and 30,000 head of cattle. The offspring of its one thousand Percheron workhorses pulled carts and trolleys in cities across North America.
The Bar U expanded to include meatpacking plants and flour mills. It was eventually split up and sold, with Parks Canada purchasing 148 hectares in 1991.
Time period: 1881–1950.
Things to do: Take a guided tour on foot or by horse-drawn wagon. View the ranch’s thirty heritage buildings. Watch demonstrations of roping and cattle handling or learn how to throw a lasso and rein in a team of Percherons. Hike the trails in the foothills and attend various special events throughout the summer.
Getting there: Bar U Ranch is about ninety minutes drive south of Calgary, near Longview on Highway 22.
Visit Parks Canada's website
by Phil Koch
After photographing art deco buildings for over three decades, Tim Morawetz recently published Art Deco Architecture in Toronto: A guide to the city’s buildings from the Roaring Twenties and the Depression.
Art deco was in vogue for only a couple of decades just before the middle of the twentieth century, but it left an impressive legacy, including many outstanding examples in Toronto. While the art deco period was brief, Morawetz says it was “a very important period in architectural history as a transition between the last of the ornamented styles … and the modern movement beginning around 1940 or 1950.”
The book includes maps, a glossary, and brief biographies of the architects behind the buildings, as well as hundreds of photos and descriptions of several dozen buildings. It was recognized with a 2010 Heritage Toronto Award of Merit.
To obtain a copy, ask at your local bookseller or order online at ArtDecoToronto.ca/order.php.
All photos below by Tim Morawetz.
by Nelle Oosterom
It’s the job of the Historic Sites and Monuments Board of Canada, in close collaboration with Parks Canada, to identify what is historically significant enough for federal commemoration. Every year the board considers about fifty candidates (ninety-five per cent of which are submitted by the public) and provides advice and recommendations to the minister of the environment. National significance is a deciding factor. Uniqueness, rarity, or being first are not, in themselves, enough to make it onto the list.
Many forts and battlefields were recognized shortly after the board was formed in 1919. More recently, the board has been paying closer attention to the history of Aboriginal peoples, women, and ethnocultural communities. Most nominations come from the Canadian public.
Today, there are 956 National Historic Sites, 648 persons of national historic significance, and 417 events of national historic significance. Of the 956 sites, 167 are administered by Parks Canada. The rest are owned or administered by a wide range of individuals, organizations, and other levels of government.
You can find the application for national historic site designations, check the heritage status of buildings, and find frequently asked questions on their website.
Keep in mind, while you may be notified that your application meets the basic criteria within the first four months, it can take up to two years for the Minister to make the final decision.
Canadian author Ken McGoogan has written four books about the search for the Northwest Passage. So it is no surprise that he has chosen an Arctic explorer as his History Idol.
John Rae is not as well known as some of the other famous names of northern exploration — people like Sir John Franklin, for instance. But McGoogan argues that Rae deserves greater recognition than he has received to date because of what he accomplished.
To hear McGoogan's reasons for restoring John Rae's place in Canadian history, listen to his podcast with Canada's History Senior Editor Nelle Oosterom.
About John Rae
John Rae (1813–1893) was a nineteenth century surgeon, fur trader, explorer, and author who solved two great mysteries of Arctic exploration. He discovered both the final link in the Northwest Passage and the fate of the lost expedition of Sir John Franklin.
However, he was not popular with the Victorian establishment during his lifetime. He adopted native methods of travel in the Arctic, which was disapproved of by the Royal Navy. He was critical of naval officers but had great admiration for the Inuit, who accepted him as a friend.
He shocked Victorian England after reporting that the Franklin expedition had resorted to cannibalism. This caused him to be vilified and virtually erased from history.
The “Last Best West” was a program developed through the Immigration Branch of the Canadian Department of the Interior from 1896 until the First World War, which produced brochures, pamphlets, and atlases that were distributed in the United States and Great Britain to encourage farmers to settle in western Canada.
Beverley Tallon, Editorial Assistant at Canada’s History talks to Dr Laura Detre, an instructor of history at Washington & Jefferson University, Washington, Pennsylvania, about the subject.
More online extras
From the Museum of Civilization
Browse through this online exhibit called Advertising for Immigrants to Western Canada, 1870–1930 (be sure to scroll all the way down).
From the National Film Board of Canada: Drylanders (1962)
Director: Don Haldane. This epic drama looks at the opening of the Canadian West and the drought that led to the Depression in the Thirties. It is the saga of a family who left Eastern Canada to stake their future in the Prairies. Principle roles are played by Frances Hyland and James Douglas. For more background information about this film, please visit the NFB.ca blog.
From the National Film Board of Canada: Strangers at the Door (1977)
Director: John Howe. The harrowing story of an immigrant family in the New World. On arrival in Canada, their hopes for a better life were dashed when immigration officials refused to grant entry to their daughter. During a routine medical examination it was found that Kasia had contracted an infectious eye disease. She is separated from her family and sent back to Europe alone.
To see more films, visit NFB.ca.
by Beverley Tallon
“I began drawing in Kensington at the age of 16. I am now 68 and after hundreds of drawings it still stimulates … the market has been like a magnet — an irresistible attraction magnet for the past 50 years …”
Aba Bayefsky — Journal, July 26, 1991.
For decades, St. Lawrence and Kensington markets in Toronto have been centres of buying and selling a wide array of fruits, vegetables, meats, breads, and cheeses. From the 1930s through the 1950s they were also places for people to gather and exchange political views.
The busiest Toronto market day is Saturday. Edra Bayefsky fondly remembers visiting the markets as a young girl, with her father, artist Aba Bayefsky. Her recollections are featured in the June-July 2011 Canada’s History “Your Story.”
Here is a glimpse in to some of the portraits and market scenes done by a talented, and largely ignored, Canadian artist.
by Sandy Klowak
April 2011 marked the 150th anniversary of the start of the American Civil War, a conflict enmeshed with the issue of slavery. Citizens of what soon became Canada were long involved in aiding fugitive slaves escape slave-holding southern states via the Underground Railroad.
In the mid-1800s, a hidden network of men and women, white and black, worked with escaped slaves to help them to freedom in the northern U.S. and Canada. Though scholars warn that tales of the Underground Railroad have been exaggerated in popular history (between 60,000 and 75,000), an estimated 30,000 slaves made it to Canada in this way.
While Canadians often pride themselves on their historical support of the more progressive anti-slavery Union, British support for the North was never a given. And before we Canadians go overboard patting ourselves on the back for coming to the rescue of fugitive slaves, a University of Winnipeg prof reminds us slaves once escaped from British North American colonies into the United States.
“It was not at all clear at the beginning that Great Britain and other European nations would shun the Confederacy,” said U of W history professor Garin Burbank.
In the early days of the North-South conflict, both sides were vying for support from Britain and other European powers. And while abolitionists were hard at work denouncing the evils of slavery, Britain had only relinquished its ties to the practice a few decades earlier. Further, many European nations depended on the cotton produced by southern slave states. Quite the predicament.
Some English Quebecers felt they could relate to wealthy Southern planters and had Confederate sympathies, Burbank said.
“Southerners often spent their summers in Quebec, Montreal and the eastern townships in order to escape the heat in the south,” he said. “There were some English in Montreal who believed that the southern planters were sort of an American equivalent of British aristocrats, so there was at least some mild sympathy for the South in Montreal.”
But when the Emancipation Proclamation, which declared all slaves in any of the rebellious Confederate states were free, came into play, Britain had to choose sides for good.
“Once the Lincoln cabinet issued the Emancipation Proclamation, then it became virtually impossible for any European power to say they were now going to recognize a confederacy that still supported human slavery,” Burbank said.
And when it comes to taking pride in leading slaves to freedom, some scholars say Canada’s not as deserving as popular legend implies. Historians Larry Gara and Robin Winks contend the image of the underground railroad promoted by abolitionists and their descendents has been greatly overplayed. Gara says numbers of slaves helped through the railroad have been exaggerated, and a large amount of fugitives actually escaped of their own accord.
In fact, slaves once escaped south from British North American colonies into the United States, Burbank said. Loyalists from southern colonies brought slaves to New Brunswick and Nova Scotia. He said there were instances where slaves escaped south to Vermont, which had abolished slavery by the 1790s, while British colonies wouldn’t abolish the practice until the 1830s.
When it comes to taking sides, it seems Canada’s role in the American Civil War was more complicated than some would like to believe.
Text by Sandy Klowak; *image courtesy of Uncle Tom's Cabin Historic Site.
Other online extensions:

John Graves Simcoe, the Lieutenant Governor of Upper Canada, passed the Anti-Slavery Act, making it illegal to bring people into Upper Canada to be enslaved.
The United Kingdom passed the Slave Trade Act, which outlawed the slave trade in the British Empire, though not slavery itself.
Slavery in the British colonies was finally ended via the Emancipation Act, though it took several years for many slaves to be fully released from bondage.
The Fugitive Slave Act was passed in the United States as part of the Great Compromise of 1850 between the Union and the Confederate states. The act allowed slave masters to enter free, northern U.S. states and reclaim escaped slaves. This prompted an increased use of the underground railroad to get into Canada.
The Anti-Slavery Society of Canada was established, founded by journalist and future father of Confederation George Brown.
Uncle Tom's Cabin by Harriet Beecher Stowe, a very influential novel to the anti-slavery movement, came out.
The American Civil War began.
U.S. president Abraham Lincoln issued the Emancipation Proclamation, which declared that all slaves in any of the rebellious Confederate states were free as of Jan. 1, 1863.
The Civil War came to an end when the Confederates surrendered in April. With the passing of the Thirteenth Amendment, slavery was finally abolished in United States.
Other online extensions:
by Sarah Reilly
Watch Margaret Trudeau’s interview with Toronto Star senior writer, Susan Delacourt. November 10, 2010 at Toronto Reference Library. This clip is part 1 of 8, and an interview about Margaret’s latest book Changing My Mind. The next seven clips should pop up in succession. To get past the introduction, move cursor to 4 minute, 10 second mark.
Pierre Elliot Trudeau was a forty-eight-year-old bachelor when he became the Prime Minister of Canada in 1968. A charismatic, youthful Liberal, Trudeau quickly captured the attention of Canadians. As women, young and old, fell in love with him and their brothers and husbands came to idolize him, their infatuation with Trudeau became known as Trudeaumania. Pierre Trudeau was a rock star of Canadian politics. In 1971, the hearts of many Canadian women shattered upon the announcement that Trudeau had married twenty-two-year-old ‘flower child’, Margaret Sinclair.
The couple met in 1967 while Trudeau and Sinclair were vacationing separately in Tahiti. Sinclair told her mother she was not interested in Trudeau after their first meeting, yet less than a year later Trudeau’s persistence and charm won out and the two began dating. The couple appeared happy and in love, and on March 4, 1971, Sinclair and Trudeau were secretly married.
During the early stages of their thirteen-year marriage, Trudeau and Sinclair had three children, all boys. The eldest, Justin, was born on December 25, 1971. Two years later, to the day, Justin was followed by Alexander (Sasha). On October 2, 1975, Sinclair gave birth to the couples’ third son, Michel.
Trudeau and Sinclair’s romance materialized at a time when the private lives of politicians and celebrities first became seriously targeted by the media. The combination of Trudeau’s charismatic personality mixed with Sinclair’s beauty and youth made the newlyweds a popular item at the newsstands. After only a few years of marriage however, the fairytale romance began to fall apart. It appeared that Sinclair’s youthful free spirit could not be tamed by the title “First Lady,” and her behaviour did not fit well with the expectations associated with her new title. It was not until decades later that Sinclair was diagnosed with manic depression, triggered by the stresses of life in the spotlight.
During the 1970s, the media was obsessed with Sinclair and Canadians were infatuated with learning about her personal life. The paparazzi followed her every move. Pictures documented Sinclair relentlessly when she frequented Manhattan’s Studio 54 dance club, and were accompanied by rumours of affairs. When Trudeau lost his majority government in the 1979 election, the media was just as interested in Sinclair’s whereabouts as it was with the election results. All of Canada knew the next day that Sinclair had not been at Trudeau’s side because she was off partying with the Rolling Stones.
The couple made efforts to save the marriage but were unable to do so, and in 1984 they were officially divorced. The two remained friendly and both were involved in raising their children. When Pierre Trudeau died in 2000, two years after son Michel was killed in an avalanche, Sinclair attended the funeral with sons Justin and Alexander. Over the last decade, Sinclair gained control over her depression and in 2010 published Changing My Mind, a book that shares her own story of struggle with bi-polar disorder and is dedicated to helping others learn to live with a mental illness.
More Online Extensions
1. Maggie and Pierre are Married in Secret [CBC — Broadcast: March 5, 1971]
The Trudeaumania bubble bursts as Canada’s most eligible bachelor announces he has secretly married Margaret Sinclair, a woman 28 years younger. Only 12 people attended the Vancouver ceremony. The Sinclairs believed they were gathering for a family portrait. Trudeau’s aides thought the couple was skiing. CBC Radio talks about the wedding that started a new chapter for Trudeau — the family man.
2. The Private Life of Prime Minister Pierre Elliot Trudeau (courtesy of Watchmojo.com)
The June-July issue of Canada's History features a story by Leslie Scrivener, the Toronto Star reporter who covered Terry Fox's run during the summer of 1980. She followed his progress and published weekly columns. When Fox stopped his run, he knew someone would want to write his biography and he chose her. Terry Fox: His Story was published in 1981.
The Terry Fox Foundation is organizing its 31st Marathon of Hope this year. The annual September run has become a staple event for amateur athletes and cancer research fundraising. To find/start/join a run team or make a donation, please visit the Terry Fox Foundation. You will also find them on Facebook.
Below are two clips which include interviews with Terry Fox, conducted during his 1980 Marathon of Hope.
by Nelle Oosterom
Thursday, May 19, 2011 marks the 100th anniversary of Parks Canada. In recognition of this impressive milestone Parks Canada has organized exciting events across the country, and is encouraging everyone to participate in the celebrations! Opportunities to learn about the history of the organization will be provided through various fun activities including: historic-period games; learn to camp experiences; costumed interpreters; face painting and dress up games. Additionally, Parks Canada representatives will be available at many of these events to assist you and your friends, or family, in planning your next adventure to a Canadian National Historic Site.
Over the past century, almost 1000 sites have been recognized as National Historic Sites and more than 150 of them are managed by Parks Canada. This has helped to protect and preserve sites of significance to Canada’s history from coast to coast. Click here to see a list of all the exciting National Historic Sites you could visit in celebration of Parks Canada’s 100th birthday, or check out the upcoming Centennial Events.
Also, A Century of Parks Canada: 1911-2011 is a new book edited by Claire Campbell, which looks at the changes Parks Canada has gone through in the last 100 years. Nature’s Past podcast host Sean Kheraj interviewed Campbell, and other contributors, about the book.
More Online Extensions
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Top 10 Historic Sites — you may agree or disagree with our choices, but these are all worth writing home about.
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Save Our Sites — listen to our podcast and flip through slides of two northern historic sites in danger of succombing to erosion.
by Mark Collin Reid
Many Canadians today are aware that their federal government rounded up Japanese Canadians during the Second World War and shipped them off to internment camps the interior of British Columbia.
Considered a threat due to Japan’s involvement in the war, these citizens were ordered removed from coastal areas — a decision that proved both traumatic and life altering for the internees. But what ever happened to the homes and property seized during the internments?
Historian Dr. Jordan Stanger-Ross of the University of Victoria is studying that very question. He is researching an event that occurred between 1943 and 1945 in a section of the Downtown Eastside of Vancouver that forever changed the complexion of the community. Four hundred properties were seized from their rightful Japanese-Canadian owners and sold.
“It’s one of the low points of Canadian history,” Stanger-Ross told a group of historians attending his presentation, titled “Who Bought Vancouver’s Japantown?” at the annual Canadian Historical Association meeting in Fredericton, New Brunswick.
He says the seizures took place during a period of “racist political culture” in British Columbia. In a way, it was a form of slum clearance with the ultimate goal of placing the community back in the hands of “white” British Columbians.
“There are clearly people who envision this as an opportunity to consolidate white holding of B.C., to eradicate Japanese ownership, to realize longstanding racist goals in B.C.,” he says.
“In the case of the east end… a transfer to white ownership would have been a fashion of slum clearance, and that was part of the excitement of city aldermen about the process.”
Ironically, this transfer to white ownership didn’t totally occur. Stanger-Ross says that the advisory board created to oversee the process of selling the seized homes usually sold to the highest bidder, regardless of the buyers’ race, thereby thwarting the goals of the provincial and federal officials who sought to create white homogeneity in the community.
The study is part of a larger project on real estate and the urban history of east Vancouver. Stanger-Ross, whose research and teaching examines the history of immigration, race, and ethnicity in Canada and the United States, hopes his study shines new light on policy and how it is implemented, taking into account the complexity of these types of events.
Aboriginal history needs to be recognized, valued, says Australian scholar.
Historians need to break the “stranglehold” of European-dominated narratives if history is to become more inclusive for Aboriginals, says a leading Australian scholar.
Historian Dr. Ann McGrath of Australian National University is engaged in a wide-ranging project that looks at “place” and its role in shaping indigenous perspectives.
In Australia, like in Canada, traditional historical narratives have focused on dates of contact between aboriginals and European colonizers. This is reflected on the land, where places occupied for millennia are today known by European-centric names imposed on the aboriginal landscape by early explorers and others.
“When you travel through Australia, you’re confronted with the chronology of colonialism,” McGrath told historians assembled in Fredericton for the annual Canadian Historical Association national conference. “We have to escape the stranglehold around the dates of contact. There has been a stranglehold of the Imperial British Narrative — it was the way history textbooks were written, it is the way history has been told. What that did was whitewash a very long Aboriginal presence.”
McGrath, the Director of the Australian Centre for Indigenous History, is part of a team of academic and government stakeholders in Australia that is working with Aborigines to better understand how a sense of place shaped their history and identity as a people.
It’s a project that comes with controversy, because until relatively recently, some non-aboriginal Australians have been reluctant to acknowledge the ancient history and presence of the Aborigines. For Australians of a certain age, their notion of Australian history begins with European contact. It’s a staunchly British version of history: the story of a wild land that was tamed through the civilizing efforts of white colonizers. Part of this phenomenon can be connected to Aboriginal land claims, and concern from non-Aboriginals that acknowledging the millennia-old Aborigine presence is a de facto endorsement of their claims to land title.
The problem with that narrow vision of Australian history is that it willfully ignores the presence of Aboriginal culture and history that is apparent everywhere on the Australian landscape.
McGrath’s team is taking to the field with Aborigine representatives, and videotaping them in their sacred and traditional places, where they recount tales and oral histories. McGrath says it’s important to maintain a multi-media component, especially a video component, because “gestural language” is an important part of traditional Aborigine ways of communicating.
Among the locations they are visiting are Uluru, home of the iconic Ayers Rock in Australia’s outback, as well as Kakadu National Park in Australia’s northern territory. She plans to enhance the videotaped material with modern technological tools such as GPS and Google mapping, and then make it available on Ipods, Ipads and other devices. She hopes travellers to Australia will be able to journey through Aboriginal landscapes, access the multimedia files via their Ipads and other devices, and learn about Aboriginal culture and history while in the field.
The ultimate goal, she said, is to “deconstruct the pre-eminence of Europeans in the landscape.”
The concept of “freedom,” and most importantly, how Canadians viewed, and exercised, that freedom. That’s the issue that lies at the heart of the best academic history book of 2011, as chosen by the Canadian Historical Association. This year’s winner of the Sir John A. Macdonald prize for academic writing is Michel Ducharme of the University of British Columbia. He won the top writing prize at this year’s CHA awards gala for his 2010 book, Le concept de liberté au Canada a l’époque des Révolutions atlantiques (1776-1838) (available through Chapters.Indigo.ca).
Calling the book both “original and provocative,” the CHA praised Ducharme’s text for its thoughtful and nuanced examination of concepts of liberty in the 18th- and 19th- century Lower Canada and the Atlantic regions. Set amid a period of revolution in the United States, as well as in Europe, Ducharme argues that residents of this area of Canada also believed strongly in “freedom,” but a different kind of freedom than, say, their American revolutionary cousins.
“The book is a reaction to a cliché in Canadian studies that the United States is based on freedom and Canada is based on order,” he said in an exclusive interview with Canada’s History magazine. “People in Canada were talking about freedom all the time — they just weren’t discussing the same kind of freedom.” Ducharme explains that Canadian concepts of freedom were based more along lines of “individual rights, not political rights.”
The Sir John A. Macdonald Prize is the top history-writing prize for Canadian academics. It was just one of several prizes awarded at the CHA annual meetings in Fredericton, awards that were sponsored by Canada’s History Society. The winner of the Sir John A. Prize will also take part in a special ceremony at Rideau Hall in Ottawa in the fall of 2011, as part of the newly expanded Canada’s History Awards.
Ducharme said he was both “overwhelmed and very happy” to win the prize, adding, “it was very surprising — I never thought I would be shortlisted, so it was a big surprise.”
Here is the complete list of winners from the CHA awards:
- CHA Best Article, Mark Osborne Humphries
- Prix Eugene Forsey Prize, Julia Maureen Smith
- Public History Prize, Ronald Rudin
- Political History Group Article Prize, Bradley Miller
- Political History Group Book Prize, Ivana Caccia
- Canadian Committee on Women’s History Prize, French language winner, Maude-Emmanuelle Lambert, English language winner, Heidi MacDonald
- Aboriginal History Prize, Keith Thor Carlson
- JCHA best article prize, Béatrice Richard
- Prix Bullen Prize, Raul A. Necochea Lopez
- Clio Atlantic, Dean Bavington
- Clio Quebec, Andreé Lévesque
- Clio Ontario, Michelle A. Hamilton
- Clio Prairies, Brenda Macdougall
- Clio North, Vuntut Gwitchin First Nation and Shirleen Smith
- Clio B.C., Keith Thor Carlson
- Individual Achievement Award, Robert A. J. McDonald
- Ferguson Prize, Nicholas Dew
The meeting saw a changing of the guard at the top of the CHA executive, with Mary Lynn Stewart of Simon Fraser University passing the reins to incoming president, Parks Canada West Coast historian Lyle Dick.
Pulitzer-prize winning historian challenges peers to blaze new path.
Historians need to rethink the way they practice their craft, says an acclaimed American scholar who has written one of the most influential books on Samuel de Champlain in a generation.
Pulitzer-prize winning historian David Hackett Fischer was the keynote speaker at the Canadian Historical Association meetings at Congress 2011 in Fredericton, New Brunswick.
He urged a rapt audience of historians to try a “third way” of history — one that combines the old-school disciplined methods of historians such as Donald Creighton, with the second-wave of history that focused less on “great events and great men” and told stories about the lives and lifestyles average citizens.
“We need a third way forward,” he said. “There’s a power of fusion between the first two ways that can realize a greater strength by combining both of them.”
There are 6,000 Canadian scholars attending Congress 2011, including several hundred historians. For almost a week, they will be attending various sessions, where colleagues and new scholars will present papers on their research.
The Alfred G. Bailey auditorium at St. Thomas University was packed for the keynote address by Fischer, who works at Brandeis University, a private liberal arts research university in Boston.
Fischer’s latest book, Champlain’s Dream, has garnered acclaim on both sides of the Atlantic. “Champlain’s Dream is a book every Canadian should own,” the National Post raved in its review.
In the book, Fischer casts new light on one of Canada’s most famous, yet mysterious explorers, by placing him in the context of his time and his place. Using ethnographic techniques, he builds a three-dimensional portrait of the man who founded Quebec City and explored much of New France.
Fischer said following his address that what impressed him most about Champlain was the explorer’s humanity. Unlike some other explorers, who came to the New World to conquer indigeneous peoples, Champlain hoped to create a new kind of co-existence based on mutual respect.
In essence, he hoped his French settlers and their Native allies and neighbours would someday become one people — “Champlain’s dream.”
“Champlain has lots to teach us,” Fischer argues. “The main idea is humanity: it’s a sympathy for others, a way of treating others, of acting in humane ways. That’s the most important thing.
Critics and academics alike have praised Fischer’s ability to write complex ideas in a highly accessible fashion. His Champlain’s Dream is no dry academic journal piece. It lives and breathes, making the reader feel as if she or he was actually alongside Champlain during his journey to the North America.
Fischer says accessibility is a key concern for him when it comes to history writing. It’s vital not only to the health of the discipline, but to reaching other people,” he said. “The great question is how to write books that people would want to read — but serious ones, good ones.”
Despite her crucial role as a translator for Hudson’s Bay Company Governor James Knight during the eighteenth century, few Canadians have heard of Thanadelthur.
Tanja Hütter joined Canada’s History in 2003, and during her first two years with the Society, she came across Thanadelthur’s story while digitizing the Beaver archive and supervising an online project called Fur Trade Stories.
Listen to Tanja tell us why Thanadelthur is her history idol.
About Thanadelthur:
The young Chipewyan woman was captured by the Cree in 1713 and enslaved for a year before escaping with another Chipewyan woman. Only Thanadelthur survived. She eventually came across the HBC York Factory Post, governed by James Knight. Thanadelthur chose to stay and work with in cooperation with Knight. The companionship worked well for both, as Thanadelthur wanted to be reunited with her family, and Knight needed a translator to help him make peace with the Cree for trading purposes.
Thanadelthur’s story was never self-documented, and the only records of her are from HBC journals, in which she is referred to as “Slave Woman” or occasionally, “Slave Woman Joan.” Her inspirational, yet generally untold story, is one of bravery and determination. Sadly, her life was cut short by illness, but her contribution to creating peace between the Cree and Chipewyan had a long-lasting impact upon both Peoples, and the HBC.
Text by Sarah Reilly

Digital version of the Thanadelthur story from the HBC comic, Tales from the Bay. Also, an article about her available on the HBC website.
More Online Extras
by Emily Cuggy
Cornerstone laid by Albert, Prince of Wales in 1860.
In April 2011, Prince William and Kate Middleton were added to a long list of royal visits to Canada as they embark on their first tour of the country together. In the past, Canada has played host to many royals on both personal and official visits. The newlyweds not only participated in the traditional obligations of past royals, but they also enjoyed new adventures on their journey through Canada. For full details on the couple’s itinerary, click here.
1786
The first member of the royal family to visit Canada is Prince William Henry, the future King William IV. Prince William is serving in the Royal Navy when he sails his ship, the HMS Pegasus, to Halifax after completing a tour of service in the West Indies.
1860
Queen Victoria’s son Albert, Prince of Wales, travels to Ottawa to lay the cornerstone of Canada’s new Parliament buildings.
1878
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King George VI and Queen Elizabeth at Woodbine Race Course, May 1939.
Princess Louise, daughter of Queen Victoria, is the first female member of the royal family to visit the country. Princess Louise will live in Canada for five years while her husband, the Marquis of Lorne, carries out his duties as Governor General.
1901
King George V and Queen Mary, the Duke and Duchess of Cornwall, complete a two-month tour which takes them from coast to coast.
1939
King George VI and Queen Elizabeth travel from coast to coast on a six-week tour. This is the first time that a reigning monarch has visited Canada. As World War II becomes imminent, the tour is scheduled in order to ensure Canada’s support of Britain. The tour draws massive crowds unlike any Canada has seen before; in some cities, over one hundred thousand people show up hoping to catch a glimpse of the royals. The royal walkabout also finds its origins on the tour; after unveiling the National War Memorial in Ottawa, the royals enter the crowd of spectators to greet veterans and excited onlookers.
The Beaver published a pictorial in the September 1939 issue which you can view here; click on the image.
1951
Queen Elizabeth II and Prince Philip visit the country. This is Elizabeth’s first visit to Canada, and the first time she and Prince Philip have toured as a couple. Queen Elizabeth and Prince Philip will visit Canada many times over the next sixty years; the two royals have completed more official tours and spent more time in Canada than any other monarch.
1967
An exciting year for Canada, Queen Elizabeth II returns to the country to attend celebrations for both the Centennial of Confederation and the World Exposition in Montreal. On Canada Day, the Queen delivers a speech on Parliament Hill and cuts the first slice of a nine-meter tall cake to celebrate Canada’s one hundredth birthday. In Montreal, the Queen visits the British and Canadian pavilions at the World Expo. To the dismay of her security detail, Queen Elizabeth insists that she ride a mini-rail which circles the fair. Crowds of people gather underneath as she passes overhead.
1976
The royal family travels to Montreal for the 1976 Summer Olympics. Queen Elizabeth officially opens the Games as Canada’s head of state on July 17th. Princess Anne is competing in the Games as a member of England’s equestrian team.
1983
Prince Charles and Princess Diana embark on their first Canadian tour as a couple. The royals visit the Maritime provinces, Ontario, and Alberta. The couple open the World University Games in Edmonton and attend celebrations for Newfoundland’s four hundredth anniversary of becoming a British colony. While his parents are away, Prince William celebrates his first birthday back in England.
1991
Charles and Diana return to Canada, this time with their young sons William and Harry. The seven day visit takes the family through Ontario as they tour Ottawa, Toronto, Sudbury, Kingston, and Niagara Falls. Much of their time is spent apart, however, with William and Harry spending the trip sightseeing, rather than partaking in Charles and Diana’s more formal obligations.
2010
On her twenty-second official visit to Canada, Queen Elizabeth’s royal tour celebrates Canada’s record of service. Accompanied by Prince Philip, the Queen attends many public events, including Canada Day festivities on Parliament Hill.
2011
Newlyweds Prince William and Kate Middleton, the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge, experience their first Canadian tour as a couple. Their itinerary will include stops in Ottawa, Montreal, Quebec City, Charlottetown, Summerside, Yellowknife, and Calgary. Just as other royals have done before them, the couple will complete staples such as laying a wreath at the National War Memorial, planting a tree at Government House, and celebrating Canada Day on Parliament Hill.
Over a million people have descended upon Calgary for the city’s most famous and beloved event. First held in 1912, the Calgary Stampede is a ten day event filled with competitions, concerts, parades and exhibitions. This article, from a 1933 issue of The Beaver, provides a glimpse into the sights and sounds of an early Stampede. Read about the Wild Cow Milking Contest, Calf Roping, the popular Chuck Wagon Race and the other events that kept crowds shouting, laughing and on their feet.
Below that is a collection of photos highlighting Stampede events over the years. Click on the first image to start the slideshow. All images courtesy of Peel's Prairie Provinces, a digital initiative of the University of Alberta Libraries.
For more archived articles from The Beaver, visit our Trading Post.
William Best, circa 1890s.
Jim Belknap Collection
In "Worth the fight" (page 10 of the August-September 2011 issue) we learned about William Bennett Best, a train engineer who saved five hundred people from a forest fire. His champion, Jim Belknap, advocates for better recognition in Canada of Best's deeds. Assistant editor Beverley Tallon speaks with Jim Belknap in this podcast interview about his quest to see the Canadian hero honoured.
About the Hinckley Minnesota fire
Twenty years ago, Jim Belknap came across two scrapbooks and a trunk full of newspaper clippings, railroad passes, photographs, and personal mementos about William Bennett Best.
A native of Lennoxville, Quebec, Best was working for the Eastern Minnesota Railroad when the Great Hinckley Fire broke out. The September 1, 1894, forest fire burned through more than eight hundred square kilometres — including Hinckley, Minnesota, and five other towns — and killed several hundred people. The exact number who died remains unknown, but if not for the actions of Best it would surely have been higher.
Best was an engineer on a freight train sent to rescue the citizens of Hinckley. When the lead engine began to pull away, Best applied the brakes and held the train so that more people could get on. In the face of the raging forest fire, he nearly got into a fight with another engineer who wanted to leave as quickly as possible.
Engineer William Best at the controls of his of Eastern Minnesota Railway locomotive, circa 1894.
Jim Belknap Collection
Best’s obstinacy is credited with saving an additional five hundred people from certain death, and the daring train rescue made him a hero in the area. The town of Hinckley remembers him in its local museum and even named a street after him. Yet his feat has received little official recognition in Canada.
In 2000, Belknap applied to Canada’s Historic Sites and Monuments Board to have a commemorative plaque erected, but was turned down. In its reply, the board cited its criteria for recognition: “A person may be designated of national historic significance if that person made an outstanding and lasting contribution to Canadian history, but it is not possible to establish such an association in this case.”
“They could do it for Bethune,” Belknap lamented, referring to the Canadian physician who is perhaps best known for his work during the Spanish Civil War and in China. “The only recognition so far for William Best in the community is a ten-by-twelve-inch plaque at the community centre in Lennoxville, Quebec.”
Text by Joanna Dawson & Sarah Reilly
Not just the land of ice and snow, this timeline highlights some of the worst natural disasters in Canadian history.
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October 7, 1825 — Great Miramichi Fire
It was an unseasonably hot day when fire broke out in the forests of northern New Brunswick. Known as the Great Miramichi Fire, the disaster destroyed 16,000 square kilometers of land and property and killed 160 people. As people and animals sought refuge in the waters of the Miramichi River, entire communities were reduced to just a few buildings.
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May 19, 1870 — Saguenay Fire
Drought conditions helped fuel a brushfire into a widespread forest fire in Quebec’s Saguenay region in 1870. The fire quickly spanned 150 kilometers and destroyed everything in its path. One third of the region’s residents lost their homes, property and all of their possessions. Watch a Historica Heritage Minute about the Saguenay Fire.
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September 19, 1889 — Québec Rockslide
A heavy rainfall in Quebec City caused a large overhanging rock to collapse onto the street below. Also known as the Champlain Street Disaster, the homes of almost 30 families were in the path of the rockslide. Although the community worked diligently to recover victims from the rubble, the disaster claimed the lives of forty people.
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April 29, 1903 — Frank Rockslide
The mining community of Frank, Alberta was only two years old when it was struck with a devastating rockslide. On April 29, 1903, millions of tons of limestone tumbled down Turtle Mountain, burying the mine and most of the town that lay at its base. About 70 people were killed, although only 12 bodies were ever recovered from the rubble. As this video shows, the remains of the rockslide can still be seen at the base of Turtle Mountain.
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June 30, 1912 — Regina Cyclone
The cyclone that hit Regina on June 30, 1912 is to date considered one of the deadliest tornados in Canadian history. Its path was narrow but deadly, killing 28 people, injuring hundreds more and destroying thousands of buildings and homes. This podcast from the CBC Digital Archives tells some amazing stories about people who survived, and a few who did not.
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November 18, 1929 — Newfoundland Tsunami
In the evening of November 18, 1929, an underwater earthquake occurred hundreds of kilometers south of Newfoundland’s Burin Peninsula. Ranking 7.2 on the Richter Scale, the earthquake triggered a three-wave, 15-meter high tsunami that hit the Burin Peninsula a few hours later. Twenty-eight people were killed, over 10,000 homes were destroyed and the damage exceeded $1 million dollars. Watch an oral history, as survivor Emma Harnett recounts her experiences of the Newfoundland tsunami.
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June 23, 1946 — Courtenay, B.C. Earthquake
The largest onshore earthquake in Canadian history occurred on June 23, 1946. The epicenter was in the middle of Vancouver Island and the earthquake reached a magnitude of 7.3. The infrastructure of nearby communities experienced much damage — a result of the earthquake, as well as subsequent landslides and tsunamis.
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May 1950 — Winnipeg Flood
The flood of 1950 is still very much a part of Manitoba’s collective memory. Heavy snowfall, combined with many spring rainfalls, caused the Red River to rise over its banks. With 25% of the city underwater, over 100,000 people had to be evacuated from their homes — one of the largest evacuations in Canadian history.
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October 15, 1954 — Toronto Hurricane Hazel
It’s not just coastal cities that are vulnerable to extreme weather. On October 15, 1954, one of the country’s worst hurricanes wreaked havoc on Toronto. Hurricane Hazel delivered 216 millimeters of rain and wind gusts up to 150 km/h. Eighty-one Canadians died and thousands more were left homeless when the storm lifted. Agriculture was soaked, bridges were destroyed, and Hazel's final Canadian price tag topped out at over $1 billion in economic and property damage.
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July 31, 1987 — Edmonton Tornado
On July 31, 1987, what was thought to be a typical summer storm quickly developed into one of the worst tornados in Canadian history. The F4 tornado ripped through Edmonton, causing 27 deaths and thousands of injuries. The accompanying storm only added to the destruction, with severe wind speeds, powerful hailstorms and over 300 millimeters of rain in three days.
by Nelle Oosterom
The fourth part of our six-part series celebrating 100 years of Parks Canada takes a look at marine archaeology.
Parks Canada is a leader in marine archaeology, both nationally and internationally. Its Underwater Archaeology Service has been in existence since 1964.
The following podcast is an introduction to the season by Marc-Andre Bernier, Chief of Parks Canada’s Underwater Archaeology Service. To listen to the whole series, visit Notes from the Northwest Passage on the Parks Canada website.
Over the summer Parks Canada archaeologists are podcasting about their Arctic field work; first in Aulavik National Park as they dive the wreck of HMS Investigator and examine related land sites, followed by the continued search for the Franklin vessels lost in the waters of Nunavut. They’ll post weekly updates about their work, techniques, life in the field, and discoveries they make.
This podcast series is also available on iTunes under “Notes from the Northwest Passage: Parks Canada Archaeologists uncovering history’s mysteries from the early exploration of Canada’s Arctic.”
To read the full article, you can find Canada's History on your local newsstands or buy the August-September 2011 issue here.
This morning, NDP leader Jack Layton passed away in his home, after a lengthy battle with cancer. Layton will be most remembered for leading his party to a remarkable victory last May, winning 103 seats in the 2011 federal election and forming the Official Opposition for the first time in Canadian history.
Layton’s win signaled a new era for the social democratic party, which was formed in 1961 as a successor of the Co-operative Commonwealth Federation (CCF). Founded in the aftermath of the Great Depression, the CCF was an advocate for social and economic reform. The NDP has continued this legacy and Canada’s modern healthcare system can be credited to former party leader Tommy Douglas.
Deborah Morrison, President of Canada’s History Society, expresses her sadness at the news of Layton's passing. “Jack Layton has been a force in Canadian politics throughout most of his career. Admired for his tenacity, humanity and forthrightness, these same qualities and the results they derive were never more evident to us than in his most recent electoral campaign. Sadly, he won't have the opportunity to carry his campaign further, and a strong voice for Canada has been forever silenced.”
Layton demonstrated his unwavering spirit and leadership abilities at a young age, as an activist and community leader in his hometown of Hudson, Québec. He earned respect and gained his reputation as a strong political leader while serving on the Toronto City Council and as the Deputy Mayor of Toronto. In 2003, he entered federal politics, replacing Alexa McDonough as leader of the NDP party. Over his political career, Layton fought against a number of issues, including poverty, violence against women, AIDS and homelessness.
The news of Layton’s death spread quickly and expressions of sadness and grief flooded news reports. Interim NDP leader Nycole Turmel offered her condolences this morning saying, “New Democrats today are mourning the loss of a great Canadian. Jack was a courageous man. It was his leadership that inspired me, and so many others, to run for office. We — Members of Parliament, New Democrats and Canadians — need to pull together now and carry on his fight to make this country a better place. And we remember the Tommy Douglas quote Jack included in every email he sent: ‘Courage my friends, ‘tis never too late to build a better world.’”
Grief crossed party lines as political leaders echoed these sentiments. Here are some of the statements issued by Layton’s colleagues:
“On behalf of all Canadians, I salute Jack’s contribution to public life, a contribution that will be sorely missed. I know one thing: Jack gave his fight against cancer everything he had. Indeed, Jack never backed down from any fight.” -Prime Minister Stephen Harper
“On the Council floor Jack Layton was a skilled debater who was well known for responding to the needs of all residents of Toronto. Jack was a fighter and he will be missed in Canadian politics. On behalf of the Members of Toronto City Council, I extend our deepest condolences to Jack's wife, Olivia, to son Mike Layton who serves on Toronto City Council, to daughter Sarah Layton, and all of his family.” -Toronto Mayor Rob Ford
“On behalf of the Liberal Party of Canada and our Parliamentary Caucus, I express our deep condolences to Olivia and Jack’s family, as well as to his colleagues and friends in the New Democratic Party. He leaves a powerful legacy of a commitment to social justice in his work in Toronto as a city councillor and as a national leader.” -Liberal Leader Bob Rae
Canadians flocked to Twitter to offer their condolences. Most tributes remember and honour Layton’s passion, determination and strength:
@herohill If everyone cared as much about Canada as Jack Layton did, we'd be a much better country. RIP.
@ddbooth Jack Layton. I never agreed with your politics, but I wholeheartedly admired your passion and courage to fight for what you believed.
@MikeCrisolago With Jack Layton's passing let us not mourn what we lost, but thanks to his life and work celebrate all we've gained. RIP Jack Layton.
@Ladypolitik Canada just lost one of its scrappiest, most lionhearted AND triumphant underdogs of ALL time. #RIP, Jack Layton. We love you. #cdnpoli
@jkmksharpe Taking a moment to honour the legacy that Jack Layton leaves behind. His passion and humanity were an example to us all. RIP Jack Layton.
In a letter written just a few days before his death, Layton shared a final message with Canadians. His approach to politics, life and his battle with cancer were one and the same: “My friends, love is better than anger. Hope is better than fear. Optimism is better than despair. So let us be loving, hopeful and optimistic. And we’ll change the world.”
Layton called for MP Nycole Turmel to remain the NDP interim leader until a permanent successor is elected. Canadians will be watching anxiously as the NDP begins this new era and moves forward with Jack Layton’s vision.

The Co-operative Commonwealth Federation (CCF) is founded in Calgary in response to the Great Depression. The CCF unites progressive, socialist and labour forces committed to economic reforms and to alleviating the effects of the depression. A year later, J.S. Woodsworth is named the party’s first leader.
Canadians elect seven MPs from the CCF party, representing 8.9% of the popular vote. Future party leader and Father of Medicare, Tommy Douglas, claims one of these seats.
The New Democratic Party (NDP) is founded in Ottawa as a social democratic party. The NDP unites the CCF with organized labour unions. Tommy Douglas is the party’s first leader — a position he will hold for ten years.
A left-wing faction, Waffle, emerges from within the NDP caucus. The radical group calls for nationalization of Canadian industries, Québec's right to self-determination and an independent Canadian labour movement. They separate from the NDP party in 1972.
David Lewis is leader of the NDP and holds the balance of power in the Liberal minority government under Pierre Trudeau. Lewis is instrumental in passing a variety of legislation, including a new Elections Expenses Act, pension indexing, the creation of Petro-Canada and the Foreign Investment Review Agency.
The NDP secures forty-three seats in the House of Commons — a historic high to date.
In the early 1990s, support for the NDP falls and the party is reduced to a record low of nine seats.
After their defeat in 1993, the party engages in a rejuvenation process. In 1995, they elect a new leader, Alexa McDonough, by way of a two-step process, with a party vote followed by a national convention.
In a nation-wide direct ballot, individual and affiliated union members elect former Toronto city councilor Jack Layton as the new federal NDP leader.
Jack Layton leads the NDP party to a historic victory, obtaining 103 seats in the House of Commons and forming the Official Opposition for the first time in history.
by Joanna Dawson
In a time when workers’ rights are taken for granted and even workers’ benefits have come to be expected, it’s no wonder that the origins of Labour Day are confined to the history books. What evolved into just another summer holiday began as a working class struggle and massive demonstration of solidarity in the streets of Toronto.
Canada was changing rapidly during the second half of the 19th century. Immigration was increasing, cities were getting crowded, and industrialization was drastically altering the country’s economy and workforce.
As machines began to replace or automate many work processes, employees found they no longer had special skills to offer employers. Workers could easily be replaced if they complained or dissented and so were often unable to speak out against low wages, long work weeks and deplorable working conditions.
This is the context and setting for what is generally considered Canada’s first Labour Day event in 1872. At the time, unions were illegal in Canada, which was still operating under an archaic British law already abolished in England.
For over three years the Toronto Printers Union had been lobbying its employers for a shorter work week. Inspired by workers in Hamilton who had begun the movement for a nine-hour work day, the Toronto printers threatened to strike if their demands weren’t met. After repeatedly being ignored by their employers, the workers took bold action and on March 25, 1872, they went on strike.
Toronto’s publishing industry was paralyzed and the printers soon had the support of other workers. On April 14, a group of 2,000 workers marched through the streets in a show of solidarity. They picked up even more supporters along the way and by the time they reached their destination of Queen’s Park, their parade had 10,000 participants – one tenth of the city’s population.
The employers were forced to take notice. Led by George Brown, founder of the Toronto Globe and notable Liberal, the publishers retaliated. Brown brought in workers from nearby towns to replace the printers. He even took legal action to quell the strike and had the strike leaders charged and arrested for criminal conspiracy.
Conservative Prime Minister John A. Macdonald was watching the events unfold and quickly saw the political benefit of siding with the workers. Macdonald spoke out against Brown’s actions at a public demonstration at City Hall, gaining the support of the workers and embarrassing his Liberal rival. Macdonald passed the Trade Union Act, which repealed the outdated British law and decriminalized unions. The strike leaders were released from jail.
The workers still did not obtain their immediate goals of a shorter work week. In fact, many still lost their job. They did, however, discover how to regain the power they lost in the industrialized economy. Their strike proved that workers could gain the attention of their employers, the public, and most importantly, their political leaders if they worked together. The “Nine-Hour Movement,” as it became known, spread to other Canadian cities and a shorter work week became the primary demand of union workers in the years following the Toronto strike.
The parade that was held in support of the strikers carried over into an annual celebration of worker’s rights and was adopted in cities throughout Canada. The parades demonstrated solidarity, with different unions identified by the colorful banners they carried. In 1894, under mounting pressure from the working class, Prime Minister Sir John Thompson declared Labour Day a national holiday.
Over time, Labour Day strayed from its origins and evolved into a popular celebration enjoyed by the masses. It became viewed as the last celebration of summer, a time for picnics, barbecues and shopping.
No matter where you find yourself this Labour Day, take a minute to think about Canada’s labour pioneers. Their actions laid the foundations for future labour movements and helped workers secure the rights and benefits enjoyed today.
For more on the history of labour in Canada, visit this online exhibit from the Canadian Museum of History. Or, browse through the gallery below for a few images highlighting labour events over the years. Click on the first image to start the slideshow.
At first glance, the scenes at Winnipeg's Fairmont Hotel were those of a typical reunion. People with nametags were chatting, meeting rooms were set up with coffee and refreshments, and a makeshift bulletin board held messages from old friends looking to reunite. However, a closer look revealed that this event was much more than just an ordinary reunion.
Last week, the Korean Veterans Association of Canada held their final national meeting — “the Last Hurrah.” About 500 veterans who served either during the war (1950-1953) or during the peacekeeping phase (1953- 1956) made the trek to Winnipeg for the grand event.
The veterans had a busy schedule during their four day visit to Winnipeg. There were film screenings, tours to the Manitoba Legislature and CFB Shilo, a meet-and-greet, and a formal banquet, with many dignitaries including Chief of the Defence Staff General Walt Natynczyk.
Korean War veteran Kim Reynolds, who travelled from British Columbia, was overwhelmed by the event. “It’s brought together a lot of guys, I’ve never seen this many together before,” Reynolds said. “It should mean a lot to all of us that we’ve brought it to this stage.”
26,000 Canadians served in the Korean War, which began in 1950 when the Soviet-backed North Korea invaded South Korea. The newly-created United Nations supported South Korea and sent troops from member nations, including Canada. Despite having a weakened military as a result of the Second World War, Canada played a significant role in the war. The Princess Patricia’s Canadian Light Infantry was instrumental in blocking an offensive attack from the Chinese Communist Forces at the Battle of Kapyong. The unit was even awarded a United States Presidential Unit Citation in recognition of “outstanding heroism” and “exceptionally meritorious conduct.”
Yet the legacy of these soldiers, including the 516 who lost their lives, is unknown to many Canadians.
Nicknamed the "Forgotten War,” the events of the Korean War were overshadowed by the two World Wars. For many years, it was ignored by the media and even overlooked by historians. Fortunately, this is beginning to change and the war has received more attention in recent years. One initiative in particular will help the "Forgotten War" become less forgotten.
Staff from The Memory Project were at the reunion to help document the stories that were circulating the rooms. An initiative of The Historica-Dominion Institute, The Memory Project has already collected thousands of stories and photos of World War II veterans, which have been digitized and made available online. “The Last Hurrah” marked the beginning of a new phase to include the Korean War in The Memory Project.
The Memory Project booked interviews with veterans in advance, but found themselves scrambling to accommodate additional appointments. In three days, they conducted interviews with sixty veterans, and will be following up with more in the coming months. Veterans were also encouraged to bring photos, scrapbooks, medals or other mementos, which the Memory Project was able to digitize on-the-spot.
Jenna Misener, Manager of Programming with the Historica-Dominion Institute, says the archival process is one of her favourite parts of The Memory Project. “I get to look through all of the photographs and documents and actual things that the veterans have brought with them,” Misener says. “It’s like going back in time with them and when they’re looking at their photographs and talking through them you can really get a sense of their experience.”
History was in the air at the Fairmont and it is certain that many memories and stories were being rediscovered. Thanks to the work of The Memory Project and the enthusiastic veterans, this reunion doesn’t have to be the last hurrah — the stories and legacies of the Korean War will be preserved and shared with generations to come.
— Joanna Dawson
by Joanna Dawson
This fall, five provinces and two territories will head to the polls. Residents of Prince Edward Island, the Northwest Territories, Manitoba, Ontario, Newfoundland and Labrador, Yukon and Saskatchewan are already in full election mode. Election signs are on lawns, tv ads are airing and mealtimes are being interrupted by canvassers. With millions of Canadians focused on electing their provincial or territorial government, we thought we would take a look back at some notable elections in their history.
Over the next few weeks, we’ll be writing about election “game changers.” From history-making political leaders to nail-biting elections to landslide victories, we’ll look at some of the most exciting moments in provincial political history.
You can also visit this virtual exhibit from the Canadian Museum of History — “A History of the Vote in Canada.” The exhibit is based on a book of the same name, published by Elections Canada. For all you political junkies out there, the book can also be read online here.
The first province to head to the polls will be Prince Edward Island on October 3. With small constituencies and some of the most engaged voters in the country, governments tend to be elected by narrow margins. Click here to read about one of their most historic elections.
While the Northwest Territories now has many of the powers and responsibilities that provinces have, it wasn’t always that way. This timeline looks at the evolution of the landscape and government of the Northwest Territories.
The premier Manitobans elected on July 11, 1888 quickly hurled the province into the national spotlight and created a controversy that is still studied in our schools today.
In Ontario’s 1919 general election, the province's first non-traditional third party was elected to the Legislature — and without having a designated party leader.
From its early days as a British colony, through its time as an independent dominion, and up until it joined Canadian Confederation in 1949, Newfoundland has had a tumultuous political history. Perhaps no more dramatic and significant were the riots of 1861.
For a long time, the Yukon was governed by federally-appointed commissioners. In 1978, however, candidates were running under political party banners for the first time and vying to become the territory's first elected leader.
As Saskatchewan heads to the polls today, our choice for their most "game-changing" election should come as no surprise. It is, of course, the 1944 election when Tommy Douglas led the Co-operative Commonwealth Federation to its historic win.
PBS's two-hour documentary, The War of 1812, uses stunning re-enactments, evocative animation, and the incisive commentary of key experts to reveal little-known sides of an important war.
From 1812 to 1815, Americans battled against the British, Canadian colonists, and Native warriors; the outcomes shaped the geography and the identity of North America, yet some Americans may only recognize it for the “Star-Spangled Banner.” The broadcast is accompanied by a companion book and website, as well as comprehensive bi-national educational resources. You can watch the complete film online at pbs.org/video
Watch The War of 1812 Full Program on PBS. See more from The War of 1812.
To learn more about the film,
we spoke with producer Larry Hott.
You can listen to the two-part podcast below.
In the first part of the interview, Larry talks about some of the opportunities and challenges of producing a film of this scale — from mediating historical debates to his newfound respect for reenactors.
In part 2 of the podcast, Larry shares his favourite moments of making the film and reflects on what he's learned, and what he hopes his audience will take away from the film.
If the PBS documentary The War of 1812 piques your curiousity, you may want to learn more from the experts involved with the project.
Interviews were conducted with twenty-six leading authorities on the war — American, British, Canadian and First Nations historians — presenting important accounts and research.
All book titles (except The Corps of Colonial Marines: Black freedom fighters of the War of 1812) link to Chapters-Indigo.ca. When you visit Chapters-Indigo via our website links and make any purchase, Canada’s History receives a commission that supports our programs.
The Experts
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Walter Borneman is the author of several books, including 1812: The War That Forged a Nation, The French and Indian War: Deciding the Fate of North America, and Alaska: Saga of a Bold Land.
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René Chartrand is a Canadian historian and former senior curator with National Historic Sites of Canada for nearly three decades; he is now a freelance writer and historical consultant. His book Forts of The War of 1812 will be coming out in February 2012.
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Ronald J. Dale is the War of 1812 Project Manager for Parks Canada. He is the author of The Invasion of Canada and The Fall of New France, and is a noted authority on the Canadian involvement in the war.
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Doug DeCroix is the former director of Research and Special Projects, Old Fort Niagara and current Executive Editor of Western New York Heritage Magazine.
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James Elliot is a Canadian journalist and author of many works on the War of 1812, including Strange Fatality: The Battle of Stoney Creek.
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Donald Fixico, a Shawnee Native American, is the Distinguished Foundation Professor of History at Arizona State University, and author of Treaties with American Indians: An Encyclopedia of Rights, Conflicts and Sovereignty and Rethinking American Indian History.
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Dianne Graves is a Canadian historian and author of In the Midst of Alarms: The Untold Story of Women of the War of 1812 and a member of Ensign Heritage, a historical consulting group.
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Donald E. Graves is the director of Ensign Heritage, a historical consulting group, and he is an internationally recognized expert on the military history of the War of 1812. He wrote the introductory essay in The Incredible War of 1812: A Military History and was author of Where Right and Glory Lead: The Battle of Lundy’s Lane, 1814.
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Major John R. Grodzinski is Professor of History at the Royal Military College of Canada and author of The War of 1812: An Annotated Bibliography.
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Donald R. Hickey is a professor of history at Wayne State College, Wayne, Nebraska. He is the author of Don’t Give Up the Ship!: Myths of the War of 1812 and The War of 1812: A Forgotten Conflict.
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Jim Hill is manager of Heritage Operations at the Niagara Parks Commission in Niagara Falls, Ontario.
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Rick Hill, a Tuscarora-Mohawk Native, is an artist, a professor of history, and an expert on the tribal history of New York State and Ontario.
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Andrew Lambert is Laughton Professor of Naval History at King’s College University of London, and author of War at Sea in the Age of Sail. He is an expert on British trade and naval history.
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A. Jack Langguth is professor emeritus of journalism at the Annenberg School for Communication, University of Southern California at Los Angeles, and the author of Union: 1812.
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Vince Leggett is the founder and president of Blacks of the Chesapeake Foundation. He is an expert on African American participation in privateering and the Colonial Marines.
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Robert Malcolmson was a Canadian naval historian of the War of 1812, and the author of Capital in Flames: The American Attack on York, 1813 (read the Canada's History review). Mr. Malcolmson died in 2009.
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Robert Miller, a Shawnee Native American, is a professor of law at Lewis and Clark College, and the author of Native America: Discovered and Conquered.
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Anthony Pitch is a lecturer, tour guide and the author of The Burning of Washington: The British Invasion of 1814. He is a prominent expert on the British campaign in the Chesapeake.
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Sir Christopher Gerald Prevost is the great-great-great-grandson to George Prévost, Governor-in-Chief of British North America during the War of 1812. He wrote the foreword to The Incredible War of 1812: A Military History.
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Scott S. Sheads is a ranger, historian and historic weapons officer at Fort McHenry, Baltimore, Maryland. He is co-author of The War of 1812 in the Chesapeake.
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John Sugden is the author of Tecumseh, a biography of the Shawnee war chief. He is an expert on Native American history in North America, a lecturer, and holds several degrees.
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Victor Suthren is a Canadian naval expert and author of The War of 1812.
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Wolf Thomas is a professional actor, and a re-enactor and interpreter focusing on the Niagara region in the War of 1812.
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Peter Twist is the director of Military Heritage, a historical military uniform and arms supply company. He has served as consultant on numerous film and theater projects (including Pirates of the Caribbean: Curse of the Black Pearl), and is an expert on the military history of the War of 1812.
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John Weiss is a British historian and the author of The Corps of Colonial Marines: Black Freedom Fighters of the War of 1812.
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Patrick Wilder is a retired historian with the New York State Office of Parks, Recreation and Historic Preservation. He is the author of The Battle of Sackett’s Harbor, 1813.
by Nelle Oosterom
Most of Canada’s 48,000* World War II war brides (*scroll to the bottom of page to read comment about this figure ) came from Britain, with a few thousand coming from the Netherlands, Belgium, France, Italy, and Germany.
Many of the British women met Canadian soldiers who were stationed in England. In some cases, it was a whirlwind romance; in other instances, the women had known their Canadian husbands for a few years before deciding to marry.
The Canadian army officially discouraged such marriages, but nevertheless accepted the inevitable and assisted the newlyweds. The Canadian government set up a Canadian Wives’ Bureau in London to prepare the women for their eventual move to Canada.
Some came to Canada during the war years, crossing the U-Boat-infested waters of the North Atlantic in troop ships, but most arrived after the war, many of them with children in tow. Once in Canada, they boarded war-bride trains on journeys that could take several days.
Their new lives could be difficult. City-born women landed on remote farms on the Prairies; unilingual anglophones found themselves in French-speaking communities; eager new brides were sometimes not welcomed.
The Canadian government paid for their fares to Canada, but if the marriages didn’t work women had to find their own ways back. About five to ten per cent of war brides returned to their homelands.
Those who stayed often connected with other war brides in their communities. Chartered war-bride organizations sprang up across the country in the 1970s.
As Canada’s war brides grow old and pass away, the associations they formed have been closing their doors. Yet there is continuing interest in the war-bride phenomenon. Several books have been published in recent years and a number of provinces and communities declared 2006 the Year of the War Bride. Also, a Canadian War Brides Fonds has been established at the New Brunswick Provincial Archives in Fredericton.
An excellent source of information on war brides can be found at CanadianWarBrides.com.
Online extras:
by Joanna Dawson
Elections in the Northwest Territories are run differently than in other places across Canada. There are no political parties and the candidates run as independents. While the Northwest Territories now has many of the powers and responsibilities that provinces have, it wasn’t always that way. This timeline is a brief look at the evolution of the landscape and government of the Northwest Territories.
Rupert's Land and the North-Western Territory are transferred to the government of Canada. The land, which includes present-day Yukon, mainland Northwest Territories, Nunavut, Saskatchewan, Alberta, and much of Manitoba, Ontario and Quebec, was amalgamated and renamed North-West Territories.
The North-West Territories is governed directly by the federal government, who maintains control over most matters, including public land, natural resources, settlement and immigration, and public works.
The North-West Territories is governed by a federally-appointed Lieutenant Governor and Council until 1888. David Laird becomes the first resident Lieutenant Governor in 1876.
Grievances over federal control in the West culminate in the North-West Rebellion, led by Louis Riel and the Métis.
The Northwest Territories Act was amended to create a Legislative Assembly, consisting of twenty-two elected members and three non-voting legal advisers. The first general election was held in June, 1888.
Yukon is created as a separate territory, as the area experiences a population boom in the wake of the gold rush.
The Provinces of Alberta and Saskatchewan are created to provide more provincial autonomy. However, the now-reduced Northwest Territories is again governed by a federally-appointed Commissioner and council.
The appointed council begins to introduce elected members.
The Northwest Territories obtains its first fully elected Territorial Council of fifteen members.
The territorial government assumes full control of health care.
Nunavut is created as a separate territory under the 1993 Nunavut Land Claims Agreement Act. The modern boundaries of the Northwest Territories are established.
For more on the history of elections in the North-West Territories, visit the CBC Digital Archives.
by Joanna Dawson
When Manitobans cast their vote on July 11, 1888, they could not have imagined that their selection would propel Manitoba into the national spotlight, drastically alter the province’s future, and create a controversy that would become a standard entry in history textbooks for years to come.
The Lead-up
In 1887, longtime premier John Norquay resigned after a dispute with Prime Minister John A. Macdonald. Norquay, responding to an increasing pressure from Manitobans to end the CPR monopoly in the area, had ordered the construction of a rail line to connect Winnipeg with the U.S. border. Macdonald retaliated by withholding a previously promised land transfer, leaving the province with a deficit of $256,000 and causing the Norquay government’s collapse. The Liberal Party, under the leadership of Thomas Greenway, stepped in to govern.
Once in power, Greenway continued Norquay’s work, fighting against Ottawa for more provincial rights and the end of the CPR monopoly. It was more timing than Greenway’s skill that caused Prime Minster Macdonald and the CPR to reach an agreement to end the monopoly. Nevertheless, Greenway became a champion of provincial rights amongst Manitobans. With his popularity secure, Greenway took the opportunity to call an election, winning 33 of 38 seats. Manitobans elected their first Liberal Premier and the man who was going to create controversy and history with the Manitoba Schools Question.
The Manitoba Schools Question
When the province was created under the Manitoba Act of 1870, the population was divided almost equally between French-speaking Catholics and English-speaking Protestants. As such, a dual school system was created, with public funds allotted to both Catholic and Protestant-run schools. However, by the time Greenway was in power, Manitoba was increasingly inhabited by English-speaking Protestants, with many — like Greenway himself — coming from Ontario. As the demographics shifted, cultural and religious tensions increased.
In 1890, Greenway’s government made changes to the education system that were long feared by French Catholics. He abolished the dual system and set up a non-denominational school system. Not only would Catholic schools no longer receive public funding, but parents choosing a Catholic education for their children would still have to pay taxes to the public system. The legislation dictated that schools would be run in English and removed bilingual provisions of the Manitoba Act, making English the only language used in the courts and government. Manitoba’s French population felt their language and culture were being threatened and that their rights guaranteed under the Manitoba Act violated.
The issue quickly moved beyond Manitoba’s borders and engulfed the entire country. It divided French and English Canadians, created tension between Catholics and non-Catholics and called into question the role of the provincial and federal government in education.
A series of court challenges against the new legislation were launched by Manitoba’s French-Catholics. An 1892 ruling by the Privy Council ruled that new legislation was valid, but another ruling in 1895 held that the federal government could disallow the legislation and restore funding to the denominational schools. The federal government, reluctant to take any bold moves in the matter, was forced to get involved.
Eyes on the Federal Stage
In 1896, the Federal Conservative government, led by MacKenzie Bowell — the third leader to replace John A. Macdonald after his death in 1891 — voiced his support of Manitoba’s French-Catholics and legislation to restore their rights. The issue even cut through the Conservative party, and cabinet members forced Bowell to resign. Charles Tupper took up the Conservative leadership and introduced another remedial bill. It was opposed by the Liberals, led by Wilfred Laurier, and Tupper was forced to abandon the bill and call an election — less than two months into his term as Prime Minister.
The Federal election of 1896 was fought largely on the Manitoba Schools Question. With the Conservative Party still divided over the issue, the party was viewed as weak and disorganized and faced much criticism. Laurier’s Liberals, who took a passive position on the issue, won the most seats and defeated the Conservatives.
The Compromise
Laurier’s “middle-of-the-road” position on the issue led to the Laurier-Greenway Compromise within the first year of his term. Under the compromise, Catholic teachers could be employed in schools with forty or more Catholic children and, if requested by enough families, religious instruction could be permitted for half an hour a day. Where there were enough students, French could be used in addition to English.
The Compromise was mostly a concession for French-Catholics. The rights granted were done so on an individual basis, and provided no protection for their language, religion or culture as a whole. The bitter controversy is still remembered as one of the most important fights, and losses, for French-language rights in Canada.
To learn more about the Manitoba Schools Questions, visit Manitobia. It's a great resource that uses digitized materials to tell some of the most important stories in Manitoba's history.
by Joanna Dawson
In Ontario’s 1919 general election, residents elected a non-traditional third party to the Legislature – the first in the province’s history. The new party defeated William Hearst’s Conservative government, who led the province during the First World War – and all without having a designated party leader.
When the United Farmers of Ontario (UFO) was created in 1914, they didn’t anticipate forming the Provincial government just a few years later. In fact, they weren’t even a political party. Created to replace a collection of farm organizations that had collapsed in previous years, the UFO began as more of a lobbyist group to provide support to farmers. However, as the war progressed and economic conditions worsened from labour shortages and inflation, the UFO saw its membership increase. The turning point came in May of 1918 when the Federal government reneged on an agreement to exempt farmers from conscription. Already suffering from a labour shortage caused by the war's increased demand for production, thousands of farmers from Ontario, Quebec and Alberta organized a march to Ottawa in protest. The Federal government ignored their voices. Shortly after, the UFO organized a convention in Toronto where the future political party began to emerge.
When Ontario was faced with a general election in 1919, many people were dissatisfied with both the provincial and federal governments. Neither had been able to alleviate post-war unemployment and war veterans were angered by the lack of support they received after the war. Conditions were ripe for constituents to look to alternative parties.
Members of the UFO, in cooperation with the Independent Labour Party (ILP), began to run local campaigns. Without much direction or organization from UFO’s central office, candidates campaigned in rural areas on primarily agrarian issues. When the election results came in on October 20, 1919, history was made. The vote was divided between traditional Conservative and Liberal voters and the UFO won a plurality with 44 seats to form the Ontario government. The Conservatives were reduced to 25 seats from 77, while the Liberals lost two seats, falling to 28.
The UFO formed a coalition with the ILP, who had captured 11 seats, and elected former Liberal E.C. Drury as their leader and Ontario’s Premier. However, obtaining power proved easier than managing it. As time wore on, contradictions emerged between the UFO and the ILP, post-war problems seemed unsolvable and many, including Premier Drury, found it difficult to abandon their former party loyalties. Drury suffered a crushing defeat to the Conservatives in 1923 and the UFO voted to take the organization out of politics.
Despite the contradictions and problems of the Drury government and the UFO, their time in power was not without rewards and achievements. The UFO helped one of Canada’s greatest female leaders and social activist, Agnes Macphail, get elected to the Federal government. Macphail represented the rural Ontario riding of Grey South East for the United Farmers of Ontario in the federal election of 1921, becoming the first woman elected to Parliament. Thus began a long political career, during which Macphail championed for many causes, including worker's rights, gender equity and prison reform.
Also during his tumultuous term, Premier Drury provided a grant to two unknown researchers. The recipients were none other than Frederick Banting and Charles Best, who would go on to discover insulin.
Ontario’s election of 1919 was certainly a game-changer. It broke with the past and unknowingly provided groundwork for the future. The UFO’s success in the election demonstrated the power of cooperation and collective action, and laid the foundation for the third-party politics that emerged during the Great Depression.
Plans for the War of 1812 commemorations are well underway and it can be hard to keep track of all the different events, projects, and memorials that are popping up.
In Ontario, the Ministry of Culture and Tourism created 7 different regions to help plan and coordinate various bicentennial activities in the province. Each region had a different experience during war and will have a unique story to tell during the commemorations.
Below, is a list of the regions with links to their websites, where you’ll find information about their history, upcoming events and special projects. Some of them have put together great introduction videos, so be sure to check them out!
Niagara
Located between Lake Erie and Lake Ontario and bordering New York, the Niagara region was one of the Americans' main campaigns to conquer Upper Canada. Fort George, which was the British headquarters during the war, was captured by the Americans in 1813 until it was retaken by the British seven months later. Other key events include the Battle of Queenston Heights in 1812, where Major General Isaac Brock was killed, and the Battle of Lundy's Lane, one of the deadliest battles of the war.
Website: Discover1812.com
Flickr: Flickr.com/photos/niagara1812/
You Tube: YouTube.com/Niagara1812
Facebook
Twitter: @Niagara1812
South West Ontario
This region encompasses one of the main frontiers of the war, the Detroit frontier, and stretches along Lake Erie, from Amherstburg to Chatham-Kent. It was in this area that General Brock and Chief Tecumseh met, and where together they launched a successful attack across the border at Fort Detroit on August 16, 1812. This region also includes the site where Tecumseh was killed at the Battle of the Thames, near Moraviantown.
Website: 1812ontario.ca
You Tube channel: YouTube.com/user/warof1812ontario
Western Corridor
Originally, there were only 6 tourist regions created for the War of 1812 commemorations. However, there was a great effort amongst community leaders and historians to have the Western Corridor included, as well. This region links the Detroit frontier and the Niagara region, along the north shore of Lake Erie. The region saw several key battles, including the British victory at the Battle of Stoney Creek, which is generally understood to be a turning point in the war. The area was also subject to many American raids, the most famous of them led by American General Duncan McArthur in 1814.
Website: WesternCorridor1812.com
St. Lawrence
This region covers the area around the St. Lawrence River in Eastern Ontario, from Cornwall to Kingston, the primary naval base on Lake Ontario. The river played a key role in the war, providing defense and a method of transportation for troops and supplies. War of 1812 heritage sites in this region include Crysler's Farm (which was submerged under water with the construction of the St. Lawrence Seaway), Fort Wellington, Fort Henry, and a plaque to mark the escape of HMS Royal George from an American fleet on November 9, 1812.
Website: Celebrate1812.ca
You Tube: YouTube.com/user/Celebrate1812
Facebook
Twitter: @Celebrate1812
City of Toronto
Although it was the capital of Upper Canada during the war, Toronto (or York, as it was known then), was not a main focus for American troops, who were more concerned with capturing more strategic bases. In 1813, however, American troops did invade York and pillaged homes and buildings, even burning down the capital's Parliament Buildings. They occupied York for 6 days until they abandoned it. Today, Fort York National Historic Site is Canada's largest collection of buildings from the War of 1812. The City of Toronto is planning a major revitalization of the site as part of their commemoration activities.
Website: Toronto.ca/1812
Facebook: Fort York National Historic Site
Twitter: @FortYork
Southern Georgian Bay
A lesser-understoood region of the War of 1812 is the Southern Georgian Bay area. However, the area served as a key communication and transportation route, especially to Fort Michilimackinac in present-day Michigan, which the British captured early in the war. This area is also home to the HMS Nancy, a British-supply ship forced into service during the war. When the Nancy was attacked in 1814, the British chose to set her on fire, rather than allow her to be captured by the Americans. The wreck was discovered in 1925 and is now displayed at the Nancy Island Historic Site in Wasaga Beach. The Southern Georgian Bay War of 1812 Bicentennial Committee is taking the overall lead in the regions planning for the 2012-2014 Bi-centennial.
Website: 1812bicentennial.com
They're still working on their social media accounts, but they've got a sense of humour about it!
Algoma
This region includes the area around Sault Ste. Marie and the historic St. Mary's River, which connects Lake Superior and Lake Huron and separates Michigan and Ontario. From this region, the British launched one of their earliest attacks during the war — the capture of Fort Michilimakinac.
Website: Algoma1812.ca
by Joanna Dawson
From its early days as a British colony, through its time as an independent dominion, and up until it joined Canadian Confederation in 1949, Newfoundland has had a tumultuous political history. Perhaps no more dramatic and significant were the riots of 1861.
For much of its history, Newfoundland was a British colony, governed directly by Great Britain's appointed officials. In 1855, however, Newfoundland made great strides towards independence and was granted Dominion status and moved towards a system of responsible government. Unfortunately, its new independence exposed well-rooted divisions between the English Protestant and Irish Catholic populations, who traditionally aligned with the Conservative and Liberal parties, respectively.
Problems in the government began to emerge in 1860 when the Liberal government’s long-time supporter Bishop Mullock became disillusioned with the party. Premier John Kent and his party were under attack for patronage, intimidation, and corruption, and the Bishop released a letter to his parishioners accusing the Liberals of being “a party who take of themselves, but do nothing for the people.” With the Bishop's considerable influence over the Roman Catholic population, these words marked the downfall of the Liberal government.
In February 1861, the Assembly introduced a currency bill that would standardize the currency for the Dominion, which previously used both the British and Newfoundland Sterling. When the opposition leader, Conservative Hugh Hoyles, criticized the bill and petitioned Governor Bannerman to oppose it, Premier Kent made a scene in the Assembly and accused both of conspiring against him and his government. Kent’s outburst was the last straw, and Governor Bannerman dismissed the Liberal government and instated Hoyles as Premier. Bannerman’s abrupt dismissal of the Liberal government quickly backfired and, because they still maintained a majority, the Liberals passed a resolution of non confidence against the Conservative government. Bannerman had no choice but to call an election.
In most ridings, the election ran much as expected, with Protestant populations electing Conservative candidates and Catholic populations supporting the Liberals. However, in a few ridings, religious divides along party lines created tense situations. In Harbour Grace, fighting broke out between supporters of the Protestant and Roman Catholic candidates. Although troops were called in to suppress the violence, they were largely ineffective. When one candidate withdrew his nomination, instead of declaring the remaining two candidates the winners of the riding’s two seats, the returning officer deferred the decision to the Assembly.
Even in Harbour Main, where four Roman Catholic candidates were running as Liberals for two seats, each were backed by different members of the Church and support was divided. Opponents went through great efforts to prevent the other side to vote and even blockaded towns to prevent residents from casting their vote. Riots broke out and the crowd even opened fired, killing one person and injuring several others. In light of the circumstances in Harbour Grace and Harbour Main, the election results were declared invalid and both ridings were effectively disenfranchised. By not filling the four seats from the two ridings, the Conservatives were given a 14 to 12 majority over the Liberals.
The Liberals felt that the disenfranchisement of the Harbour Main and Harbour Grace ridings was an attempt to prevent the party from taking power. When the Assembly opened, two of the candidates from Harbour Main took their seats in protest. Premier Hoyles demanded that they leave and police had to be brought in to remove one of the candidates.
By this point, a crowd had formed outside in support of the Liberals and they soon began to riot. Troops were called in to suppress the riot, although their presence provoked the crowd even more. A shot was fired by one of the rioters and the troops were forced to open fire on the crowd. Three people were killed, including one of the Roman Catholic priests who had been trying to restore order to the streets. Bishop Mullock rang the cathedral bells over the city, summoning the crowd to the church. There, he urged people to end the violence and to return to their homes peacefully. Fortunately, the rest of the night passed uneventfully.
The riots of 1861 represented a climax in sectarian conflict and a turning point for politics in Newfoundland. In the aftermath of the violence-ridden election, both parties, as well as their constituents, realized the danger of such divisions. Even religious leaders, like Bishop Mullock, recognized the inherent problems of having political parties aligned so closely with religion. In the years following, political parties began to move away from their religious affiliations and toward a more equal and inclusive system.
by Joanna Dawson
When the territory was first created in 1898 in response to the Gold Rush, Yukon was governed by a federally appointed commissioner. Although members were elected to a territorial council as early as 1900, this body only held an advisory position and the majority of the power and responsibility rested with the federally-appointed commissioner. It wasn’t until the late 1970s that this began to change and the territory was granted greater control over its government.
In 1977, the Yukon Elections Act was passed and set the scene for one of the territory’s most important elections. Under the new legislation, Yukon would be governed by a fully elected territorial government for the first time in its history. In the 1978 elections, these candidates also ran along traditional party lines for the first time. The changes sparked a new hope in Yukon for moving towards provincial status, which formed the basis for many of the candidates’ campaigns.
Yukon’s 1978 election also marked the first time a woman was the leader of a provincial or territorial political party. Hilda Watson, led the Yukon Conservatives to the first party win in Yukon. Unfortunately, Watson was defeated in her own riding and failed to become Yukon’s first Government Leader.
The 1978 election ushered in a new era of independence for Yukon. In addition to gaining control of their elections and their government, Yukon started to gain the powers and responsibilities previously only granted to the provinces. Today, Yukon maintains control over education, health care, social services and even land and resource management. However, despite the optimism surrounding the 1978 election, Yukon still has not achieved provincial status.
For more on the 1978 election, you can visit the CBC digital archives to listen to election coverage.
You can also visit "The Legislature Speaks"— a great virtual exhibit from the Yukon Archives that features images and audio clips of Yukon's political figures over the years.
Text by Nelle Oosterom
On July 21, 1836, cheers filled the air as a wood-burning steam locomotive chugged out of La Prairie, Quebec, pulling the first train on the first public railroad in Canada.
Thus began this country’s longstanding love affair with ribbons of steel. The creation of a railroad network that would eventually reach from the Atlantic to the Pacific, opening up vast regions to settlement and virtually building Canada, began with the Champlain and Saint Lawrence Railroad.
Construction for the twenty-five-kilometre line began January 1835 and ran between La Prairie on the St. Lawrence River and Saint-Jean (then called St. John) on the Richelieu River. It served as a way for those travelling between Montreal and New York to avoid a bumpy stagecoach journey that bypassed a series of difficult rapids on the Richelieu. At Saint-Jean, passengers transferred to a steamer that carried them south to New York City via Lake Champlain and the Hudson River.
Rail travel was still very new. The world’s first intercity rail line had opened just six years earlier in England, connecting Liverpool and Manchester. The early rails were made of wood topped with thin strips of iron. The locomotive for Canada’s first train was a Dorchester, built in Newcastle, England. Nicknamed “Iron Kitten” for its skittish behaviour, the Dorchester’s first test runs were held at night to avoid frightening people.
Its first official run was held with great fanfare. The locomotive pulled two first-class coaches carrying thirty-two dignitaries, including Lord Gosford, the governor general of Lower Canada. A second train pulled by a team of horses followed close behind. Two hours later, the trains arrived in St. John to a rousing welcome.
The C & SL proved very popular with passengers, who embraced the new mode of transport with reckless abandon — they walked on the roofs of the coaches while they were in motion and smuggled dogs into first class. Charles Dickens was one of its more famous passengers. However, the rail line was little used by freight haulers, who found it too expensive.
Nevertheless, the construction of more rail lines in all directions soon followed, ushering in a period of unprecedented growth in Canada. The driving of the last spike at Craigellachie, B.C., on November 7, 1885 marked the completion of a coast-to-coast transportation line that served to unite the young country once and for all.
Although highways and air travel have largely displaced the importance of transcontinental railroads, rail continues to be a regular mode of travel for commuters in places like the Greater Toronto Area, where the Go Train is a vital means of transportation between cities.
The railway remains a vibrant symbol of Canadian identity that is much celebrated by artists, musicians, and hobbyists.
Other Online Extras:
Portrait Gallery: Driving the Nation: The Last Spike and Faces of the CPR
YouTube: Gordon Lightfoot, Canadian Railroad Trilogy
YouTube: Canadian Steam Trains, mini documentary
by Joel Ralph
The Statute of Westminster is a momentous, yet often overlooked, occasion in Canadian history. Despite being granted the right to self-government in 1867, Canada did not enjoy full legal autonomy until the Statute was passed on December 11, 1931. 2011 marks the eightieth anniversary of the signing of the Statute of Westminster — Canada’s own declaration of independence.
The Statute of Westminster finds its origins at the Imperial Conference of 1926. Lord Balfour, Britain’s Foreign Minister, suggested that all Dominions be granted full autonomy in their legislations. This would establish equality amongst Britain and the Dominions. These nations included the Dominion of Canada, the colony of Newfoundland, the Commonwealth of Australia, the Dominion of New Zealand, the Union of South Africa, and the Irish Free State.
Prime Minister Mackenzie King and the head of the Department of External Affairs, O.D. Skelton, were determined to achieve autonomy for Canada. In 1929, Skelton attended the Conference on the Operation of Dominion Legislation in London. After two months of negotiations, recommendations were made that would set the resolutions made at the 1926 Imperial Conference in motion. In 1930, the issues were revisited and governments submitted terms of the future Statute to their Parliaments.
It was made clear under the Statute that each of the Dominions would have the right to choose which of the new resolutions it would accept, and which would be rejected in favour of past regulations. All but one of the Dominions chose to adopt every resolution and thus sever all legal ties to Britain; Canada was not fully prepared for complete independence. Government ministers were unable to agree upon a method which could be used to amend the Constitution, so it was decided that Britain would temporarily retain the power to do so. This remained in effect until the Constitution Act was passed in 1982.
Four years after Lord Balfour first suggested independence for the Dominions, negotiations were complete and the Statute of Westminster was signed on December 11, 1931. The act proclaimed that although the Dominions were to remain in allegiance with the Crown, each would be granted full legal autonomy. Britain and its now autonomous Dominions became known as the British Commonwealth of Nations.
Under the Statute, nations were granted the freedom to pass their own laws without the consent of British Parliament, and Britain was no longer able to void or alter laws made in its Dominions. Dominions were also free to amend and repeal their own laws, including ones already in existence. In addition, laws passed by the British government would no longer extend to the Dominions unless the Dominion wished to adopt it. The governments of each Dominion now held the power to build their own legislation without British interference.
It may not be as widely acknowledged as Confederation in its contribution to Canada’s independence, however the Statute of Westminster is arguably a more momentous occasion in Canada’s journey to sovereignty. The Statute granted Canada independence from British regulations and the freedom to pass, amend, and repeal laws within an autonomous legal system. Full autonomy gave the government the independence it needed to build a legislative foundation upon which Canada still stands today.
by Joanna Dawson
The CCF was first formed in 1932, as Canadians looked for new political parties to alleviate the effects of the Great Depression. The CCF emerged as a social democratic party formed by a coalition of left-wing labour and farm organizations. Their formal platform — the Regina Manifesto — rejected capitalism and called for a planned, socialized economy. Although the CCF quickly saw success on the federal stage, electing seven MPs in their first election, their greatest success occurred on the provincial level.
In 1944, CCF MP Tommy Douglas resigned his seat in parliament to lead Saskatchewan’s CCF party in their provincial election. Douglas, a former Baptist preacher, was a strong advocate for the CCF’s socialist ideals. An eloquent public speaker, Douglas delivered captivating speeches over the radio and to large groups. One of his most famous stories, Mouseland, was a critique of the Canadian political system. In his many speeches and public appearances, Douglas convinced the voters that his ideas weren't all that radical and that they were, in fact, logical.
Tommy Douglas led the CCF to a landslide win in Saskatchewan’s 1944 election, taking 47 of the 52 seats. Saskatchewan had elected the first socialist government in North America. Tommy Douglas won four more elections and remained Premier of Saskatchewan until 1961, when he resigned to become the national leader of the CCF’s successor, the New Democratic Party.
As Premier of Saskatchewan, Douglas ran an efficient government, even reducing the province’s debt by $20 million. He pioneered many social programs and economic reforms that would later be implemented in other provinces. In particular, he is often hailed as the “father of Medicare” for instituting Canada’s first system of universal, pre-paid health care.
The 1944 election marked a significant moment in both Saskatchewan’s and Canada’s history. It was Tommy Douglas’ vision and innovation that led to the creation of our modern healthcare system, the Bill of Rights, unemployment insurance, old age pensions, and many other social programs that Canadians enjoy today.
Resources
Much has been written about Tommy Douglas and the CCF. Here are some more resources that explore the profound impact that Douglas had on Saskatchewan and Canada.
The Saskatchewan Council for Archives and Archivists has put together an online exhibit about the 1944 election. You can look through newspaper headlines, campaign materials, and photos to learn more about this historic election.
The CBC Digital Archives has a number of Tommy Douglas' original speeches and interviews, as well as several news items exploring Douglas' legacy.
The Douglas-Coldwell Foundation has a YouTube page that's another great resource for original footage and videos relating to Tommy Douglas.
The National Film Board of Canada produced a short documentary on Tommy Douglas in 1986 called Tommy Douglas: Keeper of the Flame, which you can watch online.
Audio transcription
[The barracks that Joseph Gautreau lived while stationed in Korea] The building was in three stories and one story at the top was the officers so they had maids that made the beds and stuff like that. And then the middle floor was sergeants and NCOs [non-commissioned officers] and they probably had girls working in there as well. And then the kitchen staff, cleaning staff, we had a big crew really that way.
I was impressed with the house next door, there was a big cement wall or brick wall all around it and apparently, it was being used as a hospital sort of thing. But what impressed me was there was a young fellow that, he arrived about the same time as I did, he was going there, they were going to treat him, they were going to operate on him for something, he was really pale. And his mother had to come and he could go to that little hospital but you had to supply your own meals. And his mother used to come every day with a baby on her back and cook his meals outside on a little, well, I don’t know what kind of stove it was, you just put the pot on top of that and that was her cooking thing. And she did that the whole year.
And during the latter part of the year, like we went there in May and let’s say like in September or something like that or October, they had like a little building outside with the screens all around, like I don’t know what you call them, they’re for mosquitoes. Anyway, we had a ramp on our side, we couldn’t see over the fence but if we had the ramp to put the vehicles on to change the oil and stuff like that, we could see over the wall. And we could see this building and one day we heard somebody yelling and crying and whatever. So we climbed up on that ramp and see what it was and I asked the two little Koreans that worked for us, I said, “What’s going on?” He said, “They’re going to operate the little boy.” Well, I said, “What’s he screaming about? Well, you see, they’ve got no anesthetic.” And he started to scream, there was four men holding him on a table sort of thing and they were holding him and they were going to start cutting him to operate on his leg or something. Gee whiz, he was screaming so much, we had to get out, we went inside the building, we couldn’t stand the yelling and screaming. So that was something. Later on though, but he was there the same amount of time I was. He was going home the same week I was going home. But it took a whole year to get him fixed up and whatever.
One day, this little fellow come over and asked me, he says, could I help him to learn English? I said, “Sure.” So he told me to go across the street behind the building, I couldn’t see it but there was a little school there. So we went and sat on the doorstep and I’d help him out with the … But he brought a friend the next day and ended up I had about a dozen kids there, teaching English. Geez. And it lasted about a couple of weeks and then they gave me a different job so I couldn’t go in the evenings. I used to do that in the evenings and help them out that way. But boy, they were sure telling each other, one another to go and learn something English.
They didn’t have restaurants but the year that I went there, they finally made a United Nations restaurant. That’s the only restaurant we were allowed to go outside of our quarters. We couldn’t eat at any little restaurants around there, we had to go to that United Nations restaurant. And you got ordinary food like you do in a restaurant here. That was nice, you know, you get a hamburger if you wanted one. But God, you weren’t supposed to go and eat for the food, the Korean food or nothing like that. Like same as blood donor, that little boy [the boy that was operated on at the hospital next to the barracks] needed blood, well, I had given blood 35 times so I went to see our doctor at home and he says, “You can’t go to the Koreans and give them blood because their needles may not be properly cleaned up and everything.” So he says, “You can’t go give them blood.”
I went on a holiday or a leave like a seven day leave to Tokyo and we had to go by train and then take a ferry up Pusan [city on south-east coast of the Korean peninsula]. So we got on the train, it didn’t cost nothing, we got a travel warrant that’s they call it, got on the train and it was run by the Americans, American soldiers were running the train. And we were going down, it was quite a ways there to the end of the country to get the ferry. And all at once, the train stopped real fast there and it just jerked everybody in there. So we were looking around and the train backed up a little bit and that was stopped and we couldn’t see anything around. Pretty soon, one of the guys that we knew was an American, he was working on the train, I says, “What’s going on?” He said, “We just hit a couple of young teenagers on the track and killed them.” Holy God. Oh yeah, we said, “Gee, that’s terrible and everything.” Oh, he says, “It happens every day, we kill one or two every day. They just walk on the tracks, they said, they don’t move.” So I said, “Well, what happens now?” Oh, he said, “They go over and pay the family $500 each for each one and that’s it.” And they just jump the train and took off. Holy God, that shook us.
Another thing that impressed me was, where this nun was, they called us one day, she called, we went to see her, she said, “Come on over this afternoon, there’s an American colonel that donated a sewing machine for the little girls, not to learn but to help them to make their clothes I suppose or something like that. So they’re going to put a little show on and you guys come on over and have a look, there won’t be that many people.” And there’s only about a dozen little girls because the Koreans, he told us, the Koreans don’t give out their boys, they keep the boys because they can grow up and go in the army and they give the money to their parents. But the little girls, they grow up to become prostitutes. So they looked after them there. They had all kinds of different hair colours like there was only one little blonde and all the rest were dark, you know, different colour of darkness though and their faces because it was mixed blood from, you know, mostly American soldiers I guess.
Anyway, we went to this little show that they put on, a little dance and the nun told us, she says, “Watch that little blonde. That little blonde, but the other little girls, they liked her so much, they didn’t want to let her do nothing, they do everything for her. And she’s really stupid, she can’t do nothing. So you watch.” Sure enough, they started doing their little dance and she stood in the middle and they were dancing all around here, she never moved at all, she just stood there.
(end of tape)
October 13, 2011
Transcriptionist: Wendy Neuhofer
Audio transcription
We were the only United Nations ship to capture a ship and the crew of the North Korean navy. This was a small mine layer, it was really a converted sampan [a flat bottomed wooden boat common in Asia] but these people had navy uniforms on belonging to the North Korean navy. We were able to get in behind the small mine layer on the night that I was on duty in the operations room. And what happened was about 2:00 am in the morning, I had picked up a bogey [an unknown or enemy radar signature] on what we called a Sperry scope radar which is a high definition radar set at the time. And spotting the bogey, I reported it to our petty officer on watch who was looking after the watch at the time and he asked me position and bearing and what have you. Then I had to mention that the bogey split in two and one part of it disappeared. And I was a little bit perplexed by this because I’d never seen this happen with any other bogey from the past. And he said, well, keep a close eye on it, I asked him what he thought it was, he didn’t know.
So anyways, once more this bogey split in two and one part disappeared just as the captain came into the operations room because by that time, action alarm had been sounded and everybody was closing up to action stations. And the captain, right at that moment, it dawned on me that this was, whatever the bogey was, was laying mines, that was the only reason for a bogey to disappear that I could think of and I was on the money on that one. And I mentioned this to the captain, that we were about 1,500 yards from where the first split bogey disappeared and he was a little bit perplexed looking at me and sort of questioning my assessment of the situation.
But anyways, he agreed and made a 20 degree turn to port and we skirted around where the object had disappeared and got in behind the mine layer before they could get ashore. Now, by the time we got in behind, they had already laid three magnetic mines. Now, magnetic mines are exploded by metal, steel or iron ship passing over them and the magnetism from the ship detonates the mine and explodes it.
In any event, we captured the North Korean navy vessel, the crew dispersed overboard from their ship into the water and we had our cutter [a small fast boat] from our ship round them up in the water and there was one that resisted and he was shot. And another one had drifted onto a rocky outcrop which we picked up in the morning who was in serious hypothermic condition. And the next day, we had to call in an American minesweeper and the minesweepers of course are made with wooden hulls so that they would not detonate magnetic mines. And the American sweeper was going back and forth in the area where we had spotted this operation and I was on deck when he exploded the first mine and what a tremendous explosion, I couldn’t believe it. Had to be at least 250 feet in diameter and straight up in the air for at least 150 feet, just a massive explosion. I’m certain that if we had ran over that mine that night, the ship would have been lost and out with probably heavy casualties.
When they started approaching these guys [the North Korean sailors], they went overboard, they were all in truck inner tubes as a flotation device, number one, and they picked up one or two and they came across another fellow who had a bigger insignia on his cap, I presume he had to be the ship’s captain and he had the Chinese version of burp gun [a sub-machinegun with such a high rate of fire that it had a distinctive noise when it fired] I think they used to call them. And he started to pick that up and aim it and getting prepared to shoot at the oncoming motor cutter with our men in it. And of course, the men on the motor cutter, there was about five of six of them that were armed and they all opened fire at once. Of course, the North Korean navy captain didn’t last long, we punctured the inner tube, that blew up and many shots hit his body and he just disappeared.
It was early morning, oh, it was probably around mid-July 1952 and we got an urgent message from our South Korean patrol craft, that she had ran aground on rocks off of they called a Haejuman, sort of a gulf heading up into the Korean peninsula. And she was sinking. We were on patrol at the time in that particular area and of course, we went to her rescue. Now, the operation required that we save the ship from sinking and also we were well within range of any shore batteries [shore based guns which targeted naval vessels] that were in the area. And taking into consideration that we would be a standing target for a number of hours, it was necessary that we bring in backup. There was a British cruiser in the same patrol area called HMS Belfast, she was a big cruiser, a heavy cruiser with eight inch guns and I think she had eight inch.
Anyways, with her onsite within a mile of the operation, we were able to send our damage control party onboard this South Korean patrol craft and it was really funny to watch them throwing everything overboard, ammunition, all food supplies of all sorts all went into the water to lighten it as much as possible, even removed one of the guns and threw it overboard. And they were able to patch up the hole in the ship enough so it would stay afloat.
Now, we took this under tow, a side tow it was called because we literally tied that patrol craft to the side of our ship. And we didn’t break free from that rock until about 8:00, 8:30 in the morning and if the British cruiser had not been onsite with us, I’m sure by that time, all that we would have been was just a bunch of scrap metal.
But anyways, we were able to save this patrol craft and take it one of the friendly held islands called Chung Yang Do. I don’t know if you can pronounce that but anyways, a number of the crew of this patrol craft were from that island, they were extremely grateful for saving their husbands and brothers and what have you.
(end of tape)
Veterans Affairs Canada: The Korean War — Teaching Resources
October 7, 2011
Transcriptionist: Wendy Neuhofer
Audio transcription
On our trip down to Ft. Louis [in Washington state] from Shilo [Manitoba], I was on the first train and we got in to Ft. Louis and the first thing we heard that the second train had been a head-on collision in B.C. in a place called Canoe River. And we lost 17 of our people in that train crash. And little did we know at the time that that was more people than we’d lose all the time we were in Korea.
The last six months or so in Korea was fairly static. Most of the winter, we were in one position and stayed there. We were allowed to dig in, we lived underground. We dug good dugouts and found timbers to put over and then canvass and keep us from getting wet. We had one sleeping place was just big enough. What we did was take the brass that’s leftover when a 25 pounder [gun] fires the shells and they’re about so high and squeezed the top and the stretcher, we’d get stretchers and by squeezing the top of the shells, they’d fit over the legs of the stretcher and get us off the ground by about that much.
So that was good and we made our own stoves out of ammo boxes with radio aerials used as lines to run the straight gas into these things in a drip system. So we lived pretty dangerous lives for a while, you know. But we turned them off at night, you’d never go to sleep with one of these on because you know, you’d never wake up probably. And besides that, for the smell of the gas and that and the dugout, because there are no windows. And what we had over the doors, you wouldn’t make a direct line into your dugout, it was sort of an L-shape, you’d go one way and then turn and go into your dugout. And over the doors, we used blankets to keep as doors.
We had one accident with that. We always had Korean kids around with us, you know, they’d wash our clothes and they’d help us out with little chores and such and one day we were in one of these dugouts and I heard a trickle of gas and I knew what was going on. So I said, get out of here, so we all got out except one man and what happened was, the Korean kids were filling the gas tank outside and they overflowed it and of course, the gas followed the line and soaked the blankets where it was coming through. And as soon as it hit the fire, it just backed up. But the guy got out, they sent him to Japan and he recovered alright but it was scary. We watched the fires a little more from then on. So like I say, the last part of the war was fairly static.
And we got out of there, our regiment was fairly lucky. We lost a captain, a couple of gunners. And the conditions that we had, we were pretty well equipped, although we were using Second World War equipment, like rifles, Second World War [artillery] guns and even Second World War ammunition that had been stocked. All our vehicles came from the U.S. and they were obsolete vehicles, bought as obsolete. And they bought extras, to keep them going.
As far as clothing, we had excellent sleeping bags, uniforms, winter wear. I think we had as good as there are and our rations, we had American rations. We were on American rations all the time except for when we were coming home, we were in Japan for two weeks on the way home and we were fed Australian rations but there was an American canteen just down the road that had hamburgers and hot dogs and I think they got a bigger business than the mess. Because there was a lot mutton and such and that didn’t appeal too much to us.
But yes, we had good rations, good clothing. The equipment worked well. We had one accident with a gun that blew up and one sergeant. There was two people killed I believe on that gun and one sergeant ended up with most of his stomach gone, he’s since died but he did get home. But you know, that can happen to anything, it wasn’t I don’t think because they were old guns and leftover.
When we went there, we were attached to the Americans right away, our brigade. Well actually, the PPCLI [Princess Patricia’s Canadian Light Infantry] went first in the Fall of 1950 and they were attached to the Americans, because they were there as a battalion. And the American wanted to put them in action right away and the colonel wouldn’t do it. And then the Americans sort of took them to task for that but he won out because he said, my people aren’t trained for this country. You know, you’ve got to give me a couple of weeks. Which they did eventually.
So then after we were there and the brigade was back together, we had three infantry battalions and the artillery and the course, and the New Zealanders were there and the Australians were there, so they decided they were going to form a Commonwealth division. And they did. So then we were in 25th Canadian Infantry Brigade and part of the First Commonwealth Division. And then they worked with the Americans of course. But it worked out well, we didn’t have any conflict with them. Any of the conflict was above us, between the officers and whatever, if there was any. I know there was a story went around about when the Americans were on that hill they called Little Gibraltar, which was 355 was the number of it. And that meant the elevation. And the Americans were on there and the Van Doos [a nickname for the Royal 22e Régiment] were on the saddle, they called it saddle beside them. And from where I was, you could see this attack starting in the afternoon and you could hear it. I could see the puffs on the mountain and hear the guns going off and of course, we were talking about it and saying, it looks like the Americans are going to get it tonight.
So during the night, the North Koreans really put on a push and they chased the Americans off. And so the Americans are on this high hill, the Van Doos are down here and in the morning, this is Chinese now or North Koreans. So the story goes that the Van Doos colonel, he said the Americans went so fast that their cigarettes looked like fireflies.
(end of tape)
September 19, 2011
Transcriptionist: Wendy Neuhofer
Audio transcription
I was a late replacement for what we called the Light Aid Detachment commander. That’s the group of mechanics if you want to call it that go with the armoured corps to keep their equipment in shape. Not just the tanks but we took care of everything, all of the guns, the small arms, all the generators, all the B vehicles and the wheel vehicles, armoured cars, trucks, dump trucks. We had a dump truck. And we even took care of the cooking equipment that the cooks used.
But getting onboard the ship was rather interesting. It was the, one of the general class transport ships, which would take about 6,000 troops. And we were fortunate in that we only had about 4,000 onboard, so we weren’t crowded too much. But it was interesting, we arrived there, we were onboard the ship and as a unit, the Royal Canadian Dragoons, and, Dog Squadron, and a few other RCEME [Royal Canadian Electrical and Mechanical Engineers] people who were going over that belonged to other units. But all the Americans that were coming onboard were all draftees. And they were individual replacements. We were a unit replacement, we were going over to replace the Strathcona squadron [Lord Srathcona’s Horse, an armoured regiment] that was there. They were all individual replacements and it was rather interesting to see them coming up the way they called their name, last name, and they’d answer with their first name. They’d step onboard the gangplank, and up they come. Helping one of these kids with these boxes up the gangplank, was a rather young fellow, when he got to the top, they wouldn’t let him off the ship. And he went to Korea with the clothes he had on and stayed in Korea for the full year as a draftee. And anybody puts a foot onboard that ship never got off.
And the flying fish came out and they were flying right across the pass of the ship, right up onto the deck. And of course, there’d be about as, well, about 10 inches long and they were fairly big. And they looked like a fish with big mosquito wings on them and flip them back over. So some of the guys would make them into pets but it didn’t work out. But they had never ever, in A, aboard a big ship or B, seen flying fish before. So every day it was something new for not only me but many, many of the kids that were on there too.
Although the truce had been assigned, Seoul was still a mess and it was bombed out pretty bad. And we crossed the Han River on a temporary bridge and started going up the main supply route, MSR as it was called up towards a place called Uijeongbu. Some of the names still stick in your mind after a while. And the road turned to moss port gravel and it got narrower and narrower. And the dust got thicker and thicker, you know, we had to slow down to go through a one-lane village. The dust was flying up and we slowed down going through this village and this was our and their introduction into getting close to the demarcation lines, if you want to call it. But I remember this particular village. We could touch the shacks on both sides, leaning out the trucks. And on the side of the road was a little Korean kid about seven, eight years old. And he had a stick, about a four foot long stick with a soup can nailed on the end. And he was urinating into the soup can and taking the urine and spreading it on the dust in front of this little shack that was there. And the shack that was there had an open counter and hanging in the shack on racks were dried fish covered with dust. This was sort of our beginning of introduction into things that were different from Canada.
But this particular time in the middle of the scram [practice for an air raid], it didn’t come “air raid yellow”, caution, it came “air raid red.” Which meant it’s coming. The reason I’m chuckling is that it got stood down about 10 minutes later but in the meantime, “air raid warning red,” we had tanks all warmed up in the compound that I showed you a picture of. And when the air raid warning, every one of the guys manned the 50-caliber machine gun was on the top of the tank. And we had three ground-mounted machine guns. They were manned as well. Covers off. One up the spout because a 50-caliber, you have to cock twice to get the thing ready to fire. And I’m there, and to this day I’m thinking, those kids, and they were all kids, you know, are of one mind or the other mind, was, if anything comes around like this, this low, they’re going to blow them out of the sky with 50-caliber machine guns. He won’t know what hit him. See. They were ready. And the other thought that’s in their mind is, “Oh boy, if this happens, it’s World War III and we’re it in the front row.” So you can see these kids grow up so fast. And I must say, they turned out to be a real professional bunch.
We did go through Jasper [Alberta], which was the first stop that we had after we entered Canada. And it was well organized. What we did was we spoke to the train conductor, saying “We want to stop in Jasper.” “Well, we’re not scheduled to stop in Jasper.” “We want to stop in Jasper and we don’t want to be in Jasper before 10:00 am.” “I’ll see what I can do. We’re on a freight train run.” He come back, told the old man [regimental commander], “Yep, we can manage that.” He says, “We can stop for 10 minutes.” He said, “That’s all it’s going to take.” The train came to a stop, the sergeant major got off and walked over to the liquor store. And he stood outside the front of the liquor store and the people he had organized went in and picked up a case of this and a case of that and a case of this and as they were going out, the sergeant major was peeling off the bills. I was duty officer that day, I was there making sure everybody got back on the train.
(end of tape)
October 15, 2011
Transcriptionist: Wendy Neuhofer
Alphonse Martel describes his experience as an office clerk during the Korean War. You can hear more stories when you visit The Memory Project.
This podcast is only available in French.
Audio translation
First off, to start, when we arrived in Seoul (in the fall of 1952, as reinforcement for the 1st Battalion of the Royal 22nd Regiment), it was all bombed out. But I didn’t see the city because I was there for perhaps an hour or two with the other people who I was with. We had joined up with the 1st Battalion right away; we went right away into the hills. We had company camps, and we were all placed on different hills. That’s why we recognized the people; we weren’t together, but we were. We were just spread out a bit. The people held together. The Company A was together, the Company B was together, the Company C was together. When I arrived in Korea, evidently, as I was the major’s clerk, I had my rifle, my .303, with me (Lee-Enfield No. 4 Mk. 1 .303 calibre British rifle). I also had my typewriter with me, because I used it to write.
I was walking slowly up the hill when I was told: “You’re going to stay in the same shelter as sergeant-major Dussault.” (Herménégilde Dussault, a veteran of the Fusiliers Mont-Royal, who had participated in the raid of Dieppe in August 1942). Perfect, so I went. In the evening when it was time to eat supper, the first few hours that we were there and in general when we went there for the first time, we definitely made jokes when we were in Tokyo. But when we got there, we didn’t have any war experience. We weren’t familiar with that. I remember that the Chinese were bombing us often. They shot at us often, every day. A lot of shells; maybe four, five, 10 shells a day, all the time. I took note of that in an agenda. I didn’t eat supper that night because I was scared.
When I went to exit my shelter, I heard: “Chouuu!” And then an explosion! Damn! What’s going on here? We didn’t have experience with a shell exploding like that. The people who had been there for a certain number of months had told me: “Don’t worry Martel. When you hear it, that means that it’s already gone by.” So we started gaining experience. When we heard another one going by, we didn’t throw ourselves on the ground. We knew that it wouldn’t touch us. They went by so fast, so fast.
That was the beginning. We started to be scared. Sometimes, even after several weeks, there were evenings where there wasn’t any terrible fighting, but people died anyway. Like us, in our battalion, there were 100 in the three battalions. We had 115 people (soldiers from the Royal 22nd Regiment who died during the Korean War). That’s a lot of people. In my own battalion, the first battalion, forty or so of our people died. That’s for sure, when some of our friends died like that… We would say: “Where is so-and-so?” And they would reply: “You didn’t hear? How come? He died yesterday.”
Skirmishes took place and there were patrols. We did patrols. Sometimes, when it was relatively quiet, at a certain period, when we came back from a patrol, we let go a bit. But the Chinese weren’t crazy. They waited for us. A lot of us were taken as prisoners or were injured or killed. Because when they came back from their patrols, their guards were down. It was because the Chinese had let them take the road that they had led with the sergeant. Generally, it was a sergeant or a lieutenant sometimes. It was like that all the time. There were always little skirmishes like that.
Our duty, even for me as an office clerk, my duty to help, was from time to time… For example during the lunch hour, my officer said to me: “Go to the observation station in front, and when you hear shots fired at us, figure out approximately where they came from.” Then I gave those orders to my commander. We had a tank next to us. So, the commander, using his maps was able to go retrieve the shell. We looked with our binoculars and when we saw them, because we could see the Chinese sometimes, we weren’t far, we weren’t very far. That was funny the first months that we arrived. It was probably an army tactic. The enemy was far from us. When I say far, I mean a few thousand feet, for sure. Because it went like that. So, as we were advancing to the front, we were getting closer and closer. For example, on the 355 (hill 355, near the 38th parallel, where violent confrontations took place), you could almost see the eyes of the guy on the other side of the hill. You stay there for less time, that’s for sure. First, because it’s too dangerous. Obviously, you retreat. What we would do is that we would stay for a few weeks, depending on the importance of the position to observe, and then we would return to the back to rest for a bit. And then we continued our training all the same.
My training was in the office. I didn’t always go with the guys. I didn’t have the same training as the others. I didn’t always need it either. I wasn’t a soldier who left. I had grenades around me, but it was only in case of defense, in case something happened. So that’s basically what happened on the frontline. It was like that all the time until the end of June, the end of July (1953). Even at the end of July, when they signed, not the armistice, but the peace treaty, a few days beforehand, we were still being bombed.
During the day, the Australian and American air forces came to bomb the places in front of us. That happened often when we were there. The big bomber planes dropped napalm bombs. They were big bombs and they were like gelatine. They would go into the trenches and set them on fire. It was a way to… We never saw the enemy’s air force, they didn’t have one. I didn’t think that they weren’t able to make it here. Some battles must have been taking place in the air, but further away.
(End of recording)
October 16, 2011
Translator: Ryan Catherine Breithaupt
Video transcription
[00:00:00] (onscreen: David Galbraith, C.D., Warrant Officer, Royal Canadian Navy)
[00:00:03] (onscreen: Enlistment)
[00:00:08] Well, I started out in sea cadets and I enjoyed it very much. My dad is a Second War veteran and he was in the army and I knew a bit about the sea cadets. I was walking downtown one day and there was a chap looking with a big sign up there, join the navy, and I said, okay, that’s a good idea. So I went home, I was only 17 and my dad said, I’ll sign the papers as long as you stay in the service as a career. Which I did.
[00:00:47] (onscreen: HMCS Iroquois in Korea)
[00:00:51] The only time we got into sort of any action, when you see a junk that we didn’t know it was enemy or anything, and as soon as we fired at them. We also supported the army by lopping shells, as long as they were close enough, we could fire the shells in. And the funniest part I guess in a way about my career is that this one junk came alongside the ship and they were too close for our guns to fire at so two or three of us actually grabbed a shell, really heavy shell and we threw it and it went into the junk, it just went through it. It didn’t blow up, it just went right through it and we sunk it that way, so it was almost hilarious at the time what had happened.
[00:01:35] (onscreen: Canoe River Train Crash, 1950)
[00:01:40] In fact, it wasn’t until about three years ago that in fact, I go to the schools and speak to the kids in school, it wasn’t until three years ago that they decided to add the Korea vets to go to the schools and talk to them. And everybody talked, oh, Korea, that was only a conflict, it wasn’t really a war or anything, no. And actually, I can’t remember the date now or how many, I guess our worst thing about the Canadian casualties was when two trains were going out west and we lost several members when the trains collided. And these are guys that never even got to Korea.
[00:02:29] (onscreen: Looking Back)
[00:02:34] I’d do it again in a minute. What I saw and what I hear about people, what people have done and everything, these young fellows from Afghanistan, they’ve lost their life for Canada.
[00:02:52] (onscreen: David Galbraith, C.D., Warrant Officer, Royal Canadian Navy, The Memory Project)
[00:03:01] (end of tape)
August 19, 2011
Transcriptionist: Wendy Neuhofer
Mark Reid, editor-in-chief of Canada's History, spoke recently at Red River College to first year students of the Creative Communications program. Reid was on campus to promote Canada's History's internship programs, as well as to discuss the art of storytelling. He used slides and stories from Canada's History's new book, 100 Days That Changed Canada, as a teaching tool to illustrate how to craft compelling stories for your readers.
Student Kristin Pauls was there in the role of photographer and created the following slideshow of his presentation.
Credit: All photos copyright Kristin Pauls.
by Larry Button
Larry Button's mother, maiden name Margaret Mitchell Elliott, was born near Berwick-on-Tweed where both her father and grandfather worked as gamekeepers for Lord Joicey at Ford. Later her family moved to Raby Castle in County Durham where Larry's grandfather was head gamekeeper for Lord Barnard. Margaret married W.O. Tom Button, an RCAF pilot, on June 2, 1945, in Stranraer, Scotland. Tom Button returned to Canada shortly thereafter in July 1945 however it was not until April 1946 that Margaret was able to join him in Canada.
Margaret Mitchell Elliott Button's recollections are as follows:
“When I received word to leave for Canada I had waited for almost a year, it was still very hush-hush. I well remember the very sad expression on my mother’s face, my father rarely showed his feelings. I went up to see the Elliotts on the Scottish Borders, they too did not like the idea of me leaving Britain, but we parted on good terms. Then good-bye to all my friends at Raby and a final walk in the woods with my dogs — Ben and Jet the black labs, Barney the border terrier, Sandy my yellow lab and Towser the spaniel.
Then the train to London, staying overnight in Park Lane, the next morning another train ride to the port of Southampton. It was a sunny April day, the fields and gardens of southern England were beautiful and green. As we reached the docks the Aquitania looked enormous — we had a great send off. On board was Field Marshall Alexander one of our greatest war heroes who was coming out to Ottawa to be Governor General. When the pipe bands played “Will Ye No Come Back Again?” and we slowly began to move along the English Channel there were lots of tears.
It was very interesting to meet girls from all over Britain, many war correspondents and members of the various services all very happy to be returning to Canada. On the last night before reaching Halifax there was a great concert for us, great interest when an iceberg was seen.
There was a wonderful welcome in Halifax, a large contingent of Mounties, military bands and pipers and reporters everywhere.
Thousands of us will always remember Union Station in Toronto — this was where we said goodbye to friends who would continue on to the Prairies and British Columbia. Before setting off for Hamilton I went to have lunch. Enjoying my soup I was joined by a photographer from the Toronto Star newspaper who took my picture and interviewed me. I was upset at the time as one of the war brides who was supposed to be met by her husband had not been able to find him; when she called his home number he informed her she could go back to Britain as he had met someone else. I found a Red Cross lady to help her as I was on the last leg of my journey. I have often wondered whatever happened to her.”
[Larry's mother also included this poem with the above account.]
Southampton harbour in the Spring
On a sunny April day
The shouts of stevedores pulling ropes
And a liner huge and grey
Some anxious soldiers march and pace
The busy, noisy dock
A sweeping seagull screams farewell —
the echo seems to mock
The liner shifts her great hulk;
sirens sound
A shrill salute to this great ship
on her last voyage bound
Six hundred war brides crowd on deck
to watch the fading shore
The wartime years — “blood sweat and tears”
go deep in memory’s core
White capped water, smoking stacks
the land now ribbon thin
When can we hope to see again
Our country and our kin.
by Carol Stoess
This is my mother’s story of her wedding and trip to Canada from Liverpool, England .
I was transferred to London from Liverpool just at the end of the war. The bombings had almost stopped except for the “Doodle bugs” as we nicknamed them, they looked like a small rocket which were fired from across the channel. I met my future husband Ernie Lintott at this time. He was with the Canadian Armed forces and stationed at St. John’s Woods just out of London.
One of the many stories I told my children was how I did not have any clothing coupons left to buy my wedding clothes. Ernie said not to worry and the next day showed up with a full new coupon book. He had spent all night playing cribbage with the boys winning enough money to purchase the coupons on the Black Market. Hence I was able to buy a two-piece suit. Due to food rations a wedding cake was out of the question. Much to my surprise the friends and neighbours I had grew up with donated butter, eggs and sugar to Grandma Bromley. A small but beautiful decorated wedding cake arrived in London in time for our wedding on October 3, 1946.
In November I, along with 300 British and Dutch War Brides plus 200 Canadian Service men, left Liverpool at 6am in the morning aboard the Empire Brent, a troop ship. However we did not get too far out in the morning fog when we collided with an Irish cattle boat, so with a hole in the Empire’s hold we returned to port and into dry dock. Luckily, except for a few bruises, no one was hurt. We all contacted our families that we were safe and been taken to London. Our troubles were not over, the British government refused to give back our ration books stating we were now the responsibility of the Canadian government. The Canadians did their best, but the meals for the next two weeks were much to be desired, I was lucky as Ernie was still stationed there so we ate dinner out every evening.
Two weeks later we were again on board the Empire Brent with a steel plate covering the hole, most of us went up on deck to watch the coastline of England disappear. I personally thought after six years of air raids, sirens, bombs, death and food rationing, etc. It was a terrible time of growing up through your teen years, I guess we all could write books on our war experiences.
But here we were, all 300 of us starting a new life in Canada so far from home. The wives I met on board and befriended were Joan Harper, Mabel Flannigan and Mrs. Davies but after years went by we lost touch with each other.
The Empire Brent was no love boat, it was a troopship with only double deck bunk s and cockroaches (YUK). Wives with children were given the lower bunks. Between upset children, cockroaches, etc, my three shipboard friends and myself would go up to the lounges and try to sleep in the armchairs. I also celebrated my 23rd birthday (Dec 9th) on board. After a very slow nine days crossing the Atlantic Ocean, we arrived December 13, 1946 at Pier 21 in Halifax Nova Scotia. From here we boarded trains to take us to our Canadian destinations.
I arrived at the Winnipeg CP station where I was met by Ernie’s mother, Clara Lintott, and his 10-year-old sister, Joyce. Within minutes I soon found out my footwear (a pair of dress pumps) didn’t quite suit the Manitoba December weather. Mom Lintott soon had me in the Hudson Bay on Portage Avenue to purchase my first pair of Canadian winter boots.
(My mom wrote the above words, the rest of this is what she told us as children)
They proceeded out to the Lintott farm at Sidney, Manitoba. Now we have to remember this is December, the farmhouse had no electricity and no running water, the only heat was off an oil stove or wood stove in the kitchen. After a delicious home cooked meal my mother need the facilities. On asking Grandma Lintott, she was informed that she would have to go outside and behind the house to the backhouse. My uncle lit a lantern for her and led her out to the dark smelly backhouse.
by Margaret Bristow
The following story is unedited, left in Margaret's own words.
In the summer of 1939 I was 19 years old, and met a young man Tommy Steel. He lived at Wymington, a mile from Rushden, Northamptonshire, England. My name was Margaret Perkins and I lived in High Street in Rushden and worked in a factory that made shoeboxes. Tommy and I became friends and he said if war were declared he would join the navy, which he did in August. Before he left he wanted us to get married but I chose not to marry him.
I also felt at the time that I wanted to become a nurse. I contacted the District Nurse and she agreed to take me with her on her rounds at the weekends. We did this on a bicycle on Sunday mornings. We visited people that needed dressings changed. On September 4th at 11:00 A.M. we were with an older man, [whom I now believe had Alhzeimers] when war was declared. I sat down feeling very upset.
Later, I talked with the nurse and was told that if I intended to do the training I would have to pay my own way in a hospital. At the time I only had the money I earned [my mother had gone to live with an aunt and uncle after my father had died. I had had to find rooms with a girl I worked with and paid room and board from a job. Our town was renowned for making shoes and boots and I worked making shoeboxes. Instead of the training I continued working in the factory.
By October I had heard from Tommy several times and learned he was on the Battleship Renown. I don't know if it was a destroyer or not but it was sunk by the Germans with a heavy loss of life including Tommy. He only lived two months into the war.
Life went on eventually. We had the odd raid and periodically the sirens would sound and we would go to a shelter outside and try and sleep. We did have a couple of bombs drop different times on our town but not on our street. There was lots of damage and injuries and also a couple of deaths.
Bill Bristow lived in Blenheim, Ontario, Canada and joined the Canadian Army, Royal Canadian Regiment, and September 9, 1939. He too was 19. His birthday was October 14th and mine was October 17th. We both turned 20 that fall. He went to Val Cartier, Quebec for training and sailed for England in December 1939. Bill was in the 1st. Division Canadian Army Advance Party arriving in England on December 17, 1939 and spent that first Christmas at Aldershot.
In May 1940 the 1st. Division was moved to Rushden and billeted in private homes. The local people of the town were amazed at all the Canadian soldiers scattered over the town in the evenings. They had their training in the daytime. On a Sunday afternoon, at a band concert, I met Bill Bristow who was with another soldier. I too was with a friend. We sat and talked and arranged to see each other again. During the time they were in Rushden we met everyday and saw each other as often as we could. I took him to meet my grandfather
Denton who also boarded with some friends of his and they seemed to get along well with each other.
During this time things were developing on the warfront. The British Army was in France but was having problems. They were going to be brought out through Dunkirk. One morning the Canadians suddenly left. They had been in Rushden for approximately two weeks and Bill was a lance corporal. They had been taken to France to form a spearhead to help get the British troops out of France. When they returned to England they did not return to Rushden but were stationed south of London at Hurley. We wrote to another and early in July he came back on a 48hour pass and asked me to marry him. I said yes! But before he had come back to propose he had made a trip to Norway, although I never really found out why, and he had become a corporal. Raids continued and Coventry was bombed that summer. We were 35 miles away and could see the red glow in the sky in that direction.

Some brides were able to have the church wedding and white dress. Photo: Mr. and Mrs. More.
In August, another girl and I went to Hurley for a weekend. We didn't see much of them as they were doing serious training. Because we were both only 20 we had to get permission to be married, me from my mother and Bill from his commanding officer. We both received permission and made plans to marry in September. BUT the Battle of Britain had started. I obtained a license with an expirory date the end of October and my dear old grandfather gave me clothing coupons and I bought a white wedding dress with all the accessories.
Raids stepped up all over England! Planes were going day and night. Anti aircraft guns fired continuously and barrage balloons were flown in certain areas [large, large balloons with lots of wires to keep Germans from landing]. Life was hectic, leave was cancelled and letters were not regular. In the meantime we both had our 21st birthdays and it was the end of October. October 31st. was a Thursday and I had not heard from Bill in awhile so had not renewed the license on November 1st. [Friday] feeling that perhaps he had changed his mind. But on the evening of November 1st he showed up with a friend, Merle Shantz, to be best man. They had had to walk across London because of the air raids and damage and disruption to the buses. The two of them were covered in dirt and oil but we were very glad to see each other. Bill asked if we could still be married on Saturday but we no longer had a license.
The people where I was boarding found somewhere for them to stay and we spent Saturday and Sunday waiting until Monday to get another license. It had to be in effect for 24 hours before we could use it so we were married on November 5, 1940, Guy Foukes Day at the Methodist Church, Park Street, Rushden at 2:00 in the afternoon. The family [the Pages] where I lived put on a spread getting rations from friends or the black market. Two of my friends, Vera who was with me when I met Bill and another friend were bridesmaids. Bill had a 7day pass but by the time we were married we had three days together as man and wife. He was then stationed at Reigate, Surrey, south of London.
The army had taken over empty houses and had headquarters etc. in Reigate and billeted the men there. He wanted me to go down there and stay so we rented a bedroom [other soldiers did that as well] and obtained a sleeping out pass. There were many times when they were away training in Scotland or on duty but I did travel to Reigate to be with him.
My dear grandfather was good again and gave me coupons for a new coat. I had to cross London to get on a train for Reigate. Electric trains travelled south of London and when it snowed it made a screaming noise on the tracks. It had been snowing when Bill met me and it was a wet snow all over. As we were walking to our room the sirens started and the planes came over. A bomb fell in the next street. The German planes sounded different to the English ones so we knew it was a raid. When the bomb fell Bill threw me to the ground and fell on top of me. When we got up the coat was ruined. I was so angry with him but he probably saved my life. At the time I was NOT happy. I had not eaten and he had obtained a box of chocolates, I don't know how, but we ate them in the cold bedroom.
Life went on. Raids most nights. Some bombs close. He was away and on duty a fair bit but we did have Christmas together. We did have use of the kitchen where I was to cook but I had never cooked before and had only my ration card so Bill did get different things, I'm sure through the black market. Rabbits were not rationed so that Christmas I bought a rabbit. I had never cooked one before and he had never eaten one but we survived. Christmas in England before the war and during was never like it is here.
There were other soldiers' wives and girlfriends in the area and I made friends. We were there about six months and we had moved to different rooms. We were very happy even with the air raids. One night the bus depot in Croydon [about five miles away] was bombed. There were over 100 buses in it. You can imagine the way the sky lit up — WOW!
Bill was moved to Chipstead in houses on top of a hill. Chipstead was the end of the London Transport Bus Line. We could get the bus at the Red Lion, Chipstead and go right through to London. My army money at this time came in Canadian dollars once a month. Banks wouldn't cash the cheques so I had to go to London, Canada House, to cash it. I went with other girls and we would cash our cheques and have lunch at a Lyons Tea Shop. At that time they were on almost every corner and it was always an exciting day.

Some war brides made do with a civil ceremony in their Sunday or workday best.
The first place we lived in on the hill in Chipstead the people rented us a bedroom. These people went to the shelter every night but we stayed behind and listened to the sirens, planes and bombs. Then one night the roof collapsed and the windows blew in on us. A bomb had dropped on our street. We were not hurt but decided it was time to go to the shelter. It was an Anderson shelter in the back yard.
The Headquarters moved and we did also. I shared a house with a lady called Brenda Martin and her two children, [boy 10, girl 12]. Her husband was in the Navy. By this time I discovered I was pregnant with my first child. Bill had to spend six weeks at Caterham.
Camp about ten miles away in Surrey on a Sergeant's training course and just came home on the weekends. Brenda and I became good friends and I was content with her children.
During the war there were few people that had telephones. Most people did not go to the telephone booths on the street as they did to know how to use them. Also during the war, hospitals were used for wounded soldiers not pregnant women. They had babies at home or in homes or places that catered to maternity services.
By this time the raids were not quite so bad, we still had bombs falling around us but no more hits. I don't remember Christmas 1941 exactly but we had both had birthdays and were now 22. On January 21st, 1942 our daughter Anne was born in a private home for pregnant women in Purley about two miles away. She weighed 61/2lbs and was blonde and blue eyed, a real sweetie. Bill came to see us there and brought us back to Brenda's. It seemed so strange to have this little person in a crib beside my bed and hear the breathing and little noises she made. Bill seemed to be away more often but Brenda and her children Jack and Joyce just loved the baby.
When Bill came back from Caterham he had qualified as a Sergeant. Life went on and we learned to live with raids, planes and bombs. When Anne was three months old I took her on bus159 north to London. It was Anne's first long ride on a bus. My mother came south from Rushden and we met in Hyde Park where she saw Anne for the first time. I think at this time we must have talked for the first time about having Anne christened. In May or June Bill got some leave and we went to Rushden and had Anne christened in the same Methodist church we were married in [it was also the same minister. He seemed very happy to do it, perhaps because the best man had given him 20 pounds and told him good job at the time of the wedding]. Anne was christened in a white knitted dress that I had made and looked sweet. My grandfather Denton also saw her for the first time and she did not cry.
In August 1942, the 2nd Division and the Essex Scottish were involved with the Dieppe Raid and were almost wiped out. Bill was then transferred to the Essex Scottish as Company Sergeant Major [CSM] as an instructor for the new troops that were replacements from Canada. He was moved to Arundel Castle home of the Duke and Duchess of Norfolk. He is the head of the Roman Catholics in England. They were under canvas [tents]. I left my friend Brenda and moved to Bognor Regis on the south coast five miles away but easily accessible by train. I lived one street from the English Channel and the pier that was out in the water. The beaches were all barricaded against walking on them with lots of barbed wire and the ack, ack gun on the end of the pier was in action most of the time. It was shooting at a target that was in the water and when it was hit and demolished another target was put up for others to train on. Bill was not with me quite so much as he was busy training new troops that came over from Canada, some as young as 16 or 17. One boy George Remington from Blenheim was 16 and they became friends.
One day I had taken Anne for a walk along the Promenade for a couple of miles to see another girl who I had met and who was also married to a soldier. We had had tea and I was walking home and not really expecting Bill that night when a plane dropped a stick of bombs across the centre of the main street of Bognor Regis. The noise was terrible but I went on home. At this time Bill heard about the bombs and came to Bognor and was told I had gone for a walk. I was not yet back so he went to help pull bodies from the mess of bricks and damage on the street. He came back to the room later and I was there with Anne. He was so happy to see both of us he almost cried. Another experience we lived through was when Bill was moved to Middleton on the coast into houses right on the water about 2 miles east of Bognor. Next door to the Headquarters was a house with two old maids in it and they had a parrot that sat in an open window. The soldiers used to pass this window and took great delight in teaching the parrot 'swear' words. The two old ladies were furious. They complained but it was too late, you couldn't take the words out of the parrot's head.
At this time we rented a summer home on a side street. The people had left it empty and it was the first time we had had a house on our own. It was called Castlette. It had a turret type room upstairs with a lovely view. The only way to heat this house was the fireplace in the living room so we had to buy coal. This was September/October 1942. Bill was sent to Scotland for six weeks training and came back just for Christmas Day. One day in November just before dusk I was walking home with Anne in the pram when I heard sirens and a plane. It was German and quite low and I saw the pilot when I looked up. I pulled Anne out of the pram onto the ground, put myself on top of her, held my breath. The plane continued on toward Ford aerodrome about 3 miles inland where he unloaded his bombs on the airfield killing some and destroying planes. An experience not to be forgotten! I went home and thanked God that we were safe. I had no one to talk to until the next day when I could get out again. Bill did come back for Christmas but I don't remember what we had, maybe a rabbit again. He was away again and it was lonely in this house in winter with just a tiny child for company.
Bill decided I should move back into Bognor and I did in 1943 in the spring. Fynn Monroe was Quartermaster and had also married an English girl Elsie. They had twin boys born early in 1943. The four of us Elsie, Fynn, Bill and I and the children rented a house in Bognor to share. It worked great and the men sometimes came home together. Being the Quartermaster in charge of stores we all fared a little better. By this time I was pregnant with our second child and attended a clinic. Arrangements were made to have the baby at home with a midwife in attendance.
Life went on. Raids at times. The guns on the piers were going off continuously. Portsmouth and Southampton, west along the coast, were being bombed continuously also. I had kept in touch with Brenda Martin and we had met at times. At this time Bill was very busy with training replacements. Elsie was busy with her own twins; I made arrangements for Brenda to take Anne for a few weeks when John was born. She had her for about a month and they loved her and spoiled her.
John was born on Oct 28, 1943, and Bill saw him the next day when he was able to get into town. John weighed 10 lbs and had dark hair and eyes, my colouring. Anne was like her father. When Brenda and the children brought Anne home, she was fine until they went to get on the train and she cried to go with 'mummie' as she called Brenda ' having been with them about 4 weeks. We now had four children in the house but managed very well and spent Christmas all together. Early in 1944 we took John back to Rushden to be Christened in the Methodist Church we were married in and also where Anne was christened in. Also early in 1944 the Buzz bombs or doodlebugs as we called them started to come over the coast. These had no pilot in them and exploded on contact. They were launched from France. They got more frequent and Bill and I decided I should move back to Rushden with the two children. So I moved back in May 1944, before D-Day. My mother was still living with her aunt and uncle. She got me a couple of rooms with an older lady across the road from her — a Mrs. Knight who was Margaret Richardson's grandmother's sister-in-law. She had brought up a large family and got very fond of my children.
Bill went to France with the Essex Scottish right after D-Day. He was a Company Sergeant Major by this time. Bill was taken prisoner at Caen. I settled down with the children. My mother and grandfather loved the two children and they were very popular with everyone around. In July I received a telegram from the government saying Bill was missing and believed killed in action. You can imagine my feelings at this time. I had, all the time I had been married to Bill, been in touch with his mother and father in Canada and they received a telegram also.
When Bill and I were married we had sent the top tier of our wedding cake to them in Canada. It was probably September when we heard he was alive and in Stalag IVB. The letter was a form letter and he had crossed out what was not applicable. He had been wounded. His mother, in Canada, had heard from Mrs Remmington, George's mother, that George (Ace) had seen Bill lying in a ditch covered in blood and thought he was dead. I found out later it was not his blood and he was asleep. He had been wounded and was taken prisoner right afterwards. Because of this story at one time in Chatham town hall Bill's name was on a plaque with the names of Chatham and area boys killed in action. The plaque is not there now.
Bill and I did keep up a correspondence to a degree. His letters were mostly form letters and I don't know how many of mine were received or what was censored in them. We did send parcels, clothes if we could. One time I sent heavy underwear and a year later it was returned to England to my mother unopened. It never reached him. All this time the allies were advancing in France, Belgium, Germany, etc. Bill was moved (walked) several times to other camps ending up in Stalag XIIA, close to the Russian border.
In December 1944, the government contacted me and told me arrangements were being made for my children and I to travel to Canada. I had promised Bill if anything happened to him I would bring the children over to his parents and if I didn't like it I would return to England. I then had to make the decision quickly and decided to come. By this time I had a 3 year old and an 18 month old. I wrote to Bill of my decision but never heard back at this time. Communications were bad but I did try and get in touch with him. My mother and my grandfather, 84, hated to see me and the children leave but agreed with my decision. I was notified early in March 1945 that it would be very soon.
Like the Franconia, the Aquitania brought war brides and their children to Canada.
After I received train tickets to go to Liverpool I said my goodbyes with feelings I would not see my grandfather again. He died several months later in July 1945. We stayed overnight at the YMC in Liverpool. The next day we boarded the Franconia. This ship had just returned from taking Churchill and Eisenhower to the conference in Yalta. We spent about thirty hours in the harbour whilst other ships were loaded. There were five or six ships in the convoy. We had war brides, children and soldiers on ours but we were truly segregated. We set out in convoy across the ocean zigzagging to avoid Uboats, and they were there believe me. Actual sailing time was 14 days. Docking at Pier 21, Halifax, we had help with children in Liverpool and Halifax. There was no help on board ship so we helped each other. Because of Bill's rank I did not go into the long rooms of bunks but shared with a lady also with two children. We had two bunks each, top and bottom. I put the children in each end in the bottom bunk and we slept on the top one. The food was wonderful, things we hadn't seen for years and some we had never seen.
We spent a night in Halifax before setting out across the country. I lost track of my roommate and, sorry to say, never kept in touch with Brenda Martin for a number of years. Her husband did return, then she died, and the children never answered letters. Elsie and Flynn Monroe lived in Windsor and we did visit a few times until we moved to Gananoque. Back to the train trip, we travelled across the eastern provinces and we pushed into a siding in Quebec City for six hours. We could see the buildings of Quebec but couldn't leave the train. We changed in Toronto and arrived in Chatham at the beginning of April 1945. The War was still on. We were met off the train by Bill's parents, sister and husband, and were made very welcome.
Bill escaped from prison camp as the allied troops advanced and wandered around for a couple of weeks with other prisoners. I imagine the security was very lax at this time in the camps. The allies were quite close to the Russian border. He tells a story of eating raw turnips and potatoes in a field. He then found they were on an island and they were wandering around the same island a couple of days before they realized it. They were officially liberated on May 9, and taken to hospital in London. He had not heard from me so he got a pass and came to Rushden looking for me. He was told we were in Canada. He returned to Canada in August on the ILE-DE-FRANCE and began job hunting. He spent three months in the Veterans (Westminster) Hospital before joining the Chatham Police Force. He suffered from malnutrition and shrapnel in the shoulder. My mother came to Canada in 1948 and died in 1975. Bill died in 1965 due to his injuries. He was 45 and so was I.
This is my story, written in 2004.
by Phil Koch
For several decades, one Canadian company symbolized both biking and skating — enjoyable outdoor activities that together make for healthy a year-round fitness regimen.
The story of the Canada Cycle & Motor Co. Ltd., better known as CCM, was irresistible for John McKenty, a retired high school principal and local history writer in Perth, Ontario. McKenty is also a collector of CCM memorabilia. While conducting research for a book about brothers who ran a small local hardware store, he says he “kept coming across these neat old newspaper ads for CCM bikes, skates, and hockey equipment.”
He also discovered that no comprehensive history had ever been written about the company whose products were sold both in small stores and at large retailers across the country. The same company also produced the Russell motor car.
For his book Canada Cycle & Motor: The CCM Story, McKenty interviewed former CCM executives and workers, scoured archives and old newspapers, and met with collectors and enthusiasts. The images below show a few of the CCM ads that caught his attention.
To find out more about McKenty’s fascination with the company, or to obtain a copy of his book, visit VintageCCM.com.

The National Film Board of Canada's website has collected six holiday films which are available for online viewing and/or downloading: The Great Toy Robbery, Noël Noël, Christmas Cracker, An Old Box, and Teach Me to Dance.
December 13
On this day of the Holiday Countdown we are featuring the film An Old Box. In this film a homeless man discovers a discarded box. The box turns out to be magical and takes him on a spiritual journey.
December 20
The holidays would not be complete without the Canadian classic The Sweater, the tale of a boy in 1949 who idolizes Maurice Richard and the Canadiens. His world crashes around him when Eaton's sends him a Toronto Maple Leafs hockey sweater instead of the Montreal Canadiens jersey and his mother refuses to return it.
An aspiring journalist, Jean Spear was working at a magazine in London, England when the Second World War broke out. As she walked to her office one morning, she found that the building had been bombed overnight and reduced to a pile of rubble. Like many young women, Jean found new work in a factory producing war materials.
Jean soon met and fell in love with a Canadian serviceman and the couple wed in 1942. Jean became one of the 48,000 war brides who immigrated to Canada to be with their new husbands.
In her new home in Ottawa, Jean became an elected executive of the ESWIC (England, Scotland, Wales, Ireland and Canada) war bride club — one of the first in Canada. While working and raising family, Jean remained active with ESWIC and war bride work. In 2006, Jean was named a Member of the Order of the British Empire.
A PBS documentary airing February 6, 2012, chronicles the life and legacy of a man known in his time as the “Father of the Underground Railroad.”
To learn more about the film, we spoke to executive producer Gordon Henderson. Henderson began his career as a journalist and parliamentary correspondent, and is the founder and president of 90th Parallel Productions. History-enthusiasts may recognize his name as the series producer for the CBC’s Canada: A People’s History.
William Still (c. 1821–1902) was an abolitionist and civil rights activist who helped countless black slaves find freedom in Canada. Perhaps even more important, were the diligent records he kept of the people he helped along the way. In 1872, Still compiled the biographical details, personal narratives, and letters of over 600 fugitive slaves and published The Underground Railroad Records. This work became both a powerful anti-slavery testament and an invaluable historical document.
The one hour documentary, Underground Railroad: The William Still Story, is produced by 90th Parallel Productions in association with Rodgers Broadcasting and WNED-TV Buffalo/Toronto. The film features the talented Dion Johnstone in the role of William Still, and also relies on historical consultants and primary documents to bring life to the people and stories contained within Still’s papers. In telling about the struggles and achievements of America’s fugitive slaves, Underground Railroad remembers the important role that Canada played in helping them find freedom.
Other online extensions:
Text by Nelle Oosterom
No list of Canadian women’s accomplishments could ever be definitive; we limited ourselves to ten moments honouring “firsts.” (Content update news: In 2016, we celebrated the centennial of Canadian women's suffrage with a look at Thirty Great Women.)
1875
Jennie Trout is the first woman to earn an M.D.
The medical field of the 19th Century was dominated by men while women struggled for the right to practice. Encouraged by her husband, Jennie braved the pressures of entering a male discipline and pursued a medical career along with her friend Emily Stowe. They were the only women in lecture halls filled by jeering male students. Jennie eventually earned her M.D. in the United States on March 11th, 1875. Subsequently, she returned to Canada and passed an examination before the College of Physicians and Surgeons. After retiring, Jennie continued to build a place for women in the medical field. Her campaigning culminated in the opening of the Women’s Medical College at Kingston on October 2, 1883.
1914–1945
Women serve as nurses in the Army, Navy and Air Force Medical Corps throughout the World Wars. On the homefront, women work at jobs normally reserved for men while they are absent.
1916
Thanks to the work of activists like Nellie McClung, Manitoba becomes first province to give women the vote.
McClung was a feminist activist and fantastic public speaker known for her role in women’s suffrage. In 1914, a group of women led by McClung petitioned Manitoba’s parliament, requesting for the right to vote. They were declined by the Premier, Sir Rodmand Roblin. McClung used Roblin’s arrogant refusal speech as inspiration for “The Women’s Parliament”. In the staged, mock parliament, men petitioned a female government for rights while the latter used Roblin’s logic to turn them down. The humorous play successfully brought attention to McClung’s causes. When T.C. Norris replaced Roblin as Premier, the former was presented with 40,000 signatures supporting the women’s vote. A bill was subsequently introduced and passed unanimously in 1916, making Manitoba the first province to give women the vote.
1921
Agnes Macphail is the first woman to be elected to the House of Commons.
Macphail was raised by farmers and was acutely aware of the issues they faced. She was elected to represent them in 1921 — the first woman elected to the federal government. No token female politician, her career in both federal and provincial politics was productive. Macphail fought tirelessly against a barrage of gender discrimination through which she had to constantly prove herself worthy. Even with this added pressure, Macphail championed issues such as worker’s rights, prison reform, seniors’ pension, and gender equity, making great headway in many areas.
1928
First Olympic team including women participates in the Games.
The first of Canada’s Olympic teams to include women participated in the track and field events at the Games in 1928. Women such as Bobbie Rosenfeld, Ethel Smith and Ethel Catherwood’s great performances made Amsterdam one of the best year for female, Canadian Olympians to date. Rosenfeld and Smith won silver and bronze medals respectively in the 100 meter race and, along with Myrtle Cook and Jane Bell, set a world record and won gold medals at the 4x100 meter relay race.
1929
The Famous Five, including Nellie McClung, appeal to the British Privy council to overturn the Supreme Court’s decision on the legal definition of a “person”. It is determined that the word “person” does indeed include persons of the female gender.
1937
The Montreal Dressmakers’ Strike is organized by the International Ladies’ Garment Workers’ Union. The strike constitutes an important step forward in attaining workers’ rights in Jewish Montreal.
1947
After receiving several literary prizes throughout her career, Gabrielle Roy is first woman to become a member of the Royal Society of Canada.
1951
Charlotte Whitton is elected Mayor of Ottawa. She is the first female mayor of a major metropolitan area in Canada.
1972
Muriel McQueen Fergusson is the first woman to be appointed Speaker in the Senate.
1989
Audrey McLaughlin is the first female party leader in Canada. She was at the front of Canada’s New Democratic Party from 1989–1995.
1992
Roberta Bondar, the first Canadian female astronaut, is launched into space.
Roberta Bondar, who is known for her extensive knowledge in various fields such as neurology, incredible intelligence and speaking skills, earned herself the chance to become the first neurologist and female astronaut to be launched into space in 1992 aboard the shuttle Discovery. She has since received many honours, including the Order of Canada, and was inducted into the Canadian Medical Hall of Fame.
2010
Angela James is first Canadian woman to be inducted into the Hockey Hall of Fame.
Hockey star Angela James, who is often affectionately referred to as the “Wayne Gretzky of women’s hockey” was the first Canadian woman to be inducted into the Hockey Hall of Fame in 2010. Along with American Cammi Granato, James was part of the first women to take part in the induction ceremony in Toronto. She is known for her multiple wins at international levels, including her receipt of four gold medals at the world championships throughout the 1990s as well as her important role in promoting women’s hockey. Her plaque in the Hall of Fame describes her as a “Pioneer of the women’s game”.
by Paul Jones
Such a nice family portrait, everyone in my wife’s family agreed. All her cousins have copies too. Unfortunately, none of the prints carries the name of a photographer or any annotation of date or place.
The Maynards were Protestant missionaries from the county of Kent, England, who had lived in India around the turn of the twentieth century. Around 1912, it was said, they moved to Victoria, British Columbia. The photo certainly doesn’t look like India. Possibly it was taken in Kent. Maybe B.C. The youngest child, Joyce, was born in 1905, so the consensus from her apparent age in the photo was of a late Edwardian date. No one knew for sure and no one thought much about it. A nice shot, but families have their pictures taken all the time, right?
That was certainly my attitude, even when I used the photo to illustrate my research into the history of the Maynard family. (My late father-in-law, Max, is the worried-looking chappie at the far left.) I had documented the missionary travels of the patriarch, Thomas Henry (Harry) Maynard, often but not always accompanied by wife Eliza (Lily) and assorted children. I had even tracked down and read the long-out-of-print autobiography of eldest son Theodore, a poet and theologian who scandalized his parents by converting to Roman Catholicism before settling in the United States.
One day it dawned on me that Theodore must have left India to attend his English boarding school long before his youngest siblings had even been born. Far from being an every-other-weekend occurrence, a Maynard family get-together was surely a rare event. Just how rare?
For each member of the family, I compiled a timeline based on family, civil, church, military, and transportation records — anything that would give information about where a family member was at a specific moment in time. The starting point was October 1905, when Joyce was born, and the end was April 1917, when Frank died at Vimy Ridge. For each member of the family, I categorized every month by the country of residence. Rationale: To sit for a family photo, you can’t be in different countries. When were they all in the same country?
Let’s take Joyce as an example. She was born in Britain in October 1905 while her parents were on home leave from their missionary duties. According to the missionary newsletter for their sect, Joyce accompanied her mother back to India in October 1908 and stayed there until October 1911, when they all returned to Britain. In October 1912, Joyce, her mother, and two siblings sailed from Liverpool to Montreal on the Empress of Ireland — the ship that a year and a half later would sink in the St. Lawrence River in Canada’s deadliest maritime disaster. (Joyce’s father and three of her brothers had preceded them across the Atlantic in August of that year.) Joyce then stayed in Canada with most of her family through the war years, although her father did return to India for one last hurrah between 1913 and 1916.
So here’s what the timelines look like after August 1912, when the first family members arrived in Canada. Those who have been reading attentively will be able to figure out which country is signified by each colour, but it’s not necessary to do so. The key point to note is that no column is in a single colour, and so members of the family were never all in the same country during this period and thus could not have had their photo taken together.

Similar analysis rules out the interval between June 1906 and September 1911. And prior to June 1906, two of the children were babes or infants. So, by a process of elimination, the photo must have been taken in the period between October 1911 and July 1912 when all members of the family were in Britain.
I have to admit I was quite full of myself for having narrowed down the date and location of the photo from a span of several years and three continents to one ten-month interval and a single country.
Then I was lucky enough to meet Boston-based Maureen Taylor, a.k.a. the Photo Detective. Her insights persuaded me that much more could yet be discovered. She pointed out that the healthy foliage was hardly consistent with even a mild English winter. Indeed, the trees seem to be in flower — for example, to the left of Max. If so, the photo could only have been taken in the spring.
Was there anything more to be learned from the foliage? Two experts, including one from the Royal Horticultural Society in London, concluded that the photo shows fruit trees trained on a lattice — a fashionable practice at the time — possibly cherry, apple, or pear. Foliage of this character in southern England would argue for a date in April.
Taylor also encouraged me to consider the specific location the photo could have been taken. A very likely spot was the back garden of the Maynard home in the town of Tunbridge Wells, especially as Harry’s mother, Maria, was ill thoughout this period — indeed, she died on May 21, 1912. It seemed a dead-cinch certainty that the Maynards must have gathered at Maria’s home during her illness, even though Theodore was living in London and Norman and Frank were attending boarding school in Margate.
But, alas, a site visit confirmed what an aerial view from Microsoft Bing had suggested: This photo could not have been taken in Maria Maynard’s postage-stamp back garden.
Then I noticed that Maria’s death certificate gave the address of Harry’s temporary lodgings in Britain: 25 Cavendish Avenue, Eastbourne. An aerial view seemed promising, and I sent a note to the local genealogical support group in what is now East Sussex.
Genealogists are helpful folk. Three people offered to pop over to Eastbourne to take a look; a fourth suggested she could nip around the corner to Cavendish Avenue; while a fifth said, no problem, he’d ask his brother who lives at number 23. The latter’s judgement after sticking his head over the fence: “I would say that the old photo was indeed taken at number 25.”
So a ten-month interval and an entire country were further winnowed to a single month and one specific back garden!
But here’s the kicker. During that ten-month period, how many family portraits did this group sit for? My guess is only one. It’s inconceivable that these pious folk, always in need of funds to spread the Lord’s word, would have paid for two photographic sessions in a matter of months.
If this conjecture is correct, we are forced to the conclusion that this was the only photograph of the Maynards taken when all members of the family were of an age to remember and appreciate the occasion. No wonder it evoked strong emotions in all those who appeared in it. No wonder it was lovingly passed down to all branches of the family, even as its significance was lost on subsequent generations!
What untold stories are waiting to be teased from your family photos?
Paul Jones, a former publisher, is a writer, a consultant, and an avid genealogical researcher and volunteer.
More Online Extras
Those interested in a more in-depth review of photography in family history should seek out one or more of these recent books:
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Fitzpatrick, Colleen. The Dead Horse Investigation: Forensic Photo Analysis for Everyone. Fountain Valley, California: Rice Book Press, 2008.
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Mooreshead, Halvor and Jeff Chapman, eds. More Dating Old Photographs, 1840-1929, 3rd printing. Toronto, Ontario: Family Chronicle, 2011.
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Pols, Robert. Family Photographs, 1860-1945. Richmond, Surrey, UK: Public Record Office, 2002.
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Shrimpton, Jayne. Family Photographs & How to Date Them. Newbury, Berkshire, UK: Countryside Books, 2008.
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Shrimpton, Jayne. How to Get the Most from Family Pictures. London, UK: Society of Genealogists, 2011.
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Taylor, Maureen A. Fashionable Folks: Hairstyles, 1840-1900. Picture Perfect Press, 2009.
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Taylor, Maureen A. Uncovering Your Ancestry Through Family Photographs. Cincinnati, Ohio: Family Tree Books, 2005.
by Joanna Dawson & Beverley Tallon
Dr. Norman Bethune (1890–1939):
China’s great friend
Virtually unknown in Canada during his lifetime, Dr. Norman Bethune continues to be revered in China as an example of selfless humanitarianism.
Born in Gravenhurst, Ontario, in 1890, Bethune seemed destined to spend much of his life on or near a battlefield. He interrupted his medical studies to serve as a stretcher-bearer in France during World War I. Wounded by shrapnel, he returned to Canada and graduated from the University of Toronto’s faculty of medicine in 1916. With the war still on, Bethune returned to serve in England as a lieutenant-surgeon with the Royal Navy.
After the war, Bethune practised in Montreal, where he set up a free medical clinic and lobbied for universal health care. But he was restless and passionate by nature and, when the Spanish Civil War broke out in 1936, he left for Madrid, setting up the world’s first mobile blood-transfusion clinic.
Bethune is most remembered for the two years he spent in China during the Sino-Japanese War. He fearlessly cared for wounded soldiers and civilians amidst aggressive fighting. He built a portable surgical theatre, which he carried on two mules, and trained civilians in basic medical and surgical practices.
On November 12, 1939, Bethune died from blood poisoning after operating on a wounded soldier. The Chinese greatly mourned his loss. To this day, Chinese schoolchildren learn about “the great Canadian friend of the Chinese people.”
John Peters Humphrey (1905–1995):
Father of human rights
By the age of eleven, John Peters Humphrey had lost both of his parents to cancer and had had his left arm amputated after a fire. As an adolescent, his disability made him a target for bullies at his boarding school. These difficulties seemed to strengthen his character, however. He went on to become an international human rights pioneer, drafting the Universal Declaration of Human Rights.
After distinguishing himself in private law and as a professor at McGill University, Humphrey was appointed director of the human rights division in the UN Secretariat in 1946. There, he worked closely with Eleanor Roosevelt to draft a bill that would guarantee the basic rights of all people. The final declaration was reached on December 10, 1948, after 187 meetings and 1,400 resolutions. Roosevelt described it as “the Magna Carta of all mankind.”
For the next twenty years, Humphrey travelled extensively to ensure systems were in place to protect human rights and to establish them where they were not. He worked tirelessly to advance such causes as freedom of the press, the status of women, and ending racial discrimination.
Humphrey’s role in the universal declaration was somewhat obscured and not fully realized until the original draft was discovered many years later. In 1974 he was made an Officer of the Order of Canada and in 1988 he was awarded the United Nations Prize for human rights advocacy.
George Atkins (1917–2009):
Founder of Farm Radio
Long before the advent of the Internet, a farmer from Oakville, Ontario, created an international network to spread agricultural knowledge to the world’s poorest farmers.
George Atkins, who earned an agriculture degree at Ontario Agricultural College, started a radio and television show in his community that provided advice to local farmers. A few years later, in 1955, he began a twenty-five-year career with the CBC as a farm correspondent.
In 1975, Atkins travelled to Zambia for meetings with the Commonwealth Broadcasters’ Association. While there, he saw that farmers in developing countries needed better access to information about practical and inexpensive technology, such as fertilizing with manure or raising oxen.
Atkins launched the Developing Countries Farm Radio Network, which compiles and distributes information to farm broadcasters around the developing world. Based in Ottawa, it began in 1979 with thirty-four broadcasters and twenty-six countries. Now called Farm Radio International, it has grown to three hundred broadcasters in more than thirty-nine African countries.
Dr. Gustave Gingras (1918–1996):
Rehabilitation pioneer
His work with injured veterans of World War II launched Dr. Gustave Gingras’s career as an international expert in helping disabled people. Gingras, who had served with the Royal Canadian Army Medical Corps as a neurology intern during the war, was asked by famed neurologist Dr. Wilder Penfield to oversee the rehabilitation of a group of fifty veterans in Montreal who were expected to be invalids for the rest of their lives.
Gingras brought together a team of therapists, social workers, and psychologists and pioneered many rehabilitation techniques. As a result, many of the vets were able to return to their homes and jobs. His success led to more demand for his services, and in 1949 he founded the Rehabilitation Institute of Montreal, which was fully operational by the time a polio epidemic hit in the 1950s.
Other countries soon sought Gingras’s help. He went to South America under the auspices of the United Nations to help victims of work-related accidents in the oil industry. In 1959, he went to Morocco to rehabilitate ten thousand people who were suddenly paralyzed from consuming motor oil sold as cooking oil. During the Vietnam War, he set up rehabilitation centres and ran workshops to build prosthetic devices.
At the end of his life, he suffered a neurological disorder but followed his own motto: “Never give up, and focus on remaining abilities rather than on those lost.”
Dr. Lucille Teasdale-Corti (1929–1996):
War surgeon in Uganda
As a twelve-year-old student at a Montreal school, Lucille Teasdale’s direction in life was influenced by the visit of some missionary nuns who had worked in China. Wishing to be like them and to make a difference in the world, Teasdale decided on a career in medicine. When she graduated from the University of Montreal in 1955, she became one of Quebec’s first female surgeons.
In 1961, she travelled to Uganda to help Dr. Piero Corti transform a small forty-bed clinic into a hospital. Dr. Teasdale tended to as many as three hundred outpatients each morning and performed surgeries in the afternoon, while Corti, who became her husband, raised money for the Lacor Hospital project.
When civil war broke out in Uganda in 1971, Teasdale-Corti found herself working as a war surgeon, with the hospital often under attack. In the mid-1980s, she contracted AIDS while operating on a soldier. Teasdale-Corti managed to continue working for another eleven years before passing away.
Lacor Hospital is today one of the finest in East Africa, with almost five hundred beds, three satellite clinics, and 300,000 patients annually.
Kathy Knowles (1955–):
Extraordinary storyteller
Sometimes, small actions can spark big changes. In 1989, Kathy Knowles and her family moved to Accra, Ghana, when her husband accepted a position with a Canadian gold-mining company. In their new backyard in the West African city, Knowles began a story time for her four children and their friends. Knowles soon became big news in the community, and her backyard story time quickly grew to include over seventy children.
Realizing that the children needed a proper and permanent place to read books, Knowles converted her garage into a makeshift library. Within a short time there was a waiting list for books. Knowles raised some money and, with the help of the community, bought and transformed a shipping container into Osu Library. Knowles accumulated over three thousand books, both from her own collection and donated from friends and family in Canada.
In 1993, Knowles and her family returned to Canada, but not before ensuring Osu Library could keep on running. She set up the Osu Library Fund as a registered charity in Ghana and Canada and trained community members to work in the library.
Today, Knowles continues her work with the Osu Library Fund from her home in Winnipeg. She has helped build seven libraries in Accra and more than two hundred in Africa. Many of her libraries now include adult literacy classes, child nutrition programs, and cultural events.
Craig Kielburger (1982–):
Children’s rights activist
Craig Kielburger is well-known to Canadians for starting the international advocacy group, Free the Children, at the age of twelve. He was motivated to fight against child slavery after reading about a twelve-year-old Pakistani boy who had been sold to a carpet maker at age four. Iqbal Masih escaped when he was ten but was assassinated two years later for speaking up for the rights of thousands of child labourers working in terrible conditions.
Angered about the boy’s tragic fate, Kielburger brought the newspaper article to his school. He and his classmates immediately took action; they wrote letters to world leaders, formed petitions, raised money, and increased awareness of child slavery.
Free the Children has since built over 650 schools, established rehabilitation centres to support former child slaves, founded medical clinics, and raised the awareness of millions of people all over the world.
Kielburger continues to work with Free the Children and has since co-founded two other organizations — Leaders Today and Me to We — with his older brother Marc Kielburger. The brothers jointly write a syndicated column and are bestselling authors. Both are also Members of the Order of Canada.
James Gareth Endicott (1898–1993):
Peacemaker and pariah
Socialist missionary James Gareth Endicott held views about Red China that were unpopular in his time, causing him to be reviled by top Canadian politicians and slammed in the press as “public enemy No. 1.”
Endicott was born in China to Canadian missionaries. He returned to Canada in 1910 and served with the Canadian artillery in World War I. After the war he trained as a Methodist minister and in 1925, he returned to Chungking in Szechuan, China, to begin two decades of missionary work.
Endicott became a vocal supporter of the pro-revolutionary communists during the Chinese civil war (1927–1949). His views put him at odds with the church and he was forced to resign in 1946.
Undaunted, he returned to Canada and founded the Canadian Peace Congress in 1948 and a year later played a key role at the World Peace Council in Stockholm, which fuelled the “ban the bomb” movement. In 1952, the RCMP considered him a security threat and the Canadian government threatened to try him for treason.
But Endicott carried on, maintaining his leadership of the Canadian Peace Congress for twenty-five years and dedicating his life to the international peace movement. Meanwhile, public attitudes gradually shifted. In 1982 the United Church issued an apology to Endicott, saying that the events of the past thirty years had borne out many of Endicott’s “predictions and prophetic actions on the issue of world peace.”
Paul Gérin-Lajoie (1920–):
International educator
As a provincial cabinet minister in the 1960s, Paul Gérin-Lajoie modernized Quebec’s outdated school system. He would later take his expertise in educational improvement around the world.
In 1970, he became president of the Canadian International Development Agency, a position he held for seven years. During that time he forged international relationships with more than seventy-five countries and developed and implemented cooperative programs with more than sixty organizations. He increased Canada’s visibility and reputation internationally while serving on many boards, including the World Bank.
After his political career, Gérin-Lajoie formed a consulting firm specializing in international cooperation. Throughout his career, education remained one of Gérin- Lajoie’s top priorities. In 1977, he founded the Paul Gérin-Lajoie Foundation, an organization dedicated to improving child education and eliminating illiteracy in developing countries. At the heart of its mission was the belief that education is an essential human right.
Gérin-Lajoie continues to work with the foundation, which also educates Canadian youth about international development.
Maurice Strong (1929–):
Global environment leader
From his humble roots as a prairie boy growing up during the Great Depression, Maurice Strong went on to become one of the most important leaders in the global environmental movement.
The bright, hardworking Strong completed high school by age fourteen. At nineteen, James Richardson & Sons – a leading brokerage firm — hired him as an oil and mineral resources specialist. From there, Strong excelled in the resources industry and by 1961 he was president of Power Corporation of Canada.
Strong gained the attention of then-Prime Minister Lester Pearson, who invited him to serve as deputy minister of external aid, a department which later evolved into the Canadian International Development Agency (CIDA). His work with CIDA gave him insights into the complexities of development and he soon became a powerful voice in environmental politics.
In 1972, he became an international name after being elected to head the newly formed United Nations Environment Program. Twenty years later, Strong led the UN Conference on Environment and Development — the Earth Summit — in Rio de Janeiro. More than 120 heads of state attended the conference, which laid the groundwork for greater environmental protection and responsibility. Following the summit, Strong took an active role in carrying out the initiatives and programs developed during the conference.
Today, Maurice Strong lives in China, where he continues to work closely with the resource and technology industries and as an advocate for the environmental movement.
The first seven profiles in this article originally appeared in the February-March 2012 issue of Canada's History.
by Joel Ralph
In the February-March 2012 issue of Canada's History, Joanna Dawson and Beverley Tallon enlightened us about seven Canadians who have made a difference (see page 59). As part of our Canadians and the World series, we introduce you to Louise Atkins, the daughter of Farm Radio International Founder George Atkins, to talk about her Dad and his work in the developing world.
She describes how her father’s connection with radio and learning began early in life in rural Ontario. He helped found the Junior Farmers of Ontario Association in 1946, the start of a lifelong effort to improve the work and pride in farming as a profession.
Through his work as a CBC Farm Radio Broadcaster, Atkins travelled the world meeting with agricultural leaders and farmers. Through these connections he was inspired to create the Developing Countries Farm Radio Network, now Farm Radio International. The organization creates educational radio programs that are translated into local languages and shared in group settings around the world, not unlike the gatherings that George attended in the 1940s in Canada.
Before George passed away in 2009 he recorded this interview about the original iidea for the Farm Radio International network.
by Laina Hughes
In the February-March 2012 issue of Canada's History, Joanna Dawson and Beverley Tallon enlightened us about seven Canadians who have made a difference (see page 59). As part of our Canadians and the World online extensions, we introduce you to Tony Breuer:
CHF, formerly known as the Canadian Hunger Foundation, is a non-governmental organization that has dedicated the past fifty years to helping poor rural communities in developing countries reach sustainable livelihoods.
Since 1961, the Ottawa-based organization has worked with partners on projects in fifty-two countries to benefit the lives of millions of people and help break the cycle of poverty worldwide.
Tony Breuer, CHF’s executive director for more than ten years, brings a wealth of knowledge and experience to the organization. Breuer has worked as a diplomat and foreign aid official for more than twenty years, and has worked and lived in countries such as Tanzania, Pakistan, Bangladesh, and Ethiopia.
“We’re rich and they’re poor,” says Breuer, emphasising the “sense of brotherhood” that motivates him to help people around the world. Breuer says his work is not about charity — it’s about helping people build self-resilience and find opportunities for themselves.
To learn more or donate, visit the CHF website.
by Katherine Dow
In the February-March 2012 issue of Canada's History, Joanna Dawson and Beverley Tallon enlightened us about seven Canadians who have made a difference (see page 59). As part of our Canadians and the World series, we introduce you to: Julia Goulden.
Special education teacher Julia Goulden founded CoDevelopment Canada in 1985 after seeing a stirring photograph in a daily newspaper. The photo, which showed a group of female teachers raising their arms against a crowd of police, moved Goulden to foster a partnership between the B.C. Teachers’ Federation and an organization of teachers in Peru.
This was CoDev’s first project and 26 years later, CoDevelopment Canada has far exceeded Goulden’s initial expectations. “Initially it was a very small organization that basically worked in the education sector. Over the 26 years, we’ve really engaged other unions. It’s just grown that more people are involved, more organizations see themselves in solidarity with us,” explained Goulden. “That was always the goal from the beginning. Over the years, it has progressively grown larger and has evolved.”
Today, CoDev partners with 17 Canadian organizations in a range of Latin American countries. CoDev supports such initiatives as gender equality in Central American education, labour rights in the Maquila garment industry, and grass-roots human rights initiatives for Colombian public sector workers.
After 25 years of service with CoDevelopment Canada, Julia Goulden stepped down from CoDev’s board in 2010. Julia recently spoke with Katherine Dow, editorial intern at Canada’s History Magazine about her work with CoDev.
To learn more or donate, visit CoDevelopment Canada.
by Nelle Oosterom
Vancouver's poorer residents have lost one of their civic champions. Jim Green, an outspoken former Vancouver city councillor and social justice advocate was both famed and infamous for his pugilistic rhetorical style. He died of cancer on February 28, 2012. In the October-November 2009 issue of The Beaver magazine, Jim Green figured prominently in the feature article "Saving Skid Row," by Christopher Pollon (photos by Venturi + Karpa). Pollon's article told the story of the once-glamorous, but now downtrodden hotels that dot Vancouver's notorious Downtown Eastside. In the article, Green argues that the hotels — and the heritage they represent — are worth saving.
by Nelle Oosterom
In the February-March 2012 issue of Canada's History, Joanna Dawson and Beverley Tallon enlightened us about seven Canadians who have made a difference (see page 59). As part of our Canadians and the World series, Canada’s History spoke with Ron Enns, Executive Director of iDE Canada.
iDE was founded in 1982 by American entrepreneur and philanthropist Paul Polak. Their first project took place in a Somalian refugee camp, where iDE reengineered a traditional donkey cart, making it easier for people to transport their goods to market.
Today, iDE Canada is dedicated to helping poor, subsistence farmers elevate themselves out of poverty. iDE Canada develops simple and affordable technologies, which help people improve their productivity, profit, and quality of life.
Ron Enns joined iDE Canada as Executive Director, after retiring from a successful career in agriculture. Ron always had an interest in development and says it’s been a lifelong journey to get to where he is.
“It’s gratifying to work with individual philanthropists who think it’s important to help the world’s poor,” he says. “It’s been very inspiring.”
University of Alberta employee makes surprising photographic find of historic significance.
By Michael Davies-Venn; scroll to bottom to view photo gallery.
It was a cold, snowy day in Winnipeg, and Wayne MacDonald was on a hunt, on foot. And his passion saw him braving what he describes as a classic Canadian whiteout, looking for a Mother’s Day gift for his wife, whom the University of Alberta’s Faculty of Extension Government Studies Program Manager had left in Edmonton.
The search took him to a dark room at the back of a Winnipeg antiques store — and what he found there was well beyond what he’d set out for. He made a discovery that deepens his understanding of himself; changes Canada’s historical records; and sets his life on a new path.
It all started with a question to a clerk, when he could not find the right gift at a mall.
“I asked if there’s an antique store nearby. And they said, “Yes. There’s one called the Old Curiosity Shop,’” MacDonald says, an avid collector of Victorian age artefacts.
MacDonald had not come to Manitoba looking for a gift. He’d dashed out his house just a few hours earlier to catch a plane to a conference in Winnipeg. “I’d rushed out the house and had left my coat hanging on the rack because the cab driver who brought me to the airport had arrived early and was honking. So the only clothing I had against the cold was my suit jacket,” he says.
When MacDonald arrived on Edmonton Street at the Old Curiousity Shop, he was a bit disappointed. “I was just about to leave, when the owner, Faye Settler, said to me, “would you like to see in the back room?”’
Because he was an avid collector, MacDonald knew it was wise to always accept such invitations to the attic, back room or basement of antique stores. “Usually there will be something very interesting back there,” he says.
Unfortunately, nothing in the back room caught his eye, either. But just as he was walking out, he glimpsed something. “I saw this portrait sitting up against a wall. And I immediately recognized (the subjects) as my relatives,” he says. “I was absolutely flabbergasted.”
MacDonald’s surprising find is of great significance for historians; it turns out that among his ancestors pictured in the portraits were two men who had met in Charlottetown in 1864 to help hammer out Confederation — former Prime Minister Sir Charles Tupper, and Sir James A. Macdonald, a legal adviser to the Fathers of Confederation and a former federal justice minister and attorney general.
The story of how the portraits came to be at the Old Curiosity Shop — to be eventually discovered by MacDonald — is a tale of luck and serendipity. In 1978, a landlord in Manitoba was suddenly left with framed portraits of people he did not know, explains MacDonald. The landlord thought the images might be worth something so he telephoned an antique dealer — Faye Settler — to examine them.
Settler drove to the house, recognized some of the people in the frames, chose a pristine set of photographs, paid and left. She returned home to her mother, who admonished her for not buying the entire lot, including the damaged portraits. “Her mother said, ‘Are you crazy?! You should have bought them all.’”
So Settler drove back to the house, this time with her seventy-year-old mother in tow — even though the landlord had warned Settler that he had thrown the unpurchased potraits into a nearby dumpster.
“Faye climbs into the dumpster and hands out the eighteen damaged portraits to her mother. And they transported the portraits to a dry storage bin.” MacDonald explained. “And they stayed in that storage bin from 1978 until I came to the conference in 2003.”
It turned out that the portraits had belonged to MacDonald’s cousin, Emma Tupper-Harris. After her death, a relative that Tupper-Harris had lived with abandoned their house and the portraits along with it.
Since 2003, MacDonald has been engaged in what he describes as a labour of love — restoring the frames and pictures. The result of his painstaking work was on display at the University of Alberta’s faculty club February 29. The show — Serendipity: unveiling the historical MacDonald-Tupper Photographs — is also on display today, March 1, at Edmonton’s Extension Gallery Enterprise in the Atrium of Enterprise Square, from 10:00 am to 4:00 pm.
Former Canadian deputy prime minister of Canada Anne Mclelllan, will attend the exhibition, which includes pictures of the entire Tupper family; a Confederation ball in Charlottetown in Halifax in 1864; the investiture of the Governor General, the Marquis of Lorne in Halifax, at Province House in 1878. McDonald says it’s a privilege to bring the images to public.
“I don’t believe that you can ever understand who you are or what your country is if you don’t know where you came from,” he says. “They’re pictures that you’d never ever imagine having access to. It’s kind of like having a window into your past.”
And about the Mother’s Day gift he’d set out for, he says, “I actually found a lovely piece of jewellery for my wife that she enjoyed immensely.”
by Nelle Oosterom
In the February-March 2012 issue of Canada's History, Joanna Dawson and Beverley Tallon enlightened us about seven Canadians who have made a difference (see page 59). As part of our Canadians and the World series, Canada’s History spoke with Robert Granke, Executive Director of Canadian Lutheran World Relief (CLWR).
The CLWR was formed in 1946 to provide relief and aid to people in post-war Europe. In addition to sending much needed supplies to those displaced by the war, the organization also helped refugees who were seeking a new home in Canada.
Today, CLWR continues its refugee and relief work, while also engaging in development work in countries like Zambia, Mozambique, India, and Boliva, as well as Palestine and East Africa. Although the challenges and needs of each area is different, CLWR maintains its focus on fostering sustainable programs and communities.
Robert Granke has extensive experience in development work, both with the CWLR and other organizations. At his best estimate, he says his work has brought him to 108 countries. Although he tires a bit from the travel, he's motivated to continue the important work of helping those in need.
"I can see the benefits that it’s providing for people and it just stirs me up to continue doing this and make sure others hear the story."
You can watch more videos about CLWR and their work by visiting their YouTube channel.
by Mark McAvoy
Colleen Cameron’s father worked at Coady, which exposed her to people from around the world and got her interested in both nursing and working in Africa.
Cameron has worked in Canada, Africa, and the Middle East. She has participated in emergency famine relief projects, helped communities develop health evaluation tools, conducted gender and health workshops in Rwanda, and co-facilitated the Inaugural Institute for Gender and HIV/AIDS in South Africa.
In her talk with Canada’s History, Cameron explains that educating communities on gender is hugely important for health and development. She explains although typically females have “less status, less opportunities, and less control of resources” than males, gender affects both males and females.
“From a development perspective, if we don’t utilize the talents and the resources of half the population we’re not going to grow and develop.” Cameron currently teaches at St. Francis Xavier University, dividing her time between the Coady and the nursing department.
Visit their website to learn more about Coady International Institute.
by Phil Koch
In the April-May issue of Canada’s History magazine, reporter Rob Alexander tells about an exciting new project from by Renegade Arts Entertainment. This April, the Canmore, Alberta-based organization is publishing The Loxleys and the War of 1812, a graphic novel for readers aged ten and up.
The book tells the story of a fictional Canadian family in the Niagara Peninsula and how its members are affected by the battle. The Loxleys’ struggles are set in the context of actual historical events from the conflict that raged for more than two years.
The full-colour, hardcover book is written by Alan Grant and includes a lengthy summary of the War of 1812 by military historian Mark Zuehlke.
Renegade Arts Entertainment launches The Loxleys and the War of 1812 April 27 at the Calgary Entertainment Expo, where illustrators Claude St. Aubin and Lovern Kindzierski will be in attendance. Events at bookstores and War of 1812 bicentenary events will take place throughout the year.
For more about the book, launch events, and related materials, visit RenegadeArtsEntertainment.com.
The article in the Currents section of Canada’s History magazine was accompanied by a sample page from the graphic novel, and we have included more sample pages below.
Click on the images to launch pdfs.







Remember when Paul Anka — the original “Lonely Boy” — sang of his love of Molson Canadian? How about when “The Great One,” Wayne Gretzky, waxed poetic about the low-sugar content of Pro Stars cereal? Prominent Canadians have long lent their celebrity to sell everything from cereals to toothpaste. Here's a compilation of a dozen historic commercials that will likely be familiar to many.
Eaton's 1990 Canada's Department Store (with Neve Campbell)
HBC 1988 Shop at the Bay
Bank of Montreal 1984 Meet a banker
Maple Leaf Foods ('80s) Bacon Bacon
Tim Hortons 1980 Timtarts
Canadian Tire ('80s) Buy a Commodore Computer
Old Dutch Potato Chips 1978 Potato Wars
Canadian Western Natural Gas 1960s "Mashup"
Molson Canadian 1970s (with Paul Anka)
Imperial Oil Esso 1960 Hockey Table Special
Canadian version of American brands
Pro Stars Cereal 1984 (with Wayne Gretzky)
Crest Toothpaste 1963 Cathy and Leigh
The April-May cover story of Canada's History is Titanic: 100 Years After — Canada's Role Remembered. It's not the first time the magazine has looked at this tragic event, but a centenary is a timely opportunity to reflect again.
Many organizations have found ways to honour the passengers of Titanic, from museum exhibits to memorial cruises, train trips, books and movies. Canadian director James Cameron is re-releasing his 1997 blockbuster in a 3D version.
Julian Fellowes, creator of Downton Abbey, has written a re-telling of Titanic that is premiering in Canada as a four-part series (you can catch up on past episodes online). It's concluding episode will air on April 11th. Scroll down below and you can watch a trailer of the movie and view the photo gallery slideshow of scenes from the movie.
We've also included a National Geographic interview with Bob Ballard, the man credited with finding Titanic during a U.S. navy mission in 1985.
You can see Titanic in technicolour thanks to a young Toronto artist bringing the Titanic disaster back to life via a series of paintings he has created to commemorate the centennial of the ship's sinking. Matthew Chapman's solo show at the Toronto Arts & Letters Club will continue until April 28.
Other online extras from Canada's History
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Shipwrecked Friendship — written by Beverley Tallon, it is an article about three prominent Canadian businessmen who travelled on Titanic's maiden voyage, but no amount of wealth could save them.
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Canada's Forgotten Railway Tycoon — written by Gavin Murphy and appearing in the December 1993/January 1994 issue of The Beaver, Charles Melville Hayes was a prime architect of the expansion of the Canadian railway, only to fall into obscurity due to his untimely death on the Titanic.
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History in the News: Titanic Sinks, Halifax Rises — written in October 1998 by a staff writer for The Beaver, this news article examines the impact of James Cameron's Titanic on the city of Halifax.
by Ryan Kessler
The Stanley Cup Finals have only been cancelled twice in the history of the NHL. Most recently was in the 2004-2005 season, as a result of a lockout by team owners. However, the first cancelled Stanley Cup Final was in the 1918-1919 season when the Spanish Flu infected the Montreal Canadiens locker room.
In our Canada's History podcast, Ryan Kessler and Fever Season author Eric Zweig discuss the life and death of Joe Hall.
The flu was at its deadliest in the fall of 1918, but it still lingered in March, 1919, when the Stanley Cup Finals were taking place. At that time, the Stanley Cup went to the winner of a best-of-five series between the NHL and the Pacific Coast Hockey Association (PCHA)’s top teams. The Montreal Canadiens took the ice for the NHL and the Seattle Metropolitans suited up for the PCHA.
By the end of the fifth game, the series was knotted up with two wins for each team and a draw. During that fifth game, Hall of Fame defenseman Joe “Bad Joe” Hall left early, feeling ill. Many other players also appeared tired in the contest. Even left-winger and scorer of the game-winning goal – Jack McDonald – looked more fatigued than usual.
As it turned out, Hall, McDonald, three other Canadiens players and their owner – George Kennedy – had contracted the flu.
The Canadiens management knew the team couldn’t continue playing. After all, the flu racked up a higher death toll than all of the First World War. The disease spread across the world quickly and struck viciously, with a higher mortality rate than anything seen in the lifetime of the Montreal Canadiens players.
The five players and Kennedy were admitted to bed rest in their hotel, but that wasn’t enough precaution. The finals were cancelled on April 1. The teams never re-scheduled a tie-breaking sixth game and the series ended without naming a champion.
The flu resulted in two deaths. Hall died on April 5th in a Seattle hospital of pneumonia, aged 37. Kennedy’s influenza had severely damaged his immune system, leading to his death in October, 1921.
More Canada’s History articles on the “Early NHL”:
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by Gavin Murphy
Written by Gavin Murphy and appearing in the December 1993/January 1994 issue of The Beaver, his article focuses on Charles Melville Hayes, a prime architect of the expansion of the Canadian railway, who fell into obscurity due to his untimely death on the Titanic.
by Ryan Kessler
Image courtesy of the McCord Museum. More information about the photo can be found on their website.
The 1917–1918 NHL season should’ve been one of celebration. The league was in its inaugural season with four teams ready to compete for the league’s first ever title. Yet, just as the party hats were brought out and the tacky commemorative coins were given, the NHL was dealt two sucker punches.
First, Montreal Wanderers owner Sam Lichtenhein demanded three players from each of the other three teams. He claimed the Wanderers were at a competitive disadvantage to the Montreal Canadiens, Toronto Arenas, and Ottawa Senators. Lichtenhein wanted a better team or he wanted out of the league.
Second, the Montreal Arena — the rink of both the Montreal Canadiens and the Montreal Wanderers — burned down on January 2 in a series of fiery explosions, leaving nothing but rubble.
While tension was already high with Lichtenhein, things only got worse when the Montreal Arena burned down. The Canadiens and Wanderers no longer had a home rink.
An emergency meeting was held to determine where the teams would play. For the Canadiens, the solution to the fire was simple: the team resumed play at the Jubilee Arena, the rink where they played before joining the NHL.
Lichtenhein on the other hand, once again said the Wanderers wouldn’t be playing anywhere if his demands weren’t met. When his request was turned down, Lichtenhein said the Wanderers would never compete again and resigned from the league.
The Wanderers’ withdrawal was not accepted immediately. On January 5, the Wanderers were supposed to play against the Arenas in Toronto. When the Wanderers didn’t show up, the team was assessed a $500 fine and stripped of its league membership.
The NHL continued with only three teams for the remainder of the 1917–1918 season and the 1918–1919 season. The next year, the Quebec Bulldogs joined the NHL.
More Canada’s History articles on the “Early NHL”:
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by Ryan Kessler
Howie Morenz won three Stanley Cups, led the Montreal Canadiens in scoring for seven straight seasons, and was ranked by The Hockey News as the fifteenth best player in hockey history. Yet, with all that accomplished during his life, he is still more commonly known for his untimely death.
In this Canada's History podcast, Ryan Kessler speaks with Dean Robinson, author of Howie Morenz: Hockey's First Superstar.
On January 28, 1937, Morenz and the Canadiens met the Chicago Black Hawks at the Montreal Forum. During the first period, Morenz brought the puck into the Black Hawks’ defensive zone, closely followed by opposing defenseman Earl Seibert.
Morenz — skating at full speed — lost his balance and crashed into the boards. Seibert couldn’t avoid Morenz in time and landed on him, resulting in four broken bones in Morenz’s left leg.
Morenz was told by doctors he would never play hockey again.
He stayed in a Montreal hospital for the next five weeks. Just as his leg started showing signs of improvement, he reportedly died of an embolism on March 8. His line mate and close friend Aurèle Joliat said Morenz died of a broken heart because he couldn’t live without hockey.
The funeral took place two days later at the Montreal Forum, where more than 12,000 fans paid their respects to the late hero. Thousands more lined the street for his funeral procession.
More Canada’s History articles on the “Early NHL”:
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by Ryan Kessler
Championship teams are supposed to represent the best a league has to offer. However, in 1938, Canadians and hockey fans everywhere were shocked when one of the league’s worst teams won the Stanley Cup. Not only that, but they did it with a roster some thought was nothing more than a gimmick.
Chicago Black Hawks owner Major Frederic McLaughlin decided before the 1937–38 season that he wanted his team to win a Stanley Cup with only American players — his patriotism stemmed from time he spent in the First World War.
Had McLaughlin stuck to his plan, he would’ve had only one forward, one defenseman, and one goalie. Instead, he brought in five more American players — the most of any Stanley Cup winning team.
At first, McLaughlin’s experiment seemed to be a failure. The team finished with only 14 wins in 48 games, a full 30 points behind the division-leading Boston Bruins. However, the Black Hawks were better than Detroit Red Wings by only two points, allowing them entry into the Stanley Cup Playoffs.
In the playoffs, the Black Hawks stunned the hockey world when they defeated the Montreal Canadiens and New York Americans in the first two rounds.
In the Stanley Cup Final, the Black Hawks were the clear-cut underdogs against the mighty Toronto Maple Leafs. It also didn’t help their chances that their starting goalie, Mike Karakas was taken out of the lineup with a broken toe.
Yet the Black Hawks — who had such a pitiful regular season — managed to win the next two games with minor league goaltenders. The Black Hawks lost the third game, but in the fourth, Karakas came back to win a Stanley Cup for the city of Chicago.
The 1938 Chicago Black Hawks have the worst record (14–25–9) of any team to win the Stanley Cup.
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The Canadian Forces Combat Camera was on hand to document the Vimy 95th anniversary. Below are twenty-six images taken of the events. There are five videos in their B-roll section including speeches from Veterans Affairs Minister Steven Blaney and Governor General David Johnston. Combat Camera has eight other photo galleries depicting various Canadian Forces operations that you can peruse on their website.
All images are © Department of National Defence
by Emily Cuggy/ Updated by Jessica Knapp
As of September 9th, 2015 at 12:30 PM EST Queen Elizabeth II is the longest reigning monarch in British history. On this day she officially opened the new £294m Scottish Borders Railway. Queen Elizabeth II surpasses the 63 years and 216 day reign of her great-great-grandmother, Queen Victoria (who reigned from 20 June 1837 to 22 January 1901). During Queen Elizabeth II's reign Canada has had eleven prime ministers.
Queen Elizabeth II celebrated her Diamond Jubilee in 2012, marking the sixty-year anniversary of her reign as Queen and Head of the Commonwealth. Elizabeth acceded to the throne on February 6, 1952 after the death of her father, King George VI.
After a suitable mourning period, her coronation took place over one year later on June 2, 1953. Over 8000 people attended the ceremony at Westminster Abbey and almost 3 million more lined the streets of London in celebration. Queen Elizabeth's coronation was the first ceremony to be televised, and was watched by another 20 million people all over the world.
Queen Elizabeth II is the second monarch to celebrate her Diamond Jubilee; Queen Victoria was the first to do so in 1897. Elizabeth has lived longer than any other British monarch, and her reign is the longest in Commonwealth history, surpassing Queen Victoria’s sixty-three year reign in September 2015.
The Queen first visited Canada as Princess Elizabeth in 1951. She made her first visit as Queen in 1957, when she and Prince Philip opened Canada’s twenty-third Parliament. Two years later, the couple completed an extensive tour of Canada in which they visited every province and territory. She visited Canada in 1977 to celebrate her Silver Jubilee, and again in 2002 for her Golden Jubilee.
The Queen has been present for many momentous occasions in Canadian history. Such occasions include the opening of the St. Lawrence Seaway in 1959, Canada’s Centennial celebrations in 1967, the 1976 Montreal Olympics, and the signing of Trudeau’s Constitution Act in 1982. The Queen has made twenty-two official tours of Canada to date — more than any other Commonwealth nation.
Diamond Jubilee celebrations took place across Canada in 2012. As well, In honour of the Queen, Canada distributed sixty thousand Diamond Jubilee medals. Medals were awarded to Canadians who have demonstrated dedication in serving their fellow citizens, their community, and their country. Recipients also included those who made a significant contribution to Canada or to their community.
by Ryan Kessler and Phil Koch
“History and art are intermingled for me in terms of my great passions in life,” Hayes said.
Over the past decade, Hayes has painted scenes related to the nineteenth century — the time when the Selkirk Settlers immigrated to Manitoba from Scotland. He recently donated one of his works to the Old Kildonan Presbyterian Church, built in 1853–4 for the Selkirk Settlers in what is now north Winnipeg, but also the location of Hayes’ 2008 wedding.
His recent show, Every Picture Tells a Story, presented some two dozen watercolour paintings and drawings, mostly of 20th-century scenes, as part of the Small Works Series at Winnipeg’s McNally Robinson Booksellers. He says the show and launch event gave him the chance to tell stories “directly related to Manitoba and settlement history.”
Hayes is interested in the connections between history and everyday life, such as the naming of Winnipeg’s streets. “Sutherland Avenue became a street when the city took a lot of settlement properties and named roadways after the families that occupied the land,” he noted. “In a really nice way, it takes us right from 1813 to something everybody driving down Main Street would recognize today.”
Hayes was the illustrator for the 2011 book Winnie the Bear, about the black bear named after the city of Winnipeg and brought to England in 1914, where it inspired the Winnie-the-Pooh stories. He works at Winnipeg’s Gallery Lacosse, which sells his paintings and his works in other media. The gallery will be showing new prairies scenes by Hayes this spring and summer.
The images shown here are from Hayes’ recent work, which includes watercolour paintings and drawings resembling woodcuts that were made with felt pens.
by Phil Koch
The Art Gallery of Ontario is showing the major exhibition Picasso: Masterpieces from the Musée National Picasso, Paris until August 26. At the same time, the AGO has delved into the gallery’s own history with a side exhibit based the hugely successful 1964 exhibition Picasso and Man, shown at the then-named Art Gallery of Toronto. Picasso and Man was at its time one of the largest art exhibitions ever held in Canada — over one hundred thousand people viewed the show’s five-week run.
Look Again: Picasso and Man runs until September 30 and is the first of a series of exhibitions that will look back at the gallery’s own history. It includes footage of the uncrating of works for the 1964 exhibition, candid photos, and other archival materials. For more about the Look Again show, visit the Art Gallery of Ontario.
May 2012 marks the tenth anniversary of Asian Heritage month in Canada. Senator Vivienne Poy called for the designation as a way to honour the contributions of Canadians of Asian descent, both past and present.
2012 also marks the 65th anniversary of the repeal of The Chinese Immigration Act. Until its repeal in 1947, immigration laws were restrictive and prevented Asian Canadians from not only immigrating, but also voting and holding public office. After 1947, it became easier for Asians to immigrate to Canada to establish better lives. Chinese immigrants were given the right to vote and were able to work as accountants, lawyers, and pharmacists. In 1954, Margaret Jean Gee was the first woman of Chinese descent who was called to the bar in British Columbia.
Citizenship and Immigration Canada has a put together a number of resources in honour of Asian Heritage Month. You can view an online exhibit of influential Asians who immigrated to Canada (or whose parents came to Canada from Asian countries). The exhibit showcases violinist Juliette Kang (whose parents arrived from Korea) and Japanese architect Raymond Moriyama. The exhibit shows the contributions that Asian Canadians have made to Canada as musicians, actors, filmmakers, designers, and businesspeople. The exhibit is available online and will also be traveling throughout Canada in the month of May. On Citizenship and Immigration Canada’s website, students and teachers will also find an online quiz, photo galleries, timelines, and other education resources for the classroom.
— Text by Norah Myers
From the April/May 2003 issue of The Beaver. A look at the heavens from Hudson Bay during the Transit of Venus in 1769, written by Rita Griffen-Short.
The Crowning Moments contest is now over. Congratulations to Mike Post for winning the draw for the Panasonic video camera!
1. Kim Rogerson
I do not have a story of meeting the Queen, but I do have a story of not meeting her.
When I was 11 years old, the Queen came to Toronto. This was in 1973. I desperately wanted to see her. As my room at Sick Children’s Hospital overlooked University Avenue, I hoped that I could catch a glimpse of her as her motorcade went by. However, I was extremely ill and could not get to the window. I begged my mother to tell me everything she could see of the Queen.
“I see a car… and a pink hat!” my mother exclaimed. We were so high up at Sick Kids’ that my mother could only see the Queen’s hat.
I was so disappointed in not seeing her that when I was well enough, my mother suggested I write to the Queen. So I did. I told her about my strong desire to see her and not being able to get out of bed. Then I invited her to come for lunch the next time she was in Canada.
After I sent the letter I was concerned. I said to my mother, “If the Queen comes for lunch, what will we serve her?” She replied, “Grilled cheese and soup!” For some odd reason I thought the Queen would be happy with this as it is one of my favourites.
I remember receiving a letter in the mail from Buckingham Palace. I was so excited! I have it to this day and it is a treasure that I cherish. I have included a copy of the letter from one of the Queen’s Ladies in Waiting.
2. Patricia Angus
HRH the Duke of Edinburgh and his entourage visited the Arctic in August 1954, the first member of the Royal Family to do so.
My late husband, James Angus was the teacher at the school in Coppermine (now Kugluktuk). The school was the largest venue in the community at that time, so it became the locale where the luncheon was served in the Duke's honour.
The HBC provided the fresh food, tablecloths and tableware and the small contingent of local women prepared the feast with the fresh food that they had seldom had the pleasure of eating in that remote community. The guests included the local white people, members of the Inuit community, and a number of visitors who "dropped" by such as journalists, the Commissioner of the RCMP and other dignitaries.
After the Duke visited with the Inuit community, the HBC post, and the rest of the small community, the HBC officials arranged that the Duke and his party would have an opportunity to rest, relax, wash up and have a cocktail (which couldn't be served in the presence of the Inuit at that time) in the teacher's apartment above the school. They also felt that the only people there should be my husband, his wife and small son. As you can well imagine, this was an event of a lifetime as my husband and his wife were a young couple in their twenties at the time.
My husband related this event in his book "Schoolroom, a Personal History of Education," copies of which are available in Kuglugtuk.
I have attached a picture of the Duke, my husband and a group of the school children.
3. Joseph Healy
In the summer of 1973, while posted to Prince Edward Island, I was selected to be the official RCMP driver for Her Majesty Queen Elizabth II and her husband, Prince Philip while they were on Royal Tour in Charlottetown, Summerside, and Mount Carmel. They were participating in the Island's celebration of PEI's entry into Confederation. In the photo, Her Majesty is shaking hands with me and saying thank you for being her driver. The top of Prince Philip's head behind her can also be seen. At the time, I was a Constable with the Charlotte Highway Patrol. The photo was taken by RCMP Staff Sergeant W.R. 'Bill' Haines in front of the Charlottetown Inn where the Royal couple had resided.
4. Lillian Graziadei
Photo taken circa 2001 at Rideau Hall in Ottawa, Canada; I'm on the left in the beige pants shaking hands with Prince Charles, with then-Governor General Adrienne Clarkson.
5. Mike Post
As a young lad in the late 1950s, newly crowned Queen Elizabeth visited London, Ontario. I proudly trudged down to Dundas St. with my Brownie Target SIX-16 box camera to watch the parade. In all the excitement I forgot to advance the film between shots and thus the enclosed photo resulted. Over 50 years later I still have the photo, and the camera! I like to think that the Queen, were she not the Queen, would have loved to have had this "double exposure" experience.
Years later in the 1980s, I was but three feet away from her car window in a narrow lane in Balmoral at the games and we exchanged smiles and waves but my earliest experience has been my fondest memory of the Queen.
6. David Koyzis
I have had two brushes with our royal family over the decades.
The first occurred 37 years ago, during my first trip to Europe and England. I was in London at St. Paul's Cathedral, the impressive baroque structure built by Sir Christopher Wren after the Great Fire of 1666. While there I happened to see the late Princess Alice, Duchess of Gloucester, accompanied by the Lord Mayor of London and flanked by two lines of Girl Guides, coming out of the cathedral after the end of a worship service (top right photo). I can no longer recall, if I ever knew, what the occasion was. Incidentally, Princess Alice lived a very long time indeed, as she was born in 1901 and died as recently as 2004, thus breaking the royal record for longevity at 102 years.
My second brush with royalty was with the Queen herself during her visit to Hamilton, Ontario, ten years ago on the occasion of her Golden Jubilee. My wife and daughter and I drove down to Dundurn Castle to view her motorcade as it drove down York Boulevard on its way from Toronto to Copps Coliseum, where she was to present two banners to The Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders of Canada (Princess Louise's) at a special ceremony.
As she was running late, her motorcade sped by quickly, much to the disappointment of the well-wishers who had turned out to greet her. Many people decided to leave after that point. However, our persistence was rewarded on her return trip once the ceremony had ended. Her motorcade passed by more slowly this time. The window of her car was open, and we easily saw the woman who had reigned over Canada for 50 years. She offered us her characteristic wave, much to our delight. The three of us were the last people she saw in Hamilton, for right after that we saw her motorcade pull off on the Highway 403 exit towards Toronto. Incidentally, the two banners the Queen delivered to the Argylls now hang in the front of our church, Central Presbyterian, which is the group's regimental church.
7. Barry MacKenzie
I have always been a keen monarchist, and have made efforts (whenever possible) to see members of our Royal Family when they tour Canada. I saw The Prince of Wales in 1996, The Queen and The Duke of Edinburgh in 2002, and The Duke and Duchess of Cambridge in 2011. I've only ever managed little more than a glimpse.
However, in May of this year I was honoured to have been invited, with my wife and 5 1/2 month old son, to attend a reception at CFB Gagetown for TRH The Prince of Wales and The Duchess of Cornwall. At the close of the reception, just when it seemed that I would miss my chance again, The Prince caught a view of my son, Henry, whose mother was standing in front of me and holding him.
HRH backed up a few steps and chatted briefly with my wife, asking her if Henry was our only child, followed by another question which neither she nor I can remember! And then, in a move which took us all by surprise, HRH reached out a finger a tickled my son in the belly! Being a happy baby, Henry happily grinned at his future King, at which point HRH quipped, "It's always nice when you get a smile" — in reference, I suppose, to other instances in which other babies were not so keen to have their bellies tickled. Henry will never remember this brush with royalty, but we will tell him the story and show him this somewhat fuzzy photo to prove it!
8. Julie Latimer
In 1951, then-Princess Elizabeth, with Prince Philip, toured Canada and stopped in my hometown, Kapuskasing, to tour the Spruce Falls Power & Paper company mill (newsprint/Kleenex). Although I was not born at that time, I am the Curator of Kap's museum and have created an exhibit of her visit to my town. They arrived on Tuesday, October 16th, 1951, met with the Legion Guard of Honour, with children in The Gore, stayed at the Kapuskasing Inn, toured the mill and attended a reception at the Community Club. It was a real treat for Kap residents. In the attached photo, Princess Elizabeth walks with Kapuskasing Mayor Alex Stevenson.
9. Carol Koeslag
On June 10, 2008, Prince Andrew visited Peterborough as he rather frequently does, and in particular his former Head Master Terry Guest of Lakefield College School. Terry is one of fifteen volunteers, as is my husband, at Pioneer Hope Mill on the Indian River and is about 10 miles south east of Peterborough. Hope Mill has been completely renovated by these group of volunteers from derelict to fully functioning water-powered saw mill. When they were notified that Prince Andrew wished to visit the mill the wives of the volunteers were invited to attend at his visit and subsequent tea party. I had taken our wire-haired terrier, Dexter, with me and planned to put him in the car shortly before the Prince arrived, but suddenly there was Andrew. I picked up Dexter so his leash wouldn't be trailing and in the way. The wives had been told that Andrew would only be shaking hands with the volunteers, not wives, which was okay, but Andrew stepped through the line of volunteers and began greeting the wives. The enclosed photo tells the rest! Needless to say both Dexter and I felt royally acknowledged!
10. Linda Schien
One morning in July 1988 while listening to the radio I heard that Princess Margaret would be visiting the Royal Botanical Gardens in Hamilton, Ontario that day. Living just about a fifteen minute drive from the gardens I decided to see if visiting there would give me a chance to see the Princess. As luck would have it, I was able to get close enough to her to take these pictures with just a simple 35 mm camera. It was quite a thrill to see a member of the Royal family in person. I thought it was quite appropriate that she wore a floral printed dress for the occasion. Once she got on the cart and was whisked away I lost sight of her. These pictures have been in a photo album for twenty-four years and I never thought I would get a chance to share them. Thank you for the opportunity; I live in Tennesee now, but I'm still Canadian at heart.
11. Ewart (Ed) Picton
Even though I have never been in actual contact with royalty I am sending along some photos that I took while in high school or just after I had graduated, that would be in the late forties or early fifties. The photos of the Queen Mother were taken as she approached the main entrance to the Parliament Buildings in Ottawa.
I am also sending a long a photo of the camera which was used to take the photos. The camera is a Kodak folding Kilto made in 1910, it was originally used for glass plate photography but I had it converted to take roll film.
The interesting thing about these photos is that there is little need for a great deal of security, it's unfortunate that people today have to be guarded to such a degree that the average onlooker cannot even get a decent photo.
12. Fiona Cairns
My Dad, Major Archie Cairns, MMM, CD, served 52 consecutive years in the Canadian Forces, and has led a very rich, eventful life. He has proudly served this country and has done many wonderful things. While he has had many meetings with Royalty, I have put together a compilation of photos and details of seven meetings my Dad has had over the past 60 years. It is an honour to have such a wonderful Dad, and I hope you enjoy seeing some of the things he has done.
Editor's note: The events where Archie played pipes but are not depicted in the photo gallery are: June 1953, London, England, at Queen Elizabeth II's Coronation Ball; October 1964, the State Dinner celebrating the centenary of the Confederation Conference, in Charlottetown, PEI; and April 1975, Government House in Ottawa, a gala ball was thrown by the Governor General and Madam Jules Leger for Prince Charles. Archie showed HRH the 1951 Birkhall photo in which they both posed.
Canada’s History intern Ryan Kessler interviewed John Lu and in this podcast they discuss how Fox has been a source of inspiration in Lu’s life.
Fox wanted to raise $1 for every Canadian in 1980 for cancer research, which would have been about $24 million. Since that time, over $600 million has been raised by the Terry Fox Foundation in countries across the world participating in the annual Terry Fox Run.
Fox started with humble beginnings by dipping his artificial leg in the Atlantic Ocean. As he moved west, running a full marathon every day, Fox gained more donations and more attention from the media with every step.
By the time he reached Ontario, Fox was a Canadian icon. He was the embodiment of so many qualities that Canadians value. He fought adversity like a soldier at Vimy Ridge and was noble like Lester B. Pearson. And he did this while remaining human: he wasn’t a superhero from a comic book, but he certainly was a Canadian hero.
Visit the Terry Fox Foundation to donate or take part in the Terry Fox Run in September.
On April 27, 1813, American forces defeated the British at York (present-day Toronto) and captured the capital of Upper Canada — but not before suffering their own losses. You can now watch the full film at History.ca
Canada’s History spoke to writer, director, and producer Mick Grogan about the film Explosion 1812, and what he hopes Canadians will take away from it.

Explosion 1812 tells a broad history of the war, but focuses on the American invasion at Fort York (present-day Toronto), which took place on April 27, 1813. When it became apparent that the fort would be lost to the Americans, Major General Sheaffe, the Lieutenant Governor of Upper Canada, gave orders to destroy the fort’s munitions magazine. The massive explosion killed or injured almost 250 American soldiers.
To help tell the story of the explosion at Fort York, the film follows Canadian archaeologist Dr. Ron Williamson, as his team undertakes an excavation at the present-day site. While looking for remnants of the munitions magazine, they unearth evidence of the battle and learn more about the colony’s attempt to rebuild the fort.

American historian Alan Taylor and author of The Civil War of 1812: American Citizens, British Subjects, Irish Rebels, & Indian Allies, is another prominent expert featured in the film. He explores his idea that the War of 1812 was very much a civil war. Many people living in Upper Canada at the time were American loyalists (or late-loyalists), and so the conflict had the effect of pitting family, friends, and neighbours against each other.
As a newcomer to Canada himself, producer Mick Grogan hopes that the film resonates with all Canadians — no matter where they were born.
“If you knew nothing about the 1812 war before you watch it, you won’t know everything about it,but you’ll have a glimpse into why we should care,” Mick says.
Above photos courtesy of History Television.
We asked readers about their memories of the last game of the 1972 Summit Series between Canada and the U.S.S.R. Below are some of their responses.
I was in my Grade 8 classroom at Ridgeway school in Oshawa Ontario and the teacher wheeled a TV into the room and we all crowded around to watch the game. What I remember most was the pure joy and Canadian pride in a room full of 12-year-olds when that goal was scored by Canada.
Favourite moments were Espo breaking the tension by getting up and taking a bow when he fell on the ice, the footage of the Canadians arriving in Russia, identifying as a Canadian and really understanding patriotism then.
— Patricia Robinson
My best friend and I were at the Montreal Forum for the first game — and I have to say that we were SHOCKED at how well the Russians played. For the last game I was at home glued to the TV. It was the biggest event of my life (I was 26 at the time). I remember well Hennderson's goal — and hearing my neighbours in the Montreal suburb of NDG scream with joy.
— Tim Landry
We were in the gymnasium at school, watching on the large black-and-white TV on wheels — complete with rabbit ears, watching the game with about a hundred other students. I was angry because my brother who was in a higher grade and went to another school was allowed to stay home that day to watch the game. The Henderson goal was magic. We knew it was coming — we could feel it. For some reason, it meant everything. Phil Esposito falling on the ice & the crowd laughing was another great moment.
— Brian Laufman
I was at school, Niagara University. Going from class to class, I went by the lounge area... never made it to the next class. The room erupted when Paul made his goal.
— Dale Madison
At Mary Hopkins Public School, Waterdown, Ontario — for game 7, our teachers put a TV in the big open area between 4 classrooms, and we all crowded around. It's one of my best memories of elementary school. One of the school bullies made a great show of cheering for the Russians — we were thrilled when he got his comeuppance!
— Jonathan Vance
I was sitting on the gymnasium floor at German's School. The entire school was there. It was a rural school where I was fortunate to be teaching special needs children. The staff was like a big family and the children were our children. We had only one television set in the school and NO cable etc. One of the staff members "jiggled and wiggled the antennae" until we were able to see a fuzzy screen coming and going. These measures did not deter anyone from focusing, as best they could, and listening quietly. I was amazed when the entire school erupted when Henderson scored the winning goal. Many of the children from the area played hockey on teams in the county.
— Rita Vankeuren
I was in the lounge at the Port Arthur General Hospital, Thunder Bay, Ontario, having just given birth to my first son, 9 lb. 6 oz. He never did take up hockey himself, despite seeing that amazing game at such a tender young age, he prefers curling and soccer!
— Susan Marrier
I was working in the Town of Markham municipal office when Paul Henderson scored the winning goal in the last game. We were listening to the game on the radio and were very annoyed when a resident, who obviously wasn't a hockey fan and had no sense of that momentous occasion, wouldn't stop asking us questions instead of listening to the game like everyone else was!
— Bob Martindale
In 1972 I was traveling about on a motorcycle in Australia and had no inkling that this series was being played. Prior to leaving in early 1972 there was some talk about such a series taking place but nothing was arranged. In May 1973 I was sitting in a dentist's office in Kalgoorlie. There was a six-month-old copy of Time magazine. I started reading it and there was an article about the Canada-Russia hockey series from the previous autumn. There was absolutely nothing about this in any Australian newspaper or sportscast. No one had bothered to say anything in any letter. Paul Henderson is from Lucknow, Ontario and I grew up five miles away. We used to play fastball against his team from Lucknow all the time.
— Ron Moore
You can also listen to television broadcaster Don Newman sharing his personal memories of Paul Henderson’s series-winning goal in Moscow.
by Paul Jones
Even non-genealogists would welcome a show of interest in family history by their kids (or grandkids). The youngsters won’t give a fig for the names, dates, and locales of people they’ve never heard of, but they might acquire a rudimentary appreciation of their heritage through genealogical activities crafted to appeal to their sensibilities.
Activities should be age-appropriate — what might interest a ten-year-old would bore the pants off a younger, or older, sibling. For kids of around five, plus or minus, energy-burning outings are the best bet, for example, a trip to a cemetery. Grade schoolers can often be amused by quirky facts, such as that great-granddad died in a lunatic asylum. With any luck, the information is “cool” or, the highest accolade, “gross.”
At this age, grandma’s photo albums and heirlooms may start to attract interest, especially if grandma is prepared to talk frankly about them — or about her experiences as a child of the same age in an earlier, not-plugged-in era. As kids proceed through middle school and into high school, they exercise their powers of abstract thinking and test their values; more complex family stories involving moral dilemmas just might capture their attention — for example, skeletons in the family closet.
At any age, getting kids in front of a computer may work like a charm, although you run the risk that they’d rather be playing video games. Younger kids might enjoy scanning family photos — inadvertently picking up family lore in the process. Older kids might be entertained by the detective aspect of searching online for information. Still, only the nerdiest will likely want to make a regular practice of it.
Hands-on activities may appeal to the right child, such as creating or updating a family scrapbook or drawing a family tree. (Get them to google “Bart Simpson family tree.”)
The family road trip is another time-honoured way of introducing children to their heritage. Some families have had great experiences visiting every house in which mom or dad has ever lived.
For kids who are joiners, the Scouts award a heritage badge that can be earned by preparing of a family or local history. Similarly, 4-H Clubs in various provinces offer programs in heritage, scrapbooking, and other family-related activities.
Many provinces give at least a nod to family history in the social studies curriculum. Preparation of a family history project for a local Heritage Fair would offer an intense educational experience. This might be an illustrated narrative of great-granddad’s wartime exploits or a first-person description of the family’s immigration experience. More than a thousand schools nationwide participate in Heritage Fairs, which are supported nationally by Canada’s History Society. (An aside to teachers: If you have the opportunity to offer a family history module, jump at the chance. Few topics will as readily accommodate diversity and inclusiveness while teaching computer, research, and analytical skills.)
Finally, you can scour the Internet for fun ideas for family activities with a genealogical twist. Both About.com (“Genealogy for Children”) and Suite101.com (“Fun Family History Projects for Children and Families”) offer numerous suggestions and links. For kids who are self-starters, refer them to CanadaGenWeb for Kids (and the related WorldGenWeb for Kids). A budding map maven should consider “Tracking Your Ancestors,” a mapping project outlined by Disney Family Fun.
If you really want to dedicate yourself to your kids’ genealogical coaching, you might want to improve your own credentials. Brigham Young University offers an online course entitled Helping Children Love Your Family History (free, but registration required). The National Institute for Genealogical Studies provides inexpensive online courses in planning a family video, a family reunion, or a family website — all activities in which kids could happily participate.
Paul Jones, a former publisher, is a writer, a consultant, and an avid genealogical researcher and volunteer.
On September 28, 1972, thousands of Canadians tuned in to their televisions and radios to bear witness to the most important hockey game in Canada’s history — the eighth and deciding game in the Canada-Russia Summit Series.
Canada’s History caught up with television broadcaster and CBC icon Don Newman and asked him to share his personal memories of Paul Henderson’s series-winning goal in Moscow.
by James M. Pitsula
Their host was a Nazi dictator, but Canadian athletes
at the 1936 Berlin Olympics thought good manners
should prevail. This article originally appeared in
The Beaver, August/September 2004. Read another
Beaver summer Olympic story in Olympiad, Get on your Mark! .
Peter Lougheed was a true history maker, and a true champion of Canadian history.
The former Alberta premier, who died on September 13, 2012, at the age of 84, towered over the political landscape during his years in office.
His battles with former Prime Minister Pierre Trudeau over energy and natural resource rights are legendary; he also played a key role in defending provincial rights during the constitutional talks that led to the 1982 patriation of the Constitution. Called by many Alberta’s greatest premier, he stands tall among the pantheon of great provincial leaders.
Lougheed was also a great champion of history. His passion for the past shone through his support of history related organizations and projects, such as The Canadian Encyclopedia; as premier, he helped fund the encyclopedia’s research, and also enabled the donation of a copy to every school and library in Canada as a gift to commemorate Alberta’s seventy-fifth anniversary.
After his retirement, Lougheed became actively involved in the field of history education, supporting both Canada’s History Society and the then-Historica Foundation of Canada (now Historica-Dominion Institute.)
“He was a strong advocate for the need for greater focus and attention to Canadian history in our schools. He said on more than one occasion that he regretted that there was not more time during his tenure as premier of Alberta to focus on improving history curricula,” said Deborah Morrison, president of Canada’s History Society.
“It would be easy in this day to be cynical about such admissions, but I’ve always admired his sincerity in admitting that, not to mention his personal devotion of time and resources to amending that regret through his support of Canada’s leading historical organizations.”
Red Wilson, the founding chair of the Historica Foundation, recalled how Lougheed was among the first major supporters of the foundation.
“In 1999, I made a speech at York University about the need to do something about improving Canadian history education … The first two pledges of support I received were from Peter Lougheed and Yves Fortier — Peter simply asked, how can I help?”
Wilson also lauded Lougheed's dedication to promoting history education.
“There will be lots of good things said about him and they are all true. His interest in Canadian history was genuine, ardent, and he was prepared to put time and effort into it.”
Canada’s History Society is certainly grateful for Lougheed’s support over the years. Most recently, he was a contributor to our recent book, 100 Days that Changed Canada.
“Peter Lougheed was a great Canadian and very much a product of the Canadian West,” said Richard Pound, the chairman of the History Society’s board of directors. “He was enthusiastic about everything he undertook, sensible and articulate in connection with the many causes he supported, principled in his positions, and relentless in his desire that Canada and Canadians be the best in the world.
“While always aware of the big picture, he never lost sight of, nor contact with, the people of his province or his country. His place in Canadian history will be that of an enlightened builder.”
Edgar Peter Lougheed was born on July 26, 1928, at Calgary, Alberta. He was the son of Edgar D. Lougheed and Edna A. Bauld and was the grandson of Senator Sir James A. Lougheed, Alberta's first Conservative federal cabinet minister.
In 1951 and 1952 respectively, he received a Bachelor of Arts degree and a Bachelor of Laws degree from the University of Alberta. During his years at the University of Alberta, Lougheed played football for the University Golden Bears Intercollegiate Football Club and the Edmonton Eskimos. In 1954, he received a Master of Business Administration degree from Harvard University.
On June 21, 1952, E. Peter Lougheed married Jeanne E. Rogers of Camrose, Alberta. They have four children: Stephen, Andrea, Pamela, and Joseph.
Lougheed was called to the Alberta Bar in 1955. A decade later, he was elected leader of the Alberta Progressive Conservatives. Elected to the legislature in 1967, Lougheed’s Tories would take power in the 1971 provincial election.
During his tenure as premier, Lougheed’s priorities were to ensure Alberta retained control over its natural resources, and to prepare future generations for continued prosperity when those resources – primarily oil and natural gas — were exhausted.
To do this, he established in 1976 the Alberta Heritage Savings Trust Fund, a sort of rainy day fund for the province to be used to meet unanticipated future needs. At a time when Prime Minister Trudeau was advocating a powerful central government, Lougheed was pushing a more provincially focused vision of the country.
In later years, he said he was proud to have helped ensure provincial rights in the 1982 constitutional amending formula. He would retire three years after the patriation of the Constitution, renewing his law career while serving on as many as twenty corporate boards.
As Canadians absorbed the news of his death, Lougheed was praised by politicians of all political stripes.
“Today Canada lost a truly great man,” Prime Minister Stephen Harper said. “Peter Lougheed was quite simply one of the most remarkable Canadians of his generation.” “Premier Lougheed was unquestionably devoted to Alberta and Alberta’s interests,” said Alberta Premier Alison Redford said. “He not only believed in a strong and united Canada, he believed that Alberta did not have to succeed at the expense of Canada, but as a proud member of a country working together”.
Liberal MP Justin Trudeau took to Twitter to express condolences.“It is with tremendous sadness that we bid adieu to a giant of Canadian politics. Peter Lougheed was a man of vision, integrity, and heart.”
— with files from our wire services and Alberta provincial legislature records
by Phil Koch
Sir James Grant, Lord Strathspey, chief of the Clan Grant of Scotland, was in Canada in July 2012 to participate in Cuthbert Grant Day celebrations and to formally reunite his clan with long-separated Canadian branches of the family.
The Grants avoided the fates suffered by other Scots during the Highland clearances, but Cuthbert Grant was one of many who came to Canada late in the eighteenth century to engage in the fur trade. Cuthbert Grant Jr., born to a Métis mother in what is now Saskatchewan, worked for both the North West Company and then the Hudson’s Bay Company. Sent to Scotland for education, he returned to the prairies, became a leader of the Métis people, and founded Grantown (now St. François Xavier, Manitoba). A replica of his flour mill has been constructed along Sturgeon Creek in west Winnipeg and is the site of annual Cuthbert Grant Day festivities.
On July 14, 2012, Lord Strathspey and his wife Judy arrived at Grant’s Old Mill aboard a traditional Red River cart with an escort of Scottish pipers. They had been invited by Sandra Horyski of the St. James Assiniboia Pioneer Association, herself a descendant of Cuthbert Grant Sr. When Lord Strathspey delivered the papers that proclaimed Siol Cudbright, comprised of Cuthbert Grant’s descendants, an official sept (or branch) of Clan Grant, Horyski was named its first steward.
Visitors came from as far away as Scotland as well as from Yukon and Montana, where Grant descendants settled, to take part in events arranged for Lord Strathspey’s time in Canada. Anita Grant Steele arrived with other descendants of William Grant of Trois-Rivières, Quebec, who was one of the originators of the North West Company and the senior partner of Grant, Campion and Company.
Steele organized a reunion tea with Lord Strathspey at Winnipeg’s Fort Garry Hotel and was named the first steward of the branch now known as the MacRobbie Grants of Trois-Rivières. The reunion included Donald Grant, Emerald Grant and Roy Grant, who were responsible for the Y-DNA test results that positively determined the MacRobbie Grants of Trois-Rivières are from the same genetic line as the chiefs of Grant.
Coming up, Parts 2–6: Aboriginal Health and Environments, The Canadian Environmental Movement, Fisheries, Food Production, Tar Sands.
In the first episode of this six-part podcast series, Sean Kheraj, Assistant Professor in the Department of History at York University, holds a round-table discussion about the role of climate in Canadian and global history with James Daschuk, Joshua MacFadyen, and Dagomar Degroot. He also speaks with Ross Coen, author of the recently published book Breaking Ice for Arctic Oil: The Epic Voyage of the SS Manhattan through the Northwest Passage. (Duration: 77 mins, 52 secs.)
Since the World Conference on Changing Atmosphere was held in Toronto in 1988, Canadians have participated in discussions of climate change prevention and adaptation. The UN-established and Nobel Prize-winning Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change includes Canadian members and Canada supported the 1997 Kyoto Protocol, though it withdrew from the treaty in 2011 when faced with financial penalties for failing to meet its greenhouse emissions reduction goals.
The National Round Table on the Environment and the Economy (NRTEE) Act established and maintains the NRTEE as a federal agency, advocating adaptation and suggesting Canada must “adapt and prosper” in the face of climate change, seeking out the “opportunities” climate change offers Canadians. The Canadian government recently announced that the NRTEE will be eliminated as of March 31, 2013. In spite of this and other political setbacks, Canadian climatologists have continued Impact and Adaptation Studies among Canadian communities, and historians of climate change in Canada examine the ways in which these biological, political, and social changes have taken place, providing context for assessing their efficacy. Organizations such as the Network in Canadian History and Environment (NiCHE) continue to support projects examining climate change in Canada, such as the Early Canadian Environmental Data Project.
Changes in Earth’s climate have always occurred and have varied over time, with no consistent pattern of warming or cooling emerging until the 1820s. Before the Industrial Revolution, eras such as the Medieval Warm Period could be followed by periods of cooling, such as the Little Ice Age, though the effects of climate change have not been consistent around the globe. After the Industrial Revolution, however, a pattern of consistent global atmospheric temperature increase due to human activity, called anthropogenic climate change, became apparent. The scientific community began discussing this phenomenon and its causes as early as 1896, with Svante Aarhenius’s calculation of atmospheric warming due to industrial gases released into Earth’s atmosphere.
As the twentieth century progressed and patterns of anthropogenic climate change became more apparent and alarming to the scientific community, the discussion moved into the public realm as scientists, politicians, and bureaucrats attempted to address climate change through public policy. Nations and international agencies then began formulating regulations in attempts to curb climate change. The discussion increasingly focused on economics and has now shifted from finding ways to fight anthropogenic climate change to creating means of adapting economies to its effects.
Historians have credited historical climate change with creating environmental opportunities for human action, including Norse exploration of the Canadian Atlantic coast, the Thule peoples’ movements across the Arctic, eighteenth-century adaptations of South Saskatchewan River Basin peoples, and economic diversification of contemporary logging communities in British Columbia, the Yukon, and Alberta, to name a few. Climate change and knowledge of the environment in Canada now exist in a colonial context that includes local knowledge and indigenous participation as climatologists and policy makers seek ways of creatively adapting to changes in the Canadian climate.
More Online Extras
Suggested Readings
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Coen, Ross. Breaking Ice for Arctic Oil: The Epic Voyage of the SS Manhattan through the Northwest Passage. Fairbanks: University of Alaska Press, 2012.
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Cohen, Stewart J. and Melissa W. Waddell. Climate Change in the 21st Century. Montreal: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 2009.
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Cruikshank, Julie. Do Glaciers Listen?: Local Knowledge, Colonial Encounters and Social Imagination. Vancouver: UBC Press, 2005.
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Daschuk, Jim., and G. Marchildon. Climate and Aboriginal Adaptation in the South Saskatchewan River Basin, AD 800-1700. Institutional Adaptations to Climate Change Project, 2005.
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Fagan, Brian M. The Great Warming: Climate Change and the Rise and Fall of Civilizations. 1st U.S. ed. New York: Bloomsbury Press, 2008.
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Hare, Frederick Kenneth, and Morley K. Thomas. Climate Canada. Toronto: Wiley, 1974.
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MacFadyen, Joshua. “Breaking Sod or Breaking Even? Flax in the Northern Great Plains and Prairies, 1889-1930,” Agricultural History 83(2) (Spring 2009): 221-246.
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McKibben, Bill. “Global Warming’s Terrifying New Math” Rolling Stone Magazine, July 19, 2012
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Ministère des Transport, Direction de la Météorologie. Le Climat du Canada. Ottawa: Canada, Ministère des Transport, Direction de la Météorologie , 1960.
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National Round Table on the Environment and the Economy. Degrees of Change: Climate Warming and the Stakes for Canada. Ottawa: National Round Table on the Environment and the Economy, 2010.
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Riedlinger, Dyanna and Fikret Berkes, “Contributions of traditional knowledge to understanding climate change in the Canadian Arctic” Polar Record Vol.37 (2001), pp 315-328
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Simpson, Jeffrey. “Canada and climate change: all plan, no action.” The Globe and Mail, May 12, 2012. Accessed May 22, 2012.
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Smith, Jesse and Julia Uppenbrink, eds. “Earth’s Variable Climatic Past.” Special Issue of Science 292 (27 April 2001): 657-693.
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St. George, Scott and Dave Sauchyn. “Paleoenvironmental Perspectives on Drought in Western Canada.” Canadian Water Resources Journal 31.4 (2006).
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Weaver, Andrew. Keeping Our Cool: Canada in a Warming World. Toronto: Penguin, 2008.
© Nature's Past: A Podcast of the Network in Canadian History & Environment by Sean Kheraj is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 Canada License. Based on a work at niche-canada.org.
Canada’s History has uncovered the perfect guide to help men prepare their facial hair for Movember.
Imagine an 1894 version of Maxim... except at a time when men preferred to look at other men and marvel in their opulence, and publication titles were not very catchy. Let us introduce you to The Canadian Album: Men of Canada or Success by Example in Religion, Patriotism, Business, Law, Medicine, Education and Agriculture; containing portraits of some of Canada's Chief Business Men, Statesmen, Farmers, Men of the Learned Professions, and Others. Also an authentic sketch of their lives. Object lessons for the present generation and examples to posterity.
The album is like a Canadian Who's Who (except only Ontarians seemed to merit acknowledgement), and as we the scrolled through it, we found ourselves marvelling at their facial hair. At the turn of the past century, hair that was bushy, wild, or waxed (on, not off) was far more in vogue than today and our forefathers were very dapper indeed. Sir John A. Macdonald, who is included in this album, bucked the trend and was noted for his tendency to not follow the facial fashions of his day.
Although not its intended purpose, we thought our online visitors would find The Canadian Album: Men of Canada inspirational and would like to share it with those they know who participate in Movember. While some of these "successful men" are clean cut, the majority sport some variation of mustache, beard, sideburns, or Van Dyke.
We created a small photo gallery of examples we enjoyed (see below), however, if you have the time you can scroll through the whole volume of 512 pages yourself: The Canadian Album: Men of Canada, or Success by Example (33MB).
We hope your Movember is as much a success as these Men of Canada!
— Text by Tanja Hütter and Joel Ralph; The Canadian Album was found on Archive.org.
Coming up, Parts 3–6: The Canadian Environmental Movement, Fisheries, Food Production, Tar Sands. See also: Part 1 Global Warming.
In this episode, we dive into the history of health and environmental issues among the Aboriginal peoples of Canada. Speaking with a diverse panel of expert researchers from across the country (Jocelyn Thorpe, Maureen Lux, Brittany Luby, Kristin Burnett, Lianne Leddy), we explore several key issues in this history, including treaties, natural resource exploitation, community-based research, and intergovernmental relations with Aboriginal nations.
Human health and quality of life are inseparable from the environment in which we live. For Aboriginal peoples in Canada the history of colonialism, the control by one country over another area and its people and resources, informs both environmental and health issues. Reserve location and size, resource availability or extraction, pollution, and climate change are all environmental factors that influence Aboriginal peoples’ health and are products of colonization.
Health challenges facing many Aboriginal communities in Canada that are historically rooted in colonization, include the spread of infectious disease due to overcrowded or insufficient housing, depression and other mental health and social issues linked to abuse and the legacies of residential schools, and childhood obesity and rising Type 2 diabetes.
Aboriginal peoples are often left out of discussions surrounding their own communities’ health, or they are marginalized by bureaucrats. This exclusion and marginalization does not mean Aboriginal methods do not work or exist, or that Aboriginal communities are not trying to find their own solutions.
The connections between health and the environment are more evident for some Aboriginal communities in Canada than others. Northern communities are bearing the brunt of climate change in Canada, with direct impacts to human health. Increased temperatures have led to thinning ice, a shortened ice season, reduced snow cover, melting permafrost, increased coastal erosion, and changing wildlife and plant distribution.
These changes have increased accidental deaths, mainly caused by falling through melting ice; reduced access to food sources as winter ice travel is no longer possible; decreased access to fish stocks due to ice break-up, leading to nutritional and socioeconomic vulnerability; increased infectious diseases as more and different insects enter the Arctic environment and new parasites are able to live in warmer water; and decreased infrastructure stability as permafrost melts and sea levels rise.
Southerly communities have also experienced environmentally influenced health concerns. Many aboriginal communities have histories of resource extraction, some with considerable pollution and environmental degradation that have contributed to ill health for Aboriginal people.
When trying to understand Aboriginal environment and health issues, historical context is crucial. A 2008 StatsCan report argued that Aboriginal women have higher rates of obesity than non-Aboriginal people, because Aboriginal women eat junk food and drink sugary drinks. This report should be criticized for many failings, but the lack of historical context is alarming.
Attempting to diagnose health problems for an ill-defined population of individuals, removed from their community contexts and histories is useful to no one. Similarly, the United Nations’ “special rapporteur on the right to food” recently criticized a Canadian food subsidy program for benefiting retailers more than the Aboriginal communities they service.
While the report may make some sound arguments, its failure to include northern Aboriginal communities’ concerns about attempts to curb seal hunting reflect the need for historical context and community-driven approaches. These are situations in which history can inform issues at hand and allow a respectful place for dialogue about solutions to begin.
More Online Extras
Suggested Readings
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Furgal, Christopher and Jacinthe Seguin. “Climate Change, Health, and Vulnerability in Canadian Northern Aboriginal Communities.” Environmental Health Perspectives, vol. 114, no. 12 (Dec., 2006), 1964-1970.
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Kelm, Mary-Ellen. Colonizing Bodies: Aboriginal Health and Healing in British Columbia, 1900-50. Vancouver: UBC Press, 1999.
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Kilpatrick, Sean. “Health Minister acknowledges Northern food issues, but maintains UN criticism.” Globe and Mail, May 23, 2012.
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Lux, Maureen K. Medicine that Walks: Disease, Medicine and Canadian Plains Native People, 1880-1940. Toronto, ON: University of Toronto Press, 2001.
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Thorpe, Jocelyn. Temagami's Tangled Wild: Race, Gender, and the Making of Canadian Nature. Vancouver: UBC Press, 2012.
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Vecsey, Christopher. “Grassy Narrows Reserve: Mercury Pollution, Social Disruption, and Natural Resources: A Question of Autonomy” American Indian Quarterly, Vol. 11, No. 4 (Autumn, 1987), pp. 287-314
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Willows, N.D., Hanley, A.J.G., Delormier, T., “A socioecological frame work to understand weight-related issues in Aboriginal children in Canada” Applied Physiology, Nutrition, and Metabolism, Vol.37, No.1 (2012), pp.1–13
© Nature's Past: A Podcast of the Network in Canadian History & Environment by Sean Kheraj is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 Canada License. Based on a work at niche-canada.org.
by Phil Koch
Canadian Military History (CMH) was started in 1992 by Terry Copp, a prominent military historian at Wilfrid Laurier University in Waterloo, Ontario. It came into existence at a time when serious study of Canadian military history was not in vogue, but the journal helped to change that.
Now, however, CMH faces a money crunch after funding from the Department of National Defence was cut for the journal, as well as for the Laurier Centre for Military Strategic and Disarmament Studies with which it is connected. Copp believes donors have helped to secure the journal’s future until 2015.
In addition to putting out the journal, the centre also publishes battlefield tour guidebooks, puts on an annual military history colloquium, organizes battlefield study tours, and runs lecture series. Its current priority is to digitize its archives, an extensive collection of documents, maps, photos, films, and other materials.
It’s also pushing for new journal subscribers and donors. New subscribers will receive a free copy of The Canadian Battlefields in Italy: Ortona and the Liri Valley by Eric McGeer and Matt Symes. The book contains never-seen-before historical and aerial photos of the Ortona campaign, which is often referred to as Canada’s Stalingrad.
by Phil Koch
Parks Canada historian Marianne P. Stopp came across a previously lost pencil drawing by an unknown artist that shows a group of Labrador Inuit brought to England in 1772 by Captain George Cartwright. You can see the drawing in the December 2012-January 2013 issue of Canada’s History magazine.
Stopp had read about the portrait, but its existence was unconfirmed and its whereabouts had been unknown for two centuries. Then, in 2008, she came across the drawing in the newly digitized collection of the Hunterian Museum at The Royal College of Surgeons in London, where she was conducting research into early Inuit presence in Labrador.
Stopp believes the portrait wound up in the museum’s collection via the anatomist and surgeon John Hunter, who hosted the Inuit travellers. You can read more about Stopp’s work on the Labrador Inuit’s eighteenth-century journeys to England in her 2009 article for the journal Arctic.
You may also be interested by the 2008 book The New Labrador Papers of Captain George Cartwright, which was edited by Stopp.

The Dust Bowl chronicles the worst man-made ecological disaster in American history, in which the frenzied wheat boom of the "Great Plow-Up," followed by a decade-long drought during the 1930s nearly swept away the breadbasket of the nation. This documentary contains vivid interviews with twenty-six survivors of those hard times, combined with dramatic photographs and seldom seen movie footage.
Watch the trailer, then scroll below to enter the contest. Draw for a winner will be held January 7, 2013. Update: Congratulations to A. Jarjour, winner of The Dust Bowl DVD! Click on the image to the right and go to Chapters Indigo to get your own copy.
Watch The Dust Bowl Preview on PBS. See more from The Dust Bowl.
James Gillespie is a graphic designer at Canada’s National history society. Canada’s History is a non–profit organization, which aspires to make Canadian history interesting and accessible to the public. Gillespie is the Art Director of the children’s magazine for the association, Kayak, which is a magazine created to teach Canadian youth about their nations’ history.
After growing up in Winnipeg, Gillespie was unsure about what to do after graduating Silver Heights Collegiate in 1998, so he went to New Zealand to play rugby. After he finished playing, while on the plane to Winnipeg he found himself inspired by a comic book he picked up, and which steered him towards working in a career using his artistic skills. A friend suggested that he attend Red River College and study Graphic Design. From 2003 – 2006, he studied at Red River, and shortly thereafter he found employment working with his degree at local museums and galleries.
In 2009, James was hired to implement a new look for Canada’s History’s website. Shortly after that project was complete, the Art Director for the children’s version of the magazine, Kayak, quit. Having a background in not only design but also in illustration, specifically kids’ illustration, James was hired for the job and has been there ever since.
Kayak shows children that history is not boring, and it can even be fun. When you read Kayak it is a lot different than reading a textbook, it is more about the fun of learning about history. It still has many of the same information as a textbook, but it is made more fun which helps to make children intrigued about Canada’s past. It also is useful for newcomers to Canada, whose first language is not English, to learn about their new culture in a fun and easy way.
— Nelson McIntyre Collegiate Grade 11 students: Rita, Rebecca, Katie and Ashley
Update: Warlords: Borden, Mackenzie King, and Canada's World Wars has been selected as a finalist for the prestigious 2013 Charles Taylor Prize. The five finalists were announced in Toronto by jurors Suszanne Boyce and Richard Gwynn in Toronto on January 9th. Tim Cook was the 2009 recipient of the award for his book Shock Troops: Canadians Fighting the Great War, 1917 – 1918, Volume Two. The Charles Taylor Prize recognizes excellence in Canadian non-fiction writing and consists of a $25,000 prize. The winners will be announced in Toronto on March 4th in a ceremony at The King Edward Hotel in Toronto.
Author and historian Tim Cook discusses his new book Warlords: Borden, Mackenzie King, and Canada's World Wars (read the review) which explores the wartime leadership of prime ministers Robert Borden and William Lyon Mackenzie King. We recently caught up with Tim at the Canada's History Forum. Tim Cook is the First World War historian at the Canadian War Museum in Ottawa.
From January 22 to March 30 the Canadian Museum of Immigration at Pier 21 is featuring a new exhibition of photos entitled Position As Desired: Exploring African Canadian Identity: Photographs from the Wedge Collection.
To learn more about the exhibit, Canada’s History spoke with Kristine Kovacevic, Visitor Experience Manager at Pier 21. Kristine tells us about the collection on display and how the exhibit uses visual arts to challenge our understanding of history and identity. Kristine also tells us about the public programming that Pier 21 has put together for the exhibit including panel discussions, film screenings, and a reading and book-signing with award-winning author Lawrence Hill.
Visit Pier21.ca/Position-as-Desired to learn more about the exhibit, and to RSVP for some of their exciting events (for free)!



by Paul Jones
In the February-March 2013 issue of Canada's History, Paul Jones discusses the challenges and advances of DNA testing and how it can provide family historians with greater insight. Inspired by a reader's request for more information on the actual companies doing the testing, he outlines a few choices below.
The DNA-testing company I use, because they focus exclusively on family history matters, is Family Tree DNA. They do a variety of tests, including the Y-chromosome to which you referred. The one I described is the "autosomal" test, which they call "Family Finder." I signed up with this company when its CEO, Bennett Greenspan, spoke in Toronto. He's a family historian himself and I found him absolutely credible, thoughtful, trustworthy. That's his reputation generally and I have had only good experiences with his company.
Their top competitor, preferred by some, is 23andMe (co-founded by the wife of one of the Google gazillionaires). Their original purpose was testing DNA for medical reasons (e.g. predisposition to various diseases) but they soon realized that family historians represented a huge market. Generally their family history offerings are comparable to those of Family Tree DNA. Some claim to detect a mind-set still oriented to medical testing, although many others think they're the best service on the market. Here's their link. I have no personal experience with this company to serve as a guide.
A recent entrant to the market is Ancestry.com, although I don't believe they've yet opened up their testing to Canadian residents. When they do, their game is likely to be volume, i.e., very competitive pricing. There has been quite a bit of controversy about their privacy policy, which seems to grant them intellectual property rights to participants' genomes that many find worrisome. Please note, they are described as being in beta.
This reply would not be complete without a mention of the National Geographic Society's Geno 2.0 project. This is not about family history in any usual sense, but deals with so called "deep ancestry". Here's their mission from their website:
The three components of the project are:
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To gather and analyze research data in collaboration with indigenous and traditional peoples around the world
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To invite the general public to join this real-time scientific project and to learn about their own deep ancestry by purchasing a Genographic Project Participation and DNA Ancestry Kit, Geno 2.0
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To use a portion of the proceeds from Geno 2.0 kit sales to further research and the Genographic Legacy Fund, which in turn supports community-led indigenous conservation and revitalization projects
The Genographic Project is anonymous, nonmedical, and nonprofit, and all results are placed in the public domain following scientific peer publication.
A final word: Both Family Tree DNA and 23andMe offer sales from time to time, usually around New Year, Mother's Day, July 4th, and so on. They just had some big sales over the holidays. If there's no rush, you could save a substantial amount by waiting for a couple of months and monitoring if a sale comes along.
by Nelle Oosterom
As writer Keith Foster explains in the February-March 2013 issue of Canada’s History magazine, the effort to crush the 1885 North-West Resistance was brief but costly in both lives and resources.
Foster’s story, “Thunder on the Prairie,” is just the latest of many articles about the 1885 event that have appeared in Canada's History (called The Beaver until 2010). Many of the archived stories reflect the biases of the period, with a strong anti-Aboriginal or anti-Métis slant.
But one first-person account by a woman taken prisoner by the Cree avoids the inflammatory hyperbole common at the time. Elizabeth McLean was sixteen when captured at Fort Pitt with the rest of her family during the resistance. In a three-part series published by The Beaver (December 1946, June 1947, September 1947) McLean describes her harrowing experience with clarity, humour, and compassion.
Among other things, McLean relates how a group of Plains Cree women formed a “protective society” to successfully guard her and her sisters from night-time assaults by the younger men of the tribe. The article shows McLean — the daughter of Chief Trader W.J. McLean of the Hudson’s Bay Company — to be well-informed and sympathetic towards her captors, who included Wandering Spirit, the Cree leader eventually hanged for his part in the Frog Lake massacre. Both Elizabeth and her sister, writer Amelia McLean Paget, who wrote People of the plains (1909), were fluent in the Cree and Saulteaux languages.
Their sympathetic point of view of First Nations people were not widely accepted even in the early part of the twentieth century. Both women proved to be ahead of their time.
With the 1763 Treaty of Paris, the Seven Year's War came to an end. For the French, it signalled a bitter defeat, and the death of the dream of New France. Forced to relinquish all its territories in North America, save the tiny islands of St. Pierre and Miquelon, the French citizens prepared for life under British rule.
To mark the 250th anniversary of the treaty, we've found three videos that explore the repercussions of the that decisive North American conflict.
The Fate of America
A groundbreaking film on the controversial legacy of the Battle of the Plains of Abraham, the engagement that in many ways lost the war for France. French, with English subtitles.
The Fate of America by Jacques Godbout, National Film Board of Canada
War and words
Interviewer Allan Gregg speaks with William Fowler, historian and author of Empire: The Seven Years' War and the Struggle for North America.
St. Pierre and Miquelon
Vicariously visit these tiny French islands off Newfoundland, where French history and culture still thrives.
Coming up, Parts 4–6: Fisheries, Food Production, Tar Sands. See also: Part 1 Global Warming and Part 2 Aboriginal Health and Environments.
The environmental movement is one of the most popular topics in Canadian environmental history. At present, the environmental movement in Canada is at a bit of a crossroads. Having finally moved beyond simply outlining worst practices and their consequences, the last decade has witnessed proactive solutions and workable alternatives to every kind of environmental problem. Yet, this comes at the same time as economic turmoil and ideological opposition from government. Recently, David Suzuki has even gone so far as to argue that "Environmentalism has failed." Given this crossroads, environmental historians offer the context needed to understand the state of the environmental movement in this country today.
On this first part of our look at the history of the environmental movement in Canada we speak with Canadian environmental historian, Neil Forkey about his new book Canadians and the Natural Environment to the Twenty-First Century.
From the earliest efforts to establish national and provincial parks at the end of the nineteenth century to the more politically-conscious groups of the post-WWII era, historians of the Canadian environmental movement have demonstrated how changing ideas of nature informed non-utilitarian approaches to dealing with the non-human world. The inspiration for many of these ideas came from critiques of modernity and capitalism, which saw nature as either a set of commodities or an externality within the wider framework of progress and civilization. In response to this trend, concerned individuals and groups mobilized environmental sciences, such as conservation and ecology, to justify alternative relationships between humans and the natural world. This reaction to modern society and economy was shared with the United States, but also developed its own distinctive Canadian character, as well as specific regional approaches to environmental issues across Canada.
As in the United States, the first efforts to protect the environment in Canada arose out of anxieties about the loss of wilderness and the importance of preserving an essential national character at the end of the nineteenth century. Over half a century later, the postwar environmental movement in Canada evolved alongside that of the U.S. following the publication of Rachael Carson’s Silent Spring. In New Brunswick, activists fought to stop the spraying of DDT, while in Ontario a group known as Pollution Probe used the media to raise awareness of environmental issues, and in British Columbia the provincial government was obliged to enact protective legislation in order to placate opposition from environmentalists. In each case, changing ideas about nature combined with particular Canadian political and cultural contexts to transform the way most Canadians thought about and treated the environment.
More Online Extras
Suggested Readings
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Duke, David Freeland. Canadian Environmental History. Toronto: Canadian Scholar's Press, 2006.
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Gaffield, Chad and Pam Gaffield. Ed. Consuming Canada: Readings in Environmental History. Mississauga: Copp Clark, 1995.
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MacDowell, Laurel Sefton. An Environmental History of Canada. Vancouver: UBC Press, 2012.
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MacEachern, Alan and William J. Turkel. Ed. Method and Meaning in Canadian Environmental History. Toronto: Nelson, 2009.
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Wynn, Graeme. Canada and Arctic North America: An Environmental History. Santa Barbara: ABC-CLIO, 2007.
© Nature's Past: A Podcast of the Network in Canadian History & Environment by Sean Kheraj is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 Canada License. Based on a work at niche-canada.org.
Millions of Canadians have grown up learning about history through 60-second movie theatre and television placements that brought the stories of great Canadians like Nellie McClung, Emily Carr and Dr. Wilder Penfield to life. Last fall, the Historica-Dominion Institute launched the first new Heritage Minute to be made in since 2005 about the story of Richard Pierpoint and the War of 1812.
Now HDI has launched a new call to action to Canadians to help craft the next two Heritage Minutes about the lives of Sir John A. Macdonald and Sir George-Etienne Cartier.
Anthony Wilson Smith, the President of the Historica-Dominion Institute, joined Canada's History to talk about the plan for these new Heritage Minutes. Learn more about their request for proposals.
First Nations children were not the only ones seized from their parents and forced into residential schools. In the early 1950s, provincial authorities in British Columbia took about 175 children whose parents belonged to the Sons of Freedom religious sect and incarcerated them in a boarding school in New Denver, B.C.
The action came after decades of conflict — Freedomites had engaged in mass public demonsrations of nudity, as well as arson and sabotage. The school operated for six years but the impacts on the children were longlasting. Some reported being beaten and sexually abused. As Global News reported in December 2012, efforts to obtain an apology continue into the present day.
For more about their last days, read Larry Hannant’s article entitled “Sons of Freedom” in the February-March 2013 issue of Canada’s History.
by Chris “Old Man” Ludecke
Stompin’ Tom Connors had a good point to make in 1978 when he sent his Juno awards back in protest. He believed Canadian radio didn’t want to play Canadian music — certainly not his — and that too often, Junos were given to artists who left Canada to work and live in the United States or elsewhere.
Prior to the 1978 Juno Awards, Connors withdrew his name from contention, drawing heat for his decision. Two days after the awards, he called a press conference. It was March 31, 1978, and Connors, standing before a group of reporters, said, “I feel that Junos should be for people who are living in Canada, whose main base of operations is Canada, [and] who are working toward the recognition of Canadian talent in this country.” Wearing his trademark cowboy hat, the lanky singer cast his eyes toward the six Junos that sat on a table before him — awards, he said, that “I was once proud to receive, but am now ashamed to keep.”
With that, he promptly packed his Junos in a cardboard box and sent them in a taxi to the offices of the Canadian Association of Recording Arts and Sciences (CARAS), which ran the awards. Connors also vowed not to perform live again until the music industry began to support homegrown talent. Few believed he would carry through with the threat — but he didn’t perform again for more than a decade.
In 1978, Stompin’ Tom took a stand for Canadian, and specifically independently made Canadian music. Since then, his cause has been taken up by subsequent generations of artists — including myself. It’s a simple notion: that great Canadian music can be made in Canada and exported to the world. I’ve been drawn to distinctly Canadian music since I was in high school. I remember making mixed tapes filled with great Canadian artists like The Tragically Hip, 54-40, Spirit of the West, and the Skydiggers. I would even proudly mark these tapes with red-ink maple leaves.
Today, I make my living playing music and like, Stompin’ Tom, try to do it from within Canada. At clubs and concerts across the country, I meet other artists like myself who are fighting through the music-business muck to create something real. I’ve worked hard at it, and today, I’m exporting my music to the world. As I write this, I’m finishing a tour in Tasmania and beginning a tour in Scotland, playing folk music that has little commercial appeal — certainly not the kind of radio-friendly pap Stompin’ Tom railed against back in 1978.
Musicians today are fortunate, in that technology allows them to connect with audiences around the world while living and creating in Canada. This isn’t to say that artists who find major international success necessarily lose touch with their Canadian roots: Think of Neil Young, or Joni Mitchell, or Leonard Cohen.
My grandmother had an expression — “the quiet good goes on.” Few of us have stood for independent music in as bold a fashion as Stompin’ Tom. I haven’t returned the Juno I won in 2008 for best traditional folk album. But every Canadian musician since should thank him, at some point, for the elbow room he created for the rest of us to express our individuality, independence, and pride in our country. Stompin’ Tom made us all believe that we can create music that’s relevant to ourselves — and to the world.
Old Man Luedecke, a Juno-award-winning folk musician, lives in Chester, N.S. His latest album is Tender is the Night.
This article originally appeared in 100 Days That Changed Canada, published by HarperCollins.
Learn more about Stompin' Tom from the Canadian Encyclopedia.
Philippe Mailhot, historian and director of the Saint Boniface Museum, provides a historical perspective of the claim and the Supreme Court’s ruling.
The Manitoba Act received royal assent on May 12, 1870, ending a period of conflict in the Red River Settlement and formally creating the Province of Manitoba. However, the form of negotiations and the terms and obligations set out under the Act are the subject of a claim brought against the federal government by the Manitoba Métis Federation.
In a historic ruling on March 8, 2013 that ended the thirty-year claim, the Supreme Court of Canada determined that the federal government failed in its obligations to the Métis people under the Manitoba Act.
by Nelle Oosterom
Armed with Lee Enfield rifles and dressed in distinctive red ballcaps and sweatshirts, today’s Rangers continue to play an important role in establishing Canada’s sovereignty over the Arctic. These photographs highlight some of the activities of the force.
To learn more about the Canadian Rangers, read historian P. Whitney Lackenbauer’s article “Sentinels of Sovereignty.” And for more historical photographs of the Canadian Rangers, see Lackenbauer’s The Canadian Rangers: A Living History UBC Press, March 2013.
Put your feet up, lie back and feel groovy with John & Yoko on your desktop!
Illustration: James Gillespie, Art Director, Canada's History .
by Jay Russell
More than 139 mines were registered in the Drumheller Valley in the early part of the twentieth century. Thousands of people, most of them recent immigrants, poured into the area.
The population was overwhelmingly male, and most were bachelors. When not working, many of the men gambled, drank, bootlegged, and had fistfights for sport.
Underground conditions were often no better. Some sites required miners to crawl in and pick coal while lying on their sides. At other mines, men and ponies had to quickly flee rising waters when pumps failed. There were 28 labour strikes in 1918 alone. The “coal miners’ civil war,” as the locals called it, lasted until 1936.
Drumheller coal was at its highest demand at the start of World War II, by which time working conditions had improved immensely. But coal’s reign ended when oil was struck at Leduc, Alberta, in 1947.
Today, the Atlas Coal Mine National Historic Site stands as a legacy to the coal mines of the Drumheller Valley and the people who worked in them. The most complete historic coal mine in Canada, it’s also home to the nation's last wooden tipple.
Drumheller celebrated its centennial in 2013 with a series of events that marked its history as a centre for coal mining. A traditional procession of miners was held alongside other activities to showcase the area’s rich history and culture.
Ladies in regency dress, men in military uniforms - it must be a War of 1812 Symposium! Walking the Razor's Edge: A Continent in Play was the theme for the this special Living History Conference held in Hamilton on March 2. There was a great turn-out of re-enactors, public historians, cultural interpreters, academic historians and War of 1812 history-enthusiasts eager to share, learn and debate stories and ideas of the War itself and how it is interpreted to the public.
The day’s keynote speakers were historian and authors Dr. Andrew Lambert (The Challenge: Britain Against America in the Naval War of 1812) and Dr. Donald Hickey (The War of 1812: A Forgotten Conflict, Don’t Give up the Ship: Myths of the War of 1812). The hardest part of being a keynote speaker at a one-day conference on a complex subject like the War of 1812, is that they had to rush through their books, ideas and stories. Luckily, the enthusiastic audience was energized for debate and further learning. We sat down with Lambert and Hickey for a feature chat regarding some of the issues surrounding the public’s perception and consumption of the history of the War of 1812 and the ways that academic and public historians interpret the story of the War to the public.
With both Dr. Lambert and Dr. Hickey having had their recent works newly published, one wonders what challenges they have may have faced when researching and writing about the War of 1812. One common issue that they have both dealt with, according to Hickey, is that this war, is a “forgotten conflict,” both here and especially in Britain.
Both authors had easy access to a plethora of information - Lambert with Britain’s naval records and Hickey with American war records on microfilm. But both authors kept hitting similar obstacles: there is not a great deal of interest from the wider public in the North American story of the global 1812 conflict.
Similarly, it was recently revealed in a study conducted by the Globe & Mail that the government’s promotion and commemoration of the War of 1812 resonated very little with the Canadian public.
If this war was such an important turning point in the creation of Canada as a nation, as both Lambert and Hickey argued it had been in their respective talks, then why has there been such an apathetic reception of the War’s commemoration? Lambert attributed this apathy to the fact that this was not a titanic war, that there are very few Canadians who can directly connect themselves with any ancestors who fought or lived during the war, and that there are no major symbols, such as Vimy Ridge for the First World War, that Canadians as a nation can rally around. Conversely, Hickey espoused that any polls showing this lack of interest should be taken with a grain of salt. He argued that sometimes “left-leaning journalists do not like to support promotion of the war.”
A point raised in debate throughout the symposium was a need for reexamination of how historians of all stripes have interpreted the war to the public. Have we focused enough on messages and stories of the War that the public can stand behind ?
Ask someone on the street about the War of 1812 and it’s rare that Laura Secord and her chocolates don’t arise in conversation. With a war fought so long in the past, it’s very difficult for historians and interpreters to cut through the myths and tall tales of the conflict to get to the truth.
Dr. Lambert and Dr. Hickey were kind enough to share their strategies for dealing with these kinds of challenges.
With the War of 1812 it was sometimes simple to see a “nationalist agenda” in the stories that were created, says Lambert. “The past can be created to help the present, for use as a political tool.” Hickey notes that mythology is comforting. “Mythology is a spectrum, from small stories to large histories, they are like hamburgers and chips - the comfort food of history. Despite writing to correct the myths, they always pop back up again. It’s hard to get rid of them.”
Both authors suggested that the public, while they may enjoy the myths, usually prefer the truth and that public historians and interpreters should work to encourage the public to seek the truth about the conflict.
Finally, the one question that seems to continue to plague historians on both sides of the border, is who actually won the War of 1812? Why is it so difficult to come to a consensus?
Dr. Lambert said that trying to answer this question involved “political football”, he says that America will never admit to their defeat because it would be “pushing a view that challenges the normal orthodoxy.”
Dr. Hickey felt that it “depended on the context.” He believes that it is easy to argue America’s defeat due to the fact that they did not achieve the war aims that they had set out at the beginning of the war. We presume that Dr. Hickey may have played to his audience at the symposium but both believe there will never be a consensus and that energies and resources should be used in communication deeper and more meaningful histories about the War to the public.
Perhaps there will never be a consensus and perhaps Canadians will never feel as strongly about this war as the interpreters and historians who attended the symposium. The Living History Conference and War of 1812 Symposium and other public forums are important because they help to foster discussion and debate, ensuring that in one way or another, the War of 1812 will never be forgotten.
— Text by Adrian Petry, MA and Laura Piticco MA.
In 1969, John and Yoko recorded "Give Peace a Chance" during their bed-in for peace in Montreal. Meanwhile in Winnipeg, a similar event was taking place as a hearty band of history lovers gathered to record their own uniquely Canadian version of the song. We now present this "lost recording" from Canada's History.
by Mark Collin Reid
When the Montreal Maroons captured the 1926 Stanley Cup, the victory sent shockwaves across the National Hockey League. The upstart team, founded only two seasons earlier in 1924, had spent its way to the top, earning many critics along the way.
In the April-May 2013 issue of Canada’s History magazine, award-winning Winnipeg writer Ryan Kessler recounts the rise and fall of the “Rockefeller Maroons.” To explore the early days of the NHL, Kessler also put together a series of online articles and podcast interviews, including:
Kessler’s story for Canada’s History won the Wells Foundation Award for sports writing — see below. The Eric and Jack Wells Foundation gives out the Wells Foundation award to honour “excellence in journalism.” Eric was a reporter with the Winnipeg Tribune after WWII. He worked the crime beat and eventually became editor-in-chief. John "Cactus Jack" Wells was a staple in Winnipeg radio and is a legend at CJOB.
Hockey’s High Rollers
Bankrolled by wealthy anglophone stockbrokers, the Montreal Maroons were destined to crash.
by Ryan Kessler
On April 7, 1926, privileged
members of Montreal’s
English-speaking community
wiped the sleep out
of their eyes and tried to
shake off some nasty headaches.
Feeling groggy but
triumphant, they proudly
read the headline of that day’s Montreal
Gazette: “Maroons Captured Stanley Cup
from Victoria Cougars.”
The night before, hordes of fans had
stormed the Maroons’ dressing room
to congratulate team members on their
win, creating a scene so chaotic that an entire police squad
was called in to keep order.
The reason for all the excitement was that the Montreal
Maroons had done the seemingly impossible. Launched as
a National Hockey League team in 1924, the new club went
from second-worst to best in the league in one year. How
could that happen? The answer was money — and lots of it.
At the time, Montreal had two professional teams, representing
the city’s cultural divide. French Canadians, who
typically didn’t wield much economic power, cheered on the
Montreal Canadiens, while Montreal’s well-heeled anglophones
backed the Maroons. While the former seemed
never to have a problem keeping a team, the latter found it
a struggle.
An earlier anglophone-backed club, the Montreal Wanderers,
had formed in 1903 and played in several leagues
before joining the NHL in 1917. The Wanderers, owned by
members of Montreal’s anglophone business community,
existed for only part of the NHL’s inaugural season before
being disbanded following a messy dispute between team
ownership and the league. Anglophone Montrealers were
left without their own professional team.
“There was a kind of a void,” William Brown, author of
The Montreal Maroons: The Forgotten Stanley Cup Champions,
said in an interview.
Wanderers founder James Strachan stepped in to fill the
void by creating the Montreal Professional Hockey Club
— which quickly came to be called “the Maroons” in reference
to the distinctive colour of the team’s jersey. Backed
by anglophone movers and shakers in Canada’s thriving
1920s stock exchange, the team was soon approved by the
NHL. Next came a new arena. After only 159 days of construction,
the Montreal Forum towered above Saint Catherine
Street West.
On the surface, this seemed like bad news for Canadiens
coach and owner Léo Dandurand. The Habs were
suddenly competing in their own market with a brand new
team playing at a world-class facility. The Canadiens were
stuck with the Mount Royal Arena, a natural ice complex
where rink flooding was done without machines. But,
according to Brown, the Canadiens’ coach and owner was
actually quite pleased.
“He publicly talked about how the Maroons would have
to compensate him for encroaching on his market, but he
was quite happy behind the scenes because he knew that
one day he’d be able to break his lease with that rickety
natural ice arena and move into the Forum,” said Brown.
Dandurand’s wish was fulfilled when the Canadiens started
playing at the new arena in 1926.
The Maroons’ owners stocked the lineup with future
Hall of Famers such as Harry “Punch” Broadbent, Reg
Noble, and goalie Clint Benedict. They were paid well, earning the Maroons a new nickname, “the
stockbrokers of the NHL.”
“The Maroons had this sort of attitude,”
said Brown. “They had lots of money, and
the players were very well paid. The owners
and their backers waved cash under
their noses. There were bonuses if you
scored a lot of goals. There were bonuses
if you won the Stanley Cup.”
Even fans chipped in with bonuses. In
one case, a fan gave a star forward a thousand
dollars for scoring a game-winning
goal.
Yet, initially, all this wealth did not ensure
victory. The Maroons finished the 1924–25
season poorly, with nine wins, nineteen
losses, and two ties. In their matchups with
the Canadiens, the Maroons were trounced
on almost every occasion. The Habs shut
them out in three games, tied one, and
ended the regular season with a 3–1 triumph
over the “Rockefeller” Maroons.
Tension was always in the air when the two teams met.
“There was a bit of a class thing because the Maroons
attracted more well-heeled fans, which were largely Englishspeaking.”
Brown said. “But even members of the Frenchspeaking
economic elite would sometimes cheer for the
Maroons.”
On-ice fights were routine, involving players, referees,
and even goal judges. While that was going on, violence
would often spill over into the crowd.
Fortunately for the Maroons’ owners, losing games did
not translate into losing money. The Forum sold out night
after night. With all that cash rolling in, the Maroons went
on a spending spree. For the second season, the owners
signed future team captain Dunc Munro to a $7,500 contract,
making Munro one of the highest-paid players in the
league.
Strachan, the founder, had a sharp eye for new talent.
After watching Albert “Babe” Siebert play for a Niagara Falls
amateur team, Strachan immediately signed the twenty-one-year-
old forward to a pro contract.
trachan’s next target was a powerful centreman playing in the United States, Nels
hockey hall of fame Stewart. He was about six-foot-one and two hundred pounds
when scouts found him in Cleveland. Strachan outbid the
Toronto St. Pats, who were also pursuing Stewart, to sign
the player who would come to be known as “Old Poison” —
either because of his deadly accurate shot or because of his
habit of spitting tobacco juice into the faces of his opponents.
Stewart and Siebert made up two thirds of what would
become the Maroons’ top line for the next season. Ultimately,
these off-season acquisitions won the Cup for the Maroons,
said Phil Pritchard, vice-president and curator of the Hockey
Hall of Fame.
“At that time, it was unheard of to get that many players
from different teams,” Pritchard said. “They were ahead of
their time, according to some.”
With the addition of new talent, the Montreal Maroons
vaulted into second place in the 1925–26 regular season.
Moreover, they won where it mattered — in Montreal,
against the Canadiens, in five out of six games played.
“That year the Maroons brought their level of play up to
the Canadiens. And that’s what made it such a good rivalry,”
Brown said.
The Maroons went on to defeat the Pittsburgh Pirates
and the first-place Ottawa Senators in the playoffs before facing
the Victoria Cougars of the Western Hockey League.
(At the time, the Stanley Cup was awarded to the winner of
a showdown between the two leagues, essentially an East versus-
West meeting.)
The Maroons won the Cup handily, three games to one
in a best-of-five series. The victory marked “the end of the
WHL,” according to Brown, because it demonstrated that
a team fuelled by money would outmatch the semi-professionals
of the WHL. The latter league folded soon after the
Cougars’ defeat, although the WHL name has twice since
been resurrected for different leagues.
Over the next few years, after winning the Stanley Cup,
the Maroons continued to battle hard against the Canadiens.
What the Maroons still missed was a knockout, rough-and-tumble
enforcer. That’s when Reginald “Hooley” Smith
entered the scene. He was a member of the Ottawa Senators,
but Strachan offered the Senators $22,500 in cash and
first-line forward Broadbent in a trade to bring Smith to the
team in October 1927.
Smith was cocky, crass, and very concerned about making
money. He was the perfect fit.
“He was a tough, talented player who took the hit, dug
things out of the corner, and he never went into the corner
without his elbows up,” Brown said.
Between 1928 and 1930, Stewart, Siebert, and Smith comprised
the “S line.” They were tough, fast, and cost a lot of
money. How much they made is hard to determine, considering
the under-the-table incentives the players were given.
Smith is said to have made about eight thousand dollars in his
first few Maroons seasons, plus bonuses — a small fortune for
a hockey player of that time.
The Maroons went on to have many successful seasons
and continued to generate healthy profits — until the Great
Depression hit. Ticket sales plummeted. All of a sudden the
NHL’s “stockbrokers” were pleading poverty.
“They had to economize,” Brown said. “The team just
didn’t have the money it used to. They had to start selling off
players like Stewart, Siebert, and Smith.” Even without a star-studded lineup, the Maroons won
the 1935 Stanley Cup. However, it would prove to be their
last hurrah.
Both the Canadiens and the Maroons were running out
of money. There was no longer economic room for two
teams in Montreal. Rumours ran rampant, including that
the Maroons and the Canadiens were making backroom
deals and planned eventually to join forces. Since 1935, the
Canadiens and Maroons had shared the same owner, the
Montreal Arena Company — a fact that did not help to
quash gossip.
Meanwhile, things had changed on the population front.
The French-speaking middle class had grown dramatically
since the Maroons joined the league, and by the 1937–38 season
the Canadiens had the city’s majority support.
The Maroons owners conceded. The final Montreal
Maroons game took place March 17, 1938. They faced off
against their archrivals, the Canadiens, and, in a final denoument,
lost 6–3. Efforts to transfer the team to St. Louis, and
later to Philadelphia, failed.
The team disbanded. The Canadiens claimed some of
the Maroons; others signed with the remaining NHL teams.
By the 1938–39 season, the Montreal Maroons franchise had
disappeared as quickly as it had appeared.
Never again would Montreal have two separate NHL
hockey teams to serve two language communities. Meanwhile,
the Canadiens would go on to become legends of
Canadian hockey.
Most people are familiar with Laura Secord’s role in the War of 1812, but her exceptional contribution says little about how the war impacted the lives of most women.
By highlighting female war experiences, the 2013 Living History Symposium, “Walking the Razor’s Edge: A Continent in Play,” provided insight into both the ordinary and extraordinary lives of women in the Regency period.
Jennifer Papak and Melissa Vuk delivered a presentation titled “An Army Marches on its Stomach” based both on culinary habits during the War of 1812 as well as their own experience cooking during re-enactments. After living history sparked their interest, Papak and Vuk discovered that in many cases history overlooked women’s roles in the war and decided to make this oversight their focus. The heavy workload that goes into planning a re-enactment meal mirrors the difficulties and obstacles associated with preparing an actual wartime meal. Whether the army was at a fort or on the march, their proximity to water, the time of year, and nationality of the soldiers: all of these factors influenced, and continue to influence, what would be cooked and the tools available to prepare it.
A period fashion display was given by Betsy Bashore, who has been constructing early 19th century reproduction garments for over 25 years. Bashore began creating reproduction clothing early in life after completing a project in the seventh grade. The clothing she presented covered a wide range of classes and positions of the Regency period, but emphasized the all-around importance of keeping the underpinnings true to the outfit if the dresses were to be authentic. Bashore described the difficulties that many modern women have adjusting to the constrictive nature of Regency clothing in contrast to the more loose fitting undergarments worn today.
Miyoko Twist spoke animatedly about Regency etiquette and deportment supported by sketches, paintings, and colourful anecdotes. Although she admits her real passion lies in period fashion, Twist enjoyed reading into a variety of sources in order to shape an accurate profile of Regency etiquette. Ironically, while modern day ideals for the behaviour of gentlemen and ladies are largely founded in Regency expectations, many of the behaviours widely accepted then would be heavily frowned up today, such as the tendency of husbands to take mistresses outside of their marriages.
Esteemed author Diane Graves spoke about women’s experiences in the Western Theatre of the War of 1812. She felt it important to focus on the often overlooked bravery of many of these women and to bring them into the forefront of historical consciousness. While battles have been studied extensively, the impact of these events on the lives of women has not been given enough scholarly attention. Graves found “much to admire when you put…what they achieved in the context of the times.” In order to illustrate her point, Graves provided several inspiring anecdotes, such as the exploits of Maria Muir: “She was the wife of Major Adam Muir of the 41st Foot. When the British army was defeated by the Americans at the Battle of the Thames, a lot of men were either killed, wounded, or taken prisoner, her husband included. She was among a number of other army wives who had to fend for themselves really, and she decided to try and get her and her young children back to the Upper Canadian capital of York. That was a distance of some 120 to 150 miles. She did so without any escort. She found a wagon, she had to drive that up- and down-hill across wild country with the danger of animals, possible Aboriginal attack, and so on. All by herself, and she made it. I think that’s a pretty incredible achievement.”
All of these presenters emphasized the many opportunities there are for women and girls to get involved in living history. As Papak pointed out, “one of the key things that supported the British army…honestly, was the women. [They] were keeping these men fed, keeping them happy, keeping them civilized.” Bashore acknowledged that while people participate in living history for a variety of reasons, the idea of creating and wearing different styles of period clothing is “dress-up, it’s play; it’s fun, it’s creativity….There’s little bit of escapism; you’re a different person.”
The presentations given by Twist and Graves show the strong presence of women both in everyday life of the period as well as in extraordinary situations. If living history is truly to give a full and rich representation of the world during the War of 1812, there needs to be more attention paid to the actions of women, whether those actions involved cooking a delicious meal over a campfire or a hundred mile trek through treacherous conditions.
— Text by Jen Sguigna and Jesika Arseneau
The captivating title, “Walking the Razor’s Edge: A Continent in Play,” attracted an audience of mixed age, gender, and academic backgrounds to the 2013 War of 1812 Bicentennial Symposium held in Hamilton, Ontario.
The history conference was alive with the buzz of re-enactors and academic historians meeting under the same roof, both drawn by the merchants, historic clothing, and educational seminars. A ball closed off the day’s events, complete with regency dancing.
Tom Fournier, the Symposium Director, was pleased with the turnout as he surveyed the audience following the closing keynote address by Dr. Don Hickey. Planning for the event began in the summer of 2012, following the debriefing of last year’s symposium. Throughout the planning process Fournier drew on both survey forms and his own specific goals that he wanted to incorporate for the bicentennial.
The conference committee specifically sought to provide the audience with a different perspective from last year, seeking out the unabashedly pro-British Dr. Andrew Lambert as a provocative counter-point to the American view provided by Dr. Hickey.
Many of the rotational seminars focused on daily life during the war, which provided valuable and engaging information for re-enactors. Jennifer Papak and Melissa Vuk presented on civilian and military regency food in England and Canada. “An Army Marches on its Stomach” included advice for the planning of re-enactment meals and used period cookbooks to demonstrate precise table layouts for the audience.
The immersive quality of history was evident in the lively atmosphere at the symposium. Presenter Betsy Bashore detailed the process of creating period fashion pieces to a knowledgeable audience. Her fashion display demonstrated careful research and the presentation included a number of tips and tricks for the many re-enactors interested in producing reproduction garments.
Bashore spoke to the popularity of re-enactment and its appeal to men and women of different backgrounds, “People do this for a variety of different reasons…There is a little bit of escapism; you’re a different person. Some women like to dress up as common working women because they have fairly refined existences at home.”
While there is a sense of escapism in the adoption of period dress and regency etiquette, there is a noteworthy attention to historical detail in these re-enactments. Not all of the presenters at the symposium had an academic historical background, but each presentation was well researched and references to archival sources were abundant.
Rob McGuire, Media Liaison, addressed the necessity of appealing to a wider audience through his efforts to publicize the symposium. McGuire was responsible for inviting media to the conference and finding outlets to broadcast the event, “Sometimes it is a challenge to get them here because a history conference is not always front-page news, so you are always competing with that.” The difficulty of gaining attention for the Living History Symposium has been especially tough this year with attention divided between the many 1812 commemoration events across Southern Ontario. In this forum, not only are history events struggling to be seen in the mainstream media, but written and living history have been competing for audiences and coverage.
McGuire passionately explained that re-enactments are important for Canadians because they provide a different way of teaching history that leaves a lasting memory. Conferences like the War of 1812 Bicentennial Symposium could only benefit from more mainstream media so more Canadians can be aware of the immersive experience that living history can provide. As articulated by Rob McGuire, “re-enacting is only going to survive if we can get younger people into this.”
“Walking the Razor’s Edge: A Continent in Play” was a flurry of dynamic presenters, entertaining merchants, and engaging material from Renée Lafferty’s “'I will enter Canada, and leave the rest to Heaven': Religion and the Fighting Men of the War of 1812” to Diane Graves’ “Vicissitudes and Commotions: Women's Experiences in the Western Theatre, 1812-1815.” There was an impressive variety of historical material, including racial dynamics in 1812, regency etiquette, methods of historical construction, and the impact of the war on the Six Nations.
The material at the conference brought history to life, and the audience engagement during the question and answer period demonstrated the ubiquitous relevance of the War of 1812. Tom Fournier enthusiastically described this approach to history, stating: “[Re-enactment] gives you a whole different interpretation of history because you have actually lived it and experienced some of those things…it animates history. History strictly in books is hard for people to engage with…experiential history is really important.”
— Text by Jesika Arseneau and Jen Sguigna
During the War of 1812, perhaps at no point was Canada closer to defeat than in the fall of 1813.
At the end of May the Americans under General Winfield Scott renewed their campaign in the Niagara region by crossing the Niagara River and capturing Fort George. Their invasion would be turned back at Stoney Creek and Beaver Dams, but they remained in control of the Fort.
In September an American fleet wiped out the British fleet at the Battle of Lake Erie, seeding control of the entire lake and effectively all of what is now Southwestern Ontario.
With the Lake under his control, General and future United States President used the fleet to capture Fort Amhurstburg which had been abandoned by the hastily retreating British. He chased the British and their native allies west along the Thames River until he finally routed them completely at the Battle of Thames, including killing the legendary Tecumseh, on October 5th 1813.
Worst still for the British, two massive invading forces were now making their way towards Montreal in a pincer movement which if successful, would have ended the war almost immediately for all of Upper and Lower Canada.
From the south, the first American force was moving toward Montreal from the city of Burlington on Lake Champlain and along the Chateauguay River under the command of Major General Wade Hampton. Roughly 2,500 American soldiers would cross the border as part of his invading force.
A second larger army had gathered at Sacket’s Harbour at the mouth of the St. Lawarence River and had begun the slow process of advancing up the river by barge. The fate of Canada hung in the balance.
Against the invading force advancing from the South, Charles de Salaberry had pulled together a small band of militia and regular units to face the advancing Americans. Entrenched along the Châteauguay River they were able to hold back the initial American assault. The Americans, rather than regroup, retreated after receiving news of the slow advance of the army moving along the St. Lawrence.
Two weeks later on November 11th, 1813, the second American force would be defeated soundly by a much smaller British force at the Battle of Crysler’s Farm.
The two victories ended the St. Lawrence campaign of 1813 and what was likely Canada’s darkest hour.
Learn more about Charles de Salaberry from the Royal Canadian Mint.
In the April/May 2013 issue of Canada's History magazine, Matthew Kirby's article “Going, Going, Gone” reflects on a rural way of life that is rapidly disappearing.
In this slideshow, Nelle Oosterom, the Senior Editor of Canada’s History magazine, shares her memories of growing up on a small farm in southern Ontario.
We invite you to also share your stories of growing up in rural Canada. Send us your favourite photo and memory, and we'll post them online.
The Bluenose was the greatest racing schooner to ever sail the waves. Fast, graceful, she took on all comers—and outran them all. To Canadians mired in the Great Depression, Bluenose offered a spark of hope. Gathering around their transistor radios, they thrilled to her exploits as time and time again she defeated her American rivals.
After the original Bluenose sank in the Caribbean, Nova Scotia built Bluenose II. The ship proudly represented Canada for decades. It even appears on our dime. But when rot was discovered in the beautiful schooner, many feared it would lead to her ruin. Thankfully, a massive restoration effort has saved Bluenose II. This summer, she once again sails as Canada’s cultural ambassador—a reminder of a different age, a time when men of iron sailed ships of hard timber and helped shape a nation.
The Bluenose has inspired generations of artists in Canada. Listen to the late Stan Rogers sing of “how she is always best under full press.”
And hear a ballad by Ryan’s Fancy tell of how the “ocean knows her name” and that she was “racing every wave in the sea.”
Finally, watch Rick Mercer of CBC’s Rick Mercer Report as he spends an afternoon as a crewmember aboard the Bluenose II. Also on board is Wayne Walters, grandson of Angus Walters, the original captain of the Bluenose.
The legend of Bluenose and Bluenose II lives on. To learn more about the multi-million-dollar refurbishing of the Bluenose II, check out this article from the June–July 2013 issue of Canada’s History.
When Tom Sukanen left Finland in 1898 and set sail for America, he imagined a better life in the New World. By 1911, the former sailor and ship builder was trying to eke out a living as a homesteader in Saskatchewan. And things went well, at least, until the Great Depression and the long drought that came with it.
With Sahara–like winds sucking moisture from the soil, killing hope along with crops, Sukanen began his descent into madness. He’s best known today for his Sisyphean attempt to build an iron ship by hand and sail it across the prairies, to Hudson Bay, and then home to Finland.
His tragic story has inspired several books, plays and movies. You can learn more about Tom Sukanen’s “prairie dust ship” in the June–July 2013 issue of Canada’s History magazine.
In the meantime, check out:
Shipbuilder by Stephen Surjik, National Film Board of Canada
The Walter and Duncan Gordon Foundation has a mission to protect Canada’s water and empower Canada’s North.
Based in Toronto, the foundation is a private, philanthropic body that undertakes research, leadership development, and public dialogue on freshwater protection and issues affecting the Arctic.
The foundation recently sponsored a series of articles in Canada’s History magazine that dealt with vital issues in environmental history.
The articles, authored by top experts in their fields, are now available online. They include:
Arctic Ambitions: Canada and other nations needed a mechanism to discuss the future of the North. They found it in the Arctic Council. By John English
A River Runs Through Us: The Columbia River Treaty is a model of international co-operation but it could soon expire. By Richard Kyle Paisley
Sentinels of Sovereignty: How the Canadian Rangers came to be the shadow army of the North. By P. Whitney Lackenbauer
Respecting Boundaries: For more than a century, the International Joint Commission has been quietly resolving disputes between Canada and the United States. By Nandor F. Dreisziger
See also a photo gallery about the Canadian Rangers.
by P. Whitney Lackenbauer
In 1947, Minister of National Defence Brooke Claxton quietly announced the creation of an unorthodox military force: the Canadian Rangers. Outfitted with armbands and bolt-action rifles, volunteers in remote areas of Canada were to provide a military presence on a shoestring budget. Sixty-six years later, the Rangers wear red sweatshirts and have access to more equipment, but they continue to thrive using the same no-frills approach, playing a prominent role in defence, nation-building, and stewardship.
Defence officials came up with the Ranger concept during the Second World War, when the Japanese threatened the West Coast. Terrified British Columbians pushed the federal government to improve coastal defences. Evoking the mystique of untrained frontier fighters from centuries past, the army responded by forming the Pacific Coast Militia Rangers (PCMR) in early 1942. This temporary reserve force allowed British Columbian men who were too old or too young for overseas service, or engaged in essential industries such as fishing and mining, to contribute to home defence.
Apart from a sporting rifle, ammunition, an armband, and eventually a canvas uniform suited to the coastal climate, the army expected the Rangers to be self-sufficient. Using their local knowledge, they reported any suspicious vessels or activities they came across during their everyday lives. If an enemy invaded, they were expected to help professional forces repel it. By 1943, there were nearly fifteen thousand Rangers representing all walks of B.C. life, from fish packers to cowboys. They trained with other military units, conducted search and rescue, and reported Japanese balloon bombs that landed along the coast. The organization stood down when the war ended in the fall of 1945, having accomplished its home defence mission without firing a hostile shot.
A few years later, Canadians awoke to the reality of the Cold War. Realizing that the country did not have the resources to station large numbers of regular soldiers in its vast northern and remote regions, defence officials returned to the Ranger idea in 1947. This time the force would spread across Canada. The first Ranger units took shape in the Yukon, then extended throughout the North and down the Atlantic and Pacific coasts.
The civilian backgrounds of these “ordinary” men (there is no record of any women Rangers until the late 1980s) determined their contributions, whether they were trappers, bush pilots, missionaries, fishermen, or miners. In Aboriginal communities, Inuit, First Nations, and Métis men filled the ranks — although until the 1970s the army usually appointed a token “white” officer to lead them. The Rangers’ local knowledge allowed them to serve as guides and scouts, report suspicious activities while going about their daily business, and — if the unthinkable came to pass — delay an enemy advance using guerrilla tactics. The army equipped each Ranger with an obsolescent but reliable .303 Lee Enfield rifle left over from World War II (the type the Rangers still use today), two hundred rounds of ammunition annually, and an armband in lieu of a military uniform. Largely untrained, they were expected to hunt wildlife to hone their marksmanship skills.
The strength of the early organization peaked in December 1956, when 2,725 Rangers served in forty-two companies. Rangers filed reports on strange ships and aircraft and participated in training exercises with Canada’s Mobile Striking Force — a Cold War-era paratroop force designed to be flown quickly into remote northern areas. In one case, Rangers even helped the RCMP intercept bandits trying to flee the Yukon along the Alaska Highway. Journalist Robert Taylor observed that this diverse mix of Canadians was united in one task: “Guarding a country that doesn’t even know of their existence.”
By the 1960s, Ottawa’s defence plans largely overlooked the Rangers. Citizen-soldiers with armbands and rifles could hardly fend off hostile Soviet bombers carrying nuclear weapons. Officials ignored the Rangers, turning instead to technological marvels like the Distant Early Warning (DEW) Line to protect the continent. Apart from Newfoundland and Labrador, and a sprinkling of northern communities, the Canadian Rangers were largely inactive by 1970. That the organization survived at all was thanks to local initiative and its miniscule cost.
Then something happened to change the attitudes of defence planners: Humble Oil, an American consortium, sent the icebreaker Manhattan — a giant oil tanker — through the Northwest Passage twice in 1969 and 1970. The United States proclaimed that it did not need Canadian permission because the passage was an international strait. All of a sudden, Canada’s hold over what it regarded as its Arctic was an issue. The government turned to the Canadian Forces to assert symbolic control, promising increased surveillance and more Arctic training for southern troops. Because the Rangers still existed — on paper, at least — and cost next to nothing, they fit the bill.
After the military established its new northern region headquarters in Yellowknife, staff travelled to communities to provide basic military training to Inuit and Dene Rangers. These meetings were very popular with the locals, who embraced the Rangers as a form of grassroots service. Furthermore, northern Rangers patrols (as their community-based units became known) now elected their own leaders — a unique form of self-governance. Revitalized by military support and respect, by the early 1980s the Rangers had resumed their roles as guides and expert teachers of survivalskills in the Northwest Territories, northern Quebec, and along the eastern seaboard.
When the next Arctic sovereignty drama unfolded, the Rangers reached a new level of prominence. In 1985, the U.S. Coast Guard icebreaker Polar Sea pushed through the Northwest Passage without seeking Canada’s permission, resurrecting sovereignty anxieties. The Conservative government of Brian Mulroney responded by promising big-ticket military investments to improve Canada’s control over the Arctic. At the same time, the Rangers received increased recognition and support. Media coverage began to emphasize the social and political benefits of the Rangers in Aboriginal communities. As a bridge between diverse cultures as well as between the civilian and military worlds, the Rangers successfully integrated national sovereignty and defence agendas with local interests.
While most of the government’s promised investments in Arctic defence evaporated with the end of the Cold War, the Canadian Rangers increased in size in the 1990s. Most new growth was in Aboriginal communities. Journalists applauded the Rangers for teaching the military and for encouraging elders to share their traditional knowledge with younger people within Aboriginal communities. The latter role led to the creation of a youth program, the Junior Canadian Rangers, in 1998.
By the twenty-first century, the Canadian Rangers had three broad tasks: conducting and supporting sovereignty operations; conducting and assisting with domestic military operations; and maintaining a Canadian Forces presence in local communities.
The Rangers have attracted their highest profile when patrolling the remotest reaches of the Arctic, showing the flag in some of the most challenging conditions imaginable. Since 2007, Rangers have participated in three major annual exercises: Nunalivut in the High Arctic, Nunakput in the Western Arctic, and Nanook in the Eastern Arctic. The Rangers also conduct search and rescue operations and are the de facto leaders in their communities during states of emergency resulting from avalanches, extreme weather, forest fires, and other events.
The Rangers’ task of maintaining a military presence in local communities remains fundamental. As volunteers representing more than ninety percent of the Canadian Forces’ presence north of the 55th parallel, the Rangers play many local roles: providing honour guards for politicians and royalty visiting their communities, protecting trick-or-treaters from polar bears in Churchill, Manitoba, on Halloween, or blazing trails for the Yukon Quest and Hudson Bay Quest dog sled races.
Today there are nearly five thousand Rangers. With their distinctive red sweatshirts and ball caps, they are an appropriate form of military presence in remote regions. The southern establishment depends on them. Without access to local knowledge of the land, sea, and skies, southern visitors are hopelessly lost. As Sergeant Simeonie Nalukturuk, a Ranger patrol commander in Inukjuak, put it, the Rangers are “the eyeglasses, hearing aids, and walking stick for the [Canadian Forces] in the North.”
The Rangers today are icons of Canadian sovereignty. They contribute to domestic security, make important contributions to their communities, and are stewards of our northland. Most importantly, their commitment does not fluctuate with the political winds of the south. Facing an uncertain future, Canadians can rest assured that the men and women in red sweatshirts will remain vigilant as stalwart sentinels watching over their communities and the farthest reaches of our country.

P. Whitney Lackenbauer is an associate professor and chair of history at the University of Waterloo.
This article appeared in the April/May 2013 issue of Canada’s History magazine.
by Richard Kyle Paisley
The Columbia River is the fourth-largest river in North America. Stretching from the mountains of southeastern British Columbia and flowing south across the U.S. border, its drainage area includes seven American states. In 1944, Canada and the United States agreed to talk about sharing the conservation and management of this massive river system. Twenty years later — following a devastating flood in 1948 that literally wiped Vanport, Oregon, off the map — both countries implemented the Columbia River Treaty.
As a result of the treaty, the Columbia River is now the most dammed river in North America and the continent’s biggest hydroelectricity producer. It is also perhaps the classic example in the world of the successful and equitable sharing of downstream benefits between two countries.
The tremendous success of the treaty is due to its simple, clear-cut objectives. The U.S. wanted coordinated flood control and optimal hydroelectric power generation. The latter meant that dams on the Canadian side would store water, to be released for power generation as needed. Canada would receive payment in return.
The U.S. agreed to pay British Columbia an advance of $65 million — representing half of the estimated value of the reduced flood damage in the U.S. from the years 1964 to 2024. The U.S. also agreed to provide B.C. with the annual value of the marginal power generated — the so-called Canadian Entitlement. The Canadian Entitlement is currently worth between $60 million and $300 million per year; the amount varies depending on the price of electricity.
The treaty runs in perpetuity. However, 2014 and 2024 are important years. In the year 2014, Canada or the U.S. can, for the first time, give ten years notice to unilaterally terminate the treaty. And in the year 2024, unless there is an agreement to the contrary, the coordinated flood control portions of the Columbia River Treaty expire.
With 2014 fast approaching, some people on both sides of the border say the treaty is not broken, so no one should be trying to fix it. However, critics say the very simplicity that has made the treaty successful has also made it woefully out of date. For example, they say that in 1964 the enormous ecosystem impacts of the treaty on wildlife, fish, and water quality were not contemplated, the impact of climate change was largely unknown, and the Aboriginal peoples onboth sides of the border were not consulted, nor were their interests accommodated.
In 2011 alone, over fifteen hundred residents on the Canadian side took part in a series of community meetings to discuss issues of concern, including: The removal of debris from reservoirs so that people could use these bodies of water for tourism and recreation; how to deal with invasive aquatic species; how to avoid damage to Aboriginal archeological sites; and how to ameliorate the damage from dust storms when reservoir levels are low.
Many questions have arisen. Should Canada and/or the U.S. give ten years notice in 2014 to terminate the treaty? What would termination mean as a practical matter? If there were no treaty, is Canada still obliged to prevent flooding in the U.S.? Is there any way that the existing treaty can be adjusted to include values and interests that were not prominent when the treaty was first negotiated?
If the U.S. and Canada do nothing in 2014 or beyond to terminate the treaty then it will be business as usual, with one important exception: The current coordinated operation for flood control in the U.S. would terminate in 2024, unless there is an agreement to the contrary. As a practical matter, this would mean that flood control, particularly in the U.S., would likely be much more challenging and expensive.
If either country gives notice to terminate the treaty, the situation is more complex. With no treaty, the U.S. is no longer obliged to pay the Canadian Entitlement. Both countries would ostensibly be free to manage the Columbia in their own territory the way they wished. How abrogation of the treaty would ultimately affect flood control, the environment, climate change, Aboriginal peoples, and other issues is not well understood. However, the sudden absence of long-standing cooperation is not likely to be good for either country.
The fact that the Columbia River Treaty appears to have worked reasonably well for the past forty years, or that international treaties are increasingly difficult to negotiate or adjust in the present political climate on both sides of the border, should not deter those who wish to see constructive change.
The pros and cons of an adjusted treaty should be evaluated in both countries. Such an evaluation should go beyond the status quo to include a critical review of how best to conserve and protect the environment, as well as to respect the interests of those living near the Columbia River. Lessons can also be learned from governance of the other 246 international drainage basins around the world.
Last, but not least, all who will be involved in determining the future of the Columbia River in 2014 and beyond should seek to overcome what Machiavelli identified as the “incredulity of men who do not readily believe in new things until they have had a long experience of them.”

Richard Kyle Paisley is the director of the Global Transboundary International Waters Governance Initiative and a senior research associate at the University of British Columbia Institute of Asian Research in Vancouver. The opinons expressed are those of the author.
This article originally appeared in the February/March 2013 issue of Canada’s History magazine.
by Nandor F. Dreisziger
If Canadians rarely hear about the International Joint Commission (IJC), it may be because this institution has been quiet yet effective in its job of settling potentially explosive cross-border disputes.
Friction along the Canada-United States border has been commonplace since the outbreak of the American Revolutionary War in 1775. Until the last third of the nineteenth century, disputes were mostly about the actual location of the border. Later, other issues came up, such as international trade and the use of boundary waters for navigation.
These early disputes were usually solved through temporary commissions set up by Great Britain and the United States. Gradually, the makeup of these temporary joint commissions changed to include more Canadian representation — the practice of appointing at least one Canadian public figure started soon after Confederation. The Joint High Commission of 1898–99 had three Canadians among its ten members, including Prime Minister Wilfrid Laurier. When that commission failed to resolve the Alaska boundary dispute, the matter was put before an arbitration tribunal that settled the matter in 1903.
The late nineteenth century and turn of the twentieth century saw many new border issues arise as the North American economy expanded. The continent’s inland waterways were being utilized at an unprecedented rate. The demand for irrigation in the semi-arid regions of the Westand the calls for hydroelectric generation to light the cities of North America’s industrial heartland were by-products of this new prosperity.
One source of conflict was the increasing diversion of water from the lakes and rivers along the international boundary. For instance, at Chicago, water needed for the city’s sewage system was diverted southward from Lake Michigan into the Mississippi watershed. The diversion threatened to lower water levels in the Great Lakes and impede navigation.
Elsewhere on the Great Lakes, water was being diverted for hydroelectricity generation. Power companies in New York state were applying for licences to channel so much water away from the Niagara River that Niagara Falls was threatened with drying up.
Meanwhile, concerns about a canal and hydroelectricity plant completed in 1902 at Sault Ste. Marie, Michigan, led to an investigation by the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers that resulted in several recommendations, one of which was the creation of an international commission to find solutions to these problems.
As the result of these developments, the International Waterways Commission (IWC) was established and began functioning in 1905. Members of the IWC were instrumental in promoting the idea of a long-term and more comprehensive solution to international issues.
There were also propitious developments in international politics. Britain’s position as the world’s maritime superpower was being challenged by other European powers — the policy of “splendid isolation” no longer guaranteed British security. To end their country’s diplomatic isolation, British statesmen sought rapprochement with the United States. To improve relations with the U.S., the British needed to remove irritants between that country and what they often continued to consider “their colony” in North America. The brave new world of the times required brave new solutions — and one of these was the IJC.
The development that gave birth to the commission was the Boundary Waters Treaty of 1909. Through this treaty, for the first time in Canadian and American affairs, the governments of the contracting parties surrendered a part of their control over common waters to a joint agency. More important was the fact that the commission was to be a permanent body.
The commission was to have no British member, only three Canadians and three Americans staffing each of its two sections. The IJC was in part established as a court of arbitration to which the two governments could refer disputes for binding solutions; however, this function of the IJC was never put to use, no doubt because most of the commissioners serving on the IJC were technocrats rather than people with training in international law.
The IJC had its first meeting in Washington, D.C., in January 1912. Since then, it has performed yeoman service for both countries. The commission has received applications from states, provinces, and municipalities for the approval of construction projects in boundary waters and for projects potentially affecting such waters. It has rejected or approved these applications and sometimes set up subsidiary joint boards to monitor and manage the projects in question.
The IJC also investigates problems along the international boundary and produces reports for their solution. Its recommendations are implemented if both governments are in agreement.The IJC’s investigations can be wide-ranging and do not even need to relate to boundary waters. For instance, problems related to transborder air pollution have also been put before the commission.
The most important function of the IJC is to prevent problems arising along the international boundary from becoming sources of political friction. The IJC is important to both countries, but it is arguably more important to Canadians. Without the IJC, some problems would become heated debates. In public disagreements between Ottawa and Washington, the latter is more likely to have its way, simply because of the greater weight the U.S. carries in the international arena.
Nothing speaks more highly of the importance of the IJC than the fact that other joint agencies were later established that were patterned on the same basis. Perhaps the most famous of these is the Permanent Joint Board on Defence (PJBD) created in 1940 by an agreement between President Franklin D. Roosevelt and Prime Minister William Lyon Mackenzie King. The PJBD is an advisory body that helps to coordinate the two countries’ defence efforts. Its activities were especially important during World War II.
Canada and the U.S. have a unique and significant institution in the IJC. We can only hope that this agency will continue to exist and serve Canadians and Americans for another century — and even beyond.
Nandor F. Dreisziger is a professor emeritus of history at the Royal Military College of Canada in Kingston, Ontario.
This article appeared in the June/July 2013 issue of Canada’s History magazine.
In 1996, the Arctic Council limped into existence, barely noticed. Today, it is the principal forum in which the eight Arctic states interact and plan the increasingly important future of the Arctic. By John English
In 2013 Canada becomes the chair of the Arctic Council, an organization barely noticed at its birth in September 1996, when Canada was its founding chair. Opposed by the United States, underfunded, without a permanent secretariat, and lacking terms of reference and rules of procedure, the Arctic Council limped into existence. Today it is the principal forum in which the eight Arctic states interact and plan the increasingly important future of the Arctic.
Three principal factors converged to form the Arctic Council: firstly, the emergence of co-operation, autonomy, and assertiveness among the indigenous peoples of the North, particularly the Inuit; secondly, the greater concern for the environment and the understanding that the Arctic had a particular significance in global climate change and that Arctic peoples were subject to persistent organic pollutants from distant places; and, above all, the end of the Cold War, which had made the Arctic one of the most militarized areas in the world.
In the 1950s the government of Canada asserted its sovereign authority by removing Inuit families from their homes in northern Quebec and resettling them in the High Arctic. By the 1970s, such actions were unthinkable.
Articulate leaders appeared among the Inuit and expressed demands that their voices be heeded when their future was being decided. As part of the so-called “rights revolution” of the 1970s, governments responded more willingly to Aboriginal demands. The massive James Bay project in northern Quebec, for example, led to a land claim settlement with the Cree and Inuit of northern Quebec.
The Makivik Corporation was formed from proceeds of the James Bay and Northern Quebec Agreement. It soon became a training ground for leaders such as Mary Simon, Canada’s first Arctic ambassador. Before her appointment as ambassador in 1994, she had been the president of the Inuit Circumpolar Council (ICC), which was formed in 1977 to link together Inuit in Alaska, Canada, and Greenland.
Although the ICC often quarrelled with international environmental NGOs that advocated animal welfare, it strongly urged greater attention to environmental concerns, especially in the 1980s, when it became clear that pollution was a major concern in the North American Arctic. Simultaneously, Scandinavians worried about the impact of decrepit Soviet nuclear plants as demonstrated by the Chernobyl disaster and the many nuclear submarines in nearby waters.
On October 2, 1987, the dynamic new Soviet leader Mikhail Gorbachev responded to these fears and offered new hopes for the Arctic. In Murmansk, U.S.S.R., the largest Arctic city, he gave a remarkable speech that confronted not only the environmental challenges but also growing Arctic militarization. He called for joint action by Arctic nations to deal with the sensitive Arctic environment and for the creation of a “zone of peace” in the North.
The initial response was indifferent, except for the Finns, who immediately grasped the offer of environmental co-operation. The Canadians, who had just issued a hawkish White Paper on defence that called for strengthening the Canadian military and purchasing of nuclear submarines for Arctic patrol, brushed off Gorbachev’s proposals. But Canadian peace activists, Arctic scholars, and Aboriginal activists disagreed with their government’s stand. With funding from the Walter & Duncan Gordon Foundation, several leading political and academic figures organized an Arctic Council Panel to promote an Arctic nuclear-free zone and to create a consultative and co-operative body among Arctic states. University of Toronto academic Franklyn Griffiths and Inuit leader Rosemarie Kuptana became the panel’s co-chairs.
The end of the Cold War in 1989–90 shattered the structures that had enclosed international politics and freed the Arctic from the constraints placed upon it by superpower confrontation. The Canadian government found its international policy, especially in the area of defence and the Arctic, totally confused at a moment when the recently re-elected Prime Minister Brian Mulroney was eager to step onto the international stage.
When the Berlin Wall fell in November 1989, the Canadian plan to build nuclear submarines for the Arctic quickly died. Moreover, the Soviet Union and Canada shared the largest Arctic shorelines and passages across the North. External Affairs now believed Gorbachev’s proposals required a response, and External Affairs Minister Joe Clark prepared to make a historic speech calling for the creation of an Arctic council to bring together Arctic states to deal with the region’s political, environmental, social, and security problems. Then Mulroney travelled to Leningrad and proposed the formation of an Arctic Council on November 24, 1989.
But the idea did not catch fire. The Soviet Union began to fall apart, Gorbachev was fatally weakened, and the United States would have nothing to do with Mulroney’s proposal, which envisaged a role for the new council in security questions. As the superpowers stepped away from the stage, smaller states remained active, as did NGOs, which in the early 1990s rushed to fill political vacuums.
The Finns, horrified by the nuclear waste and environmental threats posed by the collapse of the Soviet Union, took the lead in promoting an “Arctic Environmental Protection Strategy” (AEPS), which was formally recognized at Rovaniemi, Finland, in June 1991 by Canada, Denmark/Greenland, Russia, Norway, the United States, Finland, Sweden, and Iceland.
The AEPS, as the name suggests, was focused on the environment — the Americans remained adamantly opposed to any security component — and initially had four working groups: the Arctic Monitoring and Assessment Program; Conservation of Arctic Flora and Fauna; Protection of the Arctic Marine Environment; and Emergency, Prevention, Preparedness and Response. Importantly, the AEPS involved the participation of indigenous peoples, who were declared “permanent participants.” They took part in meetings and working groups and were excluded only from meetings of heads of delegations. The initial permanent participants were the Inuit Circumpolar Council, the Saami peoples of Scandinavia, and representatives of Russian indigenous peoples.
The AEPS lacked financial resources and, more importantly, political clout. Accordingly, the post-Cold War environment continued to promote attempts to establish broader co-operation across the Arctic. During the so-called “Finnish Initiative” to create an environmental forum, Canada continued to advance the idea of an Arctic council. In the early 1990s, a new concept of human security emerged. It was vague in details but essentially argued that security must go beyond state-centric visions. In other words, states faced limitations on what they could do within their own boundaries and in the treatment of their own people.
The argument appealed strongly to indigenous peoples, especially in the Arctic. The AEPS, at Canada’s suggestion, incorporated a sustainable development component in 1993, and it linked easily with the human security initiatives undertaken by Lloyd Axworthy after he became Canada’s foreign minister in 1996.
But the idea of an Arctic council met much resistance, especially from the United States, which wanted to limit the role of the permanent participants of the AEPS and to exclude any discussion of security. The renewed Canadian attempt to put together a new council stumbled. A frustrated Mary Simon, as Canada’s Arctic ambassador, asked the other states if they would form a council if the United States refused to join. The answer was no. Turning to personal diplomacy, Prime Minister Jean Chrétien finally persuaded President Bill Clinton to give American support for the council, and it was officially created in Ottawa in September 1996.
The New York Times did not note the occasion, and Canadian coverage was mostly restricted to a brief Canadian Press report. There was much left undone. The working groups of the AEPS continued and formed the core of the new council. The permanent participants maintained their presence at the council table, although their precise role was the topic of angry debate. There were no terms of reference and no working plan.
While some, including Canada, wanted the council to set out a definite program, one that would gain intellectual coherence through a focus on sustainable development, the United States favoured a more limited vision of individual projects and questioned the Canadian definition of sustainable development. There was also controversy about the place of observers; the permanent participants were especially wary of environmental NGOs. Simon, the first chair, would face these enormous challenges.
Not surprisingly, expectations were modest. Only three people worked directly for the new council’s secretariat in offices, which were located in Vanier, an outlying neighbourhood of Ottawa located far from the capital’s centres of power. When Canada passed the chair position to the United States after its term ended in 1998, the council’s fate seemed much in doubt. The working groups continued valuable scientific research, issued reports, and despaired when politicians did not respond. Ministers avoided council meetings, officials dominated decision-making, and the indigenous peoples found the costs of participation greater than their resources.
At the beginning of the new millennium, the Arctic Council was on the sidelines, a disappointment to its promoters and an irritant to some officials eager to work on matters they thought were more significant. The Arctic Council, nevertheless, began to prove its worth. It took a lead in the research on persistent organic pollutants, and the importance of collaboration between scientists and indigenous populations became clear. Its influence was apparent in the 2001 Stockholm Convention on Persistent Organic Pollutants. In 2004, the presentation of the Arctic Climate Impact Assessment had an even greater impact, and the assessment’s conclusions about the broader global impact of a warming Arctic profoundly affected popular and scientific debate. Suddenly, the Arctic mattered; by the decade’s end the Arctic was “hot.”
On March 29, 2010, Hillary Clinton emerged from a meeting room at Meech Lake, north of Ottawa. The first American secretary of state to attend an Arctic Council meeting, Clinton condemned the Canadian government for convening a gathering of the five Arctic coastal states rather than the full Arctic Council, which would have included indigenous peoples and Iceland, Sweden, and Finland. She sternly rebuked her Canadian hosts by declaring, “significant international discussions on Arctic issues should include those who have legitimate interests in the region.” In an echo of Canadian arguments of the mid-1990s, Clinton added, “I hope the Arctic will always showcase our ability to work together, not create new divisions.”
Where Bill Clinton’s administration had been skeptical about the Arctic Council, Secretary of State Hillary Clinton was an eloquent advocate of its purposes. Ironically, the Conservative Canadian government under Stephen Harper initially seemed dubious about the council, perhaps because of its origins in Liberal human security diplomacy. Recently, its attitude has changed, and it has become a strong promoter.
Whatever the cause of its earlier hesitations, the Harper government now recognizes the importance of the Arctic Council to Canada’s international interests. Indeed, it points out — correctly — that the Conservatives under Mulroney made the first international proposal for such a council. Canada is making the Arctic Council the core of its approach to the Arctic and will assume the chair in 2013 with Minister of Health Leona Aglukkaq as the head of the council. With Arctic ice melting, a rush to exploit resources developing, and a world turning towards the North as never before, the Arctic Council promises to have a future far more important than its founders could ever have imagined.
John English is the general editor of the Dictionary of Canadian Biography and the former director of the Centre for International Governance Innovation.
This article appeared in the December 2012/January 2013 issue of Canada’s History magazine.
Peter Boyer's band Same Latitude as Rome had been performing several songs about the War of 1812. Inspired by the stories he discovered, he challenged other musicians in the Windsor Regional Writers Group to create music related to the war, and a grant from Heritage Canada enabled them to record a twelve-sing CD called Reflections on 1812.
Terry Taylor of Windsor band Gone Wrong was brought to tears as he wrote "Our Last Storm," a piece about the "shadow on our soul" the war brought to a couple after the husband left to fight in the militia.
You can listen to "Our Last Storm" and "The Shore", also by Gone Wrong.
The Last Storm, Gone Wrong
by Nelle Oosterom
Royal Roads University has launched an online archive of yearbooks from its roots as a Canadian military college.
Caroline Posynick, who led the digitization project, says former cadets often come to the university to look at the annual yearbooks, known as The Log. Now, the Royal Roads University Archives provides online access to every yearbook published by the military college from 1943 until it became a university in 1995.
The fifty-three yearbooks are full of photos, news, speeches, and messages. The digitization project involved scanning approximately seven thousand pages of documents from the yearbooks and uploading them to a website, a process that took a year to complete.
View the logbooks

Cadets train on the lagoon, circa 1945.

The cover of the 1957 yearbook.

Cadets in 1962 model a variety of uniforms.
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Office cadets on parade at Royal Roads Military College, circa 1990.
Photos courtesy of Royal Roads Military fonds, RRU Archives
by Nelle Oosterom
The signature publication of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police is celebrated its eightieth year of publication in 2013. Now one of the oldest continuously publishing magazines in Canada, the Quarterly debuted in 1933 and has been produced by the RCMP Veterans' Association since 1999.
The Quarterly includes stories on current events as well as in-depth articles on community initiatives, new technologies, and other issues that impact the world of policing. It has recorded the force's history for more than half of its existence while providing a place for RCMP members and their families to share personal stories.
A special eightieth-anniversary edition includes letters from past and present RCMP commissioners, a photo retrospective that looks back to the force's early days in Canada's West, and a letter from former Prime Minister R.B. Bennett that was originally printed in the magazine's first edition in July 1933, on the sixtieth anniversary of the force's founding.
To subscribe to the Quarterly, phone toll-free 1-877-215-3469 or email thequarterly@rcmp-grc.gc.ca
The Juno Beach Centre, a Canadian museum on the coast of France, is celebrating its tenth anniversary in 2013 with a series of special events.
The museum and cultural centre opened its doors June 6, 2003, on the Second World War site of the D-Day landing and Battle of Normandy.
The Centre presents the war effort made by all Canadians, civilian and military alike, both at home and on the various fronts during the Second World War. Since its opening, the centre has welcomed over 525,000 visitors from around the world.
The anniversary celebrations kicked off with a special commemoration ceremony and other events on June 6. Events coming up include:
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• A commemorative ceremony and walk on August 10 to honour Acadian soldiers, followed by performances by Acadian performing artists from Nova Scotia and New Brunswick on August 13 and 14.
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• A regatta on September 22, followed by a special exhibit September 21 to October 13 featuring a large mural containing the faces of the 157 Canadian soldiers, sailors, and aircrew who lost their lives in Afghanistan.
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• A conference in November on “The place of D-Day and the Battle of Normandy in the Canadian conscience past and present” by Serge Durflinger, history professor at the University of Ottawa. Durflinger is one of the rare Canadian bilingual historians who have studied the topic of the Second World War from both the Canadian anglophone and francophone perspectives.
Founded by the late Garth Webb, a D-Day veteran, the centre is owned and operated by the Juno Beach Centre Association (JBCA), a Canadian non-profit charitable corporation governed by a Board of Directors.
The Minister of Canadian Heritage has designated the Juno Beach landing site to be a site of national historic significance to Canada.
Canada’s History recently interviewed Marie-Eve Vaillancourt, program manager for the Juno Beach Centre.
The environmental movement is one of the most popular topics in Canadian environmental history. At present, the environmental movement in Canada is at a bit of a crossroads. Having finally moved beyond simply outlining worst practices and their consequences, the last decade has witnessed proactive solutions and workable alternatives to every kind of environmental problem. Yet, this comes at the same time as economic turmoil and ideological opposition from government. Recently, David Suzuki has even gone so far as to argue that “Environmentalism has failed.” Given this crossroads, environmental historians offer the context needed to understand the state of the environmental movement in this country today.
On this second part of our look at the history of the environmental movement in Canada we speak with a group of leading environmental historians, including Jonathan Clapperton, Frank Zelko, Ryan O'Connor, and Mark McLaughlin about the origins of the movement and its transformations since the end of the Second World War.
More Online Extras
Suggested Readings
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Dale, Stephen. McLuhan’s Children: The Greenpeace Message and the Media. Toronto: Between the Lines, 1996.
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Elton, Sarah. “Green Power.” University of Toronto Magazine, Winter 1999
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Emond, D. Paul. “‘Are We There Yet?’ Reflections on the Success of the Environmental Law Movement in Ontario.” Osgoode Hall Law Journal Vol.46, No.2 (Summer 2008), pp. 219-242.
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Keeling, Arn. “Sink or Swim: Water Pollution and Environmental Politics in Vancouver, 1889-1975.” BC Studies Vol.142/143 (2004), pp. 69-101.
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Keeling, Arn and John Sandlos. “Environmental Justice Goes Underground? Historical Notes from Canada’s Mining Frontier.” Environmental Justice Vol.2, No.3 (2009): 117-125.
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Killan, Gerald, and George Warecki. “The Algonquin Wildlands League and the Emergence of Environmental Politics in Ontario, 1965-1974” Environmental History Review Vol.16, No.4 (Winter 1992), pp.1-27.
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McLaughlin, Mark J. “Green Shoots: Aerial Insecticide Spraying and the Growth of Environmental Consciousness in New Brunswick, 1952-1973.” Acadiensis Vol.40, No.1 (Winter/Spring 2011), pp. 3-23.
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Mutton, Don. “Dispelling the Myths of the Acid Rain Story.” Environment Vol.40, No.6 (July-Aug 1998), pp.4-34.
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Paehlke, Robert. “Eco-History: Two Waves in the Evolution of Environmentalism.” Alternatives Vol.19, No.1 (1992), pp.18-23.
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Read, Jennifer. “'Let us heed the voice of youth': Laundry Detergents, Phosphates and the Emergence of the Environmental Movement in Ontario.” Journal of the Canadian Historical Association Vol.7 (1996), pp.227-250.
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Suzuki, David. “The Fundamental Failure of Environmentalism” David Suzuki Foundation Blog. May 3, 2012.
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Van Huizen, Philip. “‘Panic Park’: Environmental Protest and the Politics of Parks in British Columbia’s Skagit Valley.” BC Studies Vol.170 (Summer 2011), pp.67-92.
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Warecki, George M. Protecting Ontario’s Wilderness: A History of Changing Ideas and Preservation Politics, 1927-1973. New York: Peter Lang Publishing, 2000.
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Zelko, Frank S. “Making Greenpeace: The Development of Direct Action Environmentalism in British Columbia,” BC Studies, Special Double Issue “On the Environment”, Vol.142/143 (Summer/Autumn 2004), pp.197-239.
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Zelko, Frank S. Make it a Greenpeace! The Rise of Countercultural Environmentalism. New York: Oxford University Press, 2013.
© Nature's Past: A Podcast of the Network in Canadian History & Environment by Sean Kheraj is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 Canada License. Based on a work at niche-canada.org.
In this episode, we speak with five leading historians of Canadian fisheries, including Dean Bavington, Stephen Bocking, Douglas Harris, Will Knight, and Liza Piper.
The need for thoughtful histories on contemporary Canadian environmental issues has never been more critical than it is regarding the present state of the country’s fisheries. In June 2012, funding for fisheries-related research and protection was significantly curtailed as part of federal government cuts and amendments to the Fisheries Act included in the C-38 omnibus budget bill. These changes, however, are not unprecedented. By placing Canada’s fisheries and marine environments in greater jeopardy than they’ve ever been, the changes fit into a longer pattern of government undermining of the law that go back as far as the 1970s. In response, dozens of environmentalists, researchers and scientists have criticized the cuts as misinformed and dangerous. In a letter to the Globe and Mail soon after bill C-38 was announced, four former Fisheries and Oceans ministers wrote they believe these changes “will inevitably reduce and weaken the habitat-protection provisions” of the Fisheries Act.
Canada’s fisheries have been subjects of controversy and sites of tension for over 200 years. On the east coast, small-scale, inshore fisheries (the norm since the seventeenth century) gave way to large-scale, scientifically-managed commercial fisheries. Technological advances, globalizing market structures, and an ever-increasing reliance on experts, created a context in which the Department of Fisheries and Oceans shifted the purpose of fisheries from meeting human needs to meeting maximum sustainable yields and total allowable catches. The result was the collapse of the North Atlantic cod fishery in the early 1990s. On the west coast, the defence of the salmon fishery against hydroelectric development on the Fraser River in the middle of the nineteenth century is one bright spot in a story of over-fishing, habitat loss, and the negative side-effects of commercial-scale aquaculture. The artificial state border between Canada and the United States in the Salish Sea, which did not reflect the migratory lives of pacific salmon, created the conditions for unmanageable fish banditry. Inland, freshwater fisheries have experienced similar stories of over-harvesting, threats to fish habitat, and denial of Native resource rights. Around the Great Lakes, First Nations experienced competition from non-native commercial fishermen as early as the 1830s, spent much of the late nineteenth century resisting efforts by the Ontario government to eliminate their traditional rights, and fought a series of legal battles during the twentieth century to regain autonomy over their fisheries.
While certain species have begun to recover in the Great Lakes, several species found in Canada’s coastal waters have not. According to the Fisheries and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations, roughly 75% of global fish stocks are fully exploited or have collapsed. Canada has played a leading role in bringing us to the brink of global fisheries collapse. Given this scenario, insights from scholars writing on the history of fisheries in Canada is critical if further catastrophe is to be avoided.
More Online Extras
Suggested Readings
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Arnason, R. and L. Felt, eds. The North Atlantic Fisheries: Successes, Failures, and Challenges. Charlottetown: University of Prince Edward Island Press, 1995.
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Bavington, Dean. Managed Annihilation: An Unnatural History of the Newfoundland Cod Collapse. Vancouver: UBC Press, 2010.
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Bocking, Stephen."Science, Salmon, and Sea Lice: Constructing Practice and Place in an Environmental Controversy," Journal of the History of Biology (2012) 45: 681–716.
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Bogue, Margaret Beattie. Fishing the Great Lakes: An Environmental History, 1783-1933. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 2000.
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Drews, Keven. “Changes to federal Fisheries Act draw fire from three B.C. scientists” Winnipeg Free Press, June 21, 2012.
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Galloway, Gloria. “Ex-Fisheries directors urge Harper to reverse freshwater-research cuts” Globe and Mail, June 22, 2012.
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Gough, Joseph. Managing Canada’s Fisheries: From Early Days to the Year 2000. Montreal: McGill-Queen’s Press, 2008.
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Harris, Douglas C. Fish, Law, and Colonialism: The Legal Capture of Salmon in British Columbia. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2001.
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Harris, Douglas C. Landing Native Fisheries: Indian Reserves and Fishing Rights in British Columbia, 1849-1925. Vancouver: University of British Columbia, 2008.
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Harris, Douglas C. "Food Fish, Commercial Fish, and Fish to Support a Moderate Livelihood: Characterizing Aboriginal and Treaty Rights to Canadian Fisheries" Arctic Review on Law and Politics 1 (2010): 82-107.
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Hubbard, Jennifer. A Science on the Scales: The Rise of Canadian Atlantic Fisheries Biology, 1898-1939. University of Toronto Press, 2006.
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Koenig, Edwin C. Cultures and Ecologies: A Native Fishing Conflict on the Saugeen-Bruce Peninsula. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2005.
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Kinsey, Darin. “ ‘Seeding the Water as the Earth': The Epicenter and Peripheries of a Western Aquacultural Revolution.” Environmental History 11, No. 3 (2006): 527-566.
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Knight, William. "Samuel Wilmot, Fish Culture, and Recreational Fisheries in Late 19 Century Ontario." Scientia Canadensis 30, no. 1 (2007): 75-90.
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MacDonald, Douglas, David McRobert, Miriam Diamond. “How Ottawa fumbled the fisheries file” Globe and Mail, Friday July 6, 2012.
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McEvoy, Arthur. The Fisherman's Problem: Ecology and Law in the California Fisheries, 1850-1980. Cambridge University Press, 1986.
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Newell, D. and R. Ommer. Fishing Places, Fishing People: Traditions and Uses in Canadian Small-scale Fisheries. Toronto, University of Toronto Press, 1999.
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Parenteau, Bill. “’Care, Control and Supervision’: Native People in the Canadian Atlantic Salmon Fishery, 1867-1900.” Canadian Historical Review. 79 (1998): 1-35.
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Parsons, L.S. Management of Marine Fisheries in Canada. Ottawa: National Research Council of Canada and Department of Fisheries and Oceans, 1993.
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Piper, Liza. The Industrial Transformation of Subarctic Canada. Vancouver: UBC Press, 2009.
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Rose, Alex. Who Killed the Grand Banks?: The untold story behind the decimation of one of the world’s greatest natural resources. Mississauga: John Wiley and Sons, 2008.
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Siddon, Tom, David Anderson, John Fraser, Herb Dahliwal, “An Open Letter to Stephen Harper on Fisheries” Globe and Mail, June 1, 2012.
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Wadewitz, Lissa K. The Nature of Borders: Salmon, Boundaries, and Bandits on the Salish Sea. Vancouver: UBC Press, 2012.
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Young, Nathan and Ralph Matthews. The Aquaculture Controversy in Canada: Activism, Policy, and Contested Science. Vancouver: UBC Press, 2010.
© Nature's Past: A Podcast of the Network in Canadian History & Environment by Sean Kheraj is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 Canada License. Based on a work at niche-canada.org.
The exhibition Race to the End of the Earth, taking place this summer at the Royal BC Museum in Victoria, tells the remarkable story of two attempts a century ago to become the first team to reach the South Pole. After others claimed to have reached the North Pole in 1909, Norwegian explorer Roald Amundsen and British Royal Navy Captain Robert Falcon Scott undertook simultaneous Antarctic expeditions in 1911–12.
For both men, it was not their first trip to the continent — but it would be their last. “The explorers went with a sense of bravado and this focus on adventure, exploration, and science,” said the Royal BC Museum’s Jana Stefan, who spent several months in Antarctica working to preserve the remains of the expeditions.
Listen to our interview with Stefan. And, for more about the exhibition, visit the Royal BC Museum. Images shown here are courtesy of the museum.
Concordia University history professor Ronald Rudin is using digital storytelling to spread the voices of people who in 1969 were displaced from the area that became Kouchibouguac National Park in New Brunswick.
Rudin created a website — Returning the Voices to Kouchibouguac National Park — in conjunction with Montreal-based multimedia producer Philip Licht. The site includes twenty-six intimate video testimonies plus maps, texts, and illustrations inspired by the experiences of the more than 1,200 people who were forced to leave their homes and livelihoods nearly half a century ago.
"We were trying as much as we could to get [the participants] to narrate the story about what their lives were before. We tried to play off landscape that was destroyed against the one that exists," said Rudin.
His favourite video is the one where Norma Doucet tells her story. “The thing about Norma is that she’s all dressed up, and she’s wearing this nicely tailored suit and a necklace,” Rudin noted. "This is a very big event to get to tell her parents' story."
Watch Norma Doucet below.
by Nelle Oosterom
It's not often noted, but women played important roles during the War of 1812. As writer Dianna Graves points out in the August-September 2012 issue of Canada's History magazine, when their men went off to fight, women were left with sole responsibility for farms, homes, and businesses. Some also tended the wounded, single-handedly defended their property against plunderers, rallied First Nations to fight, accompanied their soldier husbands on campaign, and conveyed important intelligence across enemy lines.
The most well-known of these women was Laura Secord, who, thanks to a candy company, has become a household name. This Historica-Dominion Heritage Minute tells her story.
Secord has also been immortalized in song by Nova Scotia performer Rosalee Peppard:
Rosalee Peppard from The Picture House on Vimeo.
Meanwhile, Secord's direct descendant, Carolyn McCormick, launched the creation of a memorial trail so that everyone can "walk in Laura's shoes." See the Toronto Star story and video featuring McCormick, an artist who formed the group Friends of Laura Secord in 2010.
Finally, the American side also had its female heroes. In this video, John Horrigan, host of NewTV's The Folklorist, tells the little-known story of how two young women cleverly stopped a British invasion off Massachusetts:
The Folklorist: An American Army of Two from NewTV on Vimeo.
by Paul Jones
My friend Elizabeth is thrilled. An adoptee, she has almost certainly identified her birth father after a search of more than forty years. Little did she realize that the truth would be extracted not from a musty register or an octogenarian’s fading memories but from the sequencers and analyzers of a state-of-the-art laboratory. Through DNA testing not available to the public just three years ago, researchers like her are now resolving formerly hopeless family history problems.
Until recently, genetics offered limited utility to genealogists. True, DNA testing occasionally exhibited immense potential, as in the demonstration that Thomas Jefferson (or a close male relative) fathered at least some of the children of his slave Sally Hemings. But it also had unfortunate limitations. The most robust tests applied only to DNA inherited through strict paternal or maternal lines of descent — for instance, a father’s father’s father or a mother’s mother’s mother.
Too bad if you were attempting to prove a match to your mother’s father’s father, or your father’s mother’s mother, or some other ancestor who deviated from the strict male or female lines. As a case in point, fully ninety per cent of our Victorian-era forebears are not connected to us through strict paternal or maternal lines.
Some tests claimed to identify a broader range of relatives, but they were severely, if not totally, compromised by the paltry number of DNA markers analyzed by the technology of the time.
Genealogists became experts at reframing their problems so that the available tests could be made to apply. Women would routinely recruit their fathers, brothers, or paternal uncles as surrogates to explore their patrilineage. This tactic remains useful in exploring the paternal line.
Men are somewhat luckier in that they carry the particular DNA required for a maternal-line test — they just can’t pass it along to the next generation. As I write, this wrinkle may prove conclusive regarding a recently unearthed skeleton conjectured to be the remains of England’s Richard III. If DNA can be extracted, it will be compared with a present-day sample taken from a matrilineal descendant of one of Richard’s sisters. This plan presupposes that there is an uninterrupted family line from the fifteenth century that will allow ready identification of today’s living descendants.
So what’s changed to remove the irksome restriction to paternal and maternal lines? First of all, the technology. DNA analysis is now so turbocharged that hundreds of thousands of locations across one’s genome can be checked without having to remortgage your home. The service I use examines more than 700,000 of these markers for US$289 per person. This huge sample allows detailed calculations to determine the probability, with a high measure of confidence, of the degree of relatedness of two individuals. We get clear-cut and statistically credible predictions that two individuals are siblings, first cousins, second cousins, and so on.
Secondly, a critical mass of people — estimated to be into the hundreds of thousands — has now taken such tests. My 700,000-plus markers are pretty meaningless to me in isolation. Only when compared to other profiles do they assume significance. Through the database assembled by my testing company, I now have access to newly discovered third and fourth cousins with whom I can work on our joint family trees. Perhaps these distant relatives have different family stories, documents, and heirlooms that can enrich my own research. Over time, as more and more people do the tests and end up in the database, I will be introduced to increasing numbers of “lost” cousins.
More dramatic, though, are breakthroughs that would have been unthinkable via conventional research. In his recent book, Finding Family, genealogy blogger Richard Hill details his quest to find his birth parents after a chance 1964 disclosure that he had been adopted. By late in the last decade, Hill thought the matter had been resolved; but he was wrong, deceived by the limited statistical reliability of early DNA analysis. Finally, earlier this year, the most powerful DNA test on the general market provided unarguable confirmation of the last pieces of the puzzle: the true identity of Hill’s biological father and half siblings.
Discoveries like this change lives, not just for the researcher but also for newly found family members. Elizabeth and her new half sisters can’t wait.
Paul Jones, a former publisher, is a writer, consultant, and avid genealogical researcher. This article originally appeared in the February-March 2013 issue of Canada's History.
by Paul Jones
What proportion of your genetic makeup is Neanderthal in origin? Are you descended from royalty? How recently do you share common ancestry with a Mongolian herder? These are just a few of the questions the new generation of mathematical geneticists, archaeogeneticists, and paleoanthropologists can now answer.
In last issue’s Roots column, we saw how advances in the incidence and technology of DNA testing have resolved formerly hopeless family history problems. Without getting into genetic theory, we covered the three main types of analysis:
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• paternal-line testing, involving comparison of Y-chromosome DNA transmitted only from father to son;
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• maternal-line testing of mitochondrial DNA, which each of us inherits only from our mothers; and
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• statistical kinship prediction, properly known as “autosomal testing,” requiring analysis of hundreds of thousands of DNA markers across the twenty-two non-sex chromosomes each of us carries (i.e., not including the X and Y chromosomes that determine sex).
Most family historians focus on ancestors who lived within the past couple of hundred years. In unique cases where the documentary record is good, such as the recent confirmation of the discovery in England of Richard III’s skeleton, we may be able to apply DNA findings several hundred years earlier. Yet the same tests, when used in conjunction with the archaeological record and mathematical analysis, can yield information across vastly greater time scales, insights into our so-called “deep ancestry” or ancient genetic origins.
Perhaps the best-known work in this field is The Seven Daughters of Eve, published in 2001 by British geneticist Bryan Sykes. He elaborated on mitochondrial DNA discoveries, since fine-tuned, that suggest those of European descent can trace their matrilineal origins to one of seven genetically distinct women. Scholars further argue that all of humanity ultimately descends from a single matrilineal “Eve.”
Useful as such terminology is in selling books and publicizing the field, it almost inevitably misleads the layperson. In fact, one respected blogger goes so far as to label it a “de facto deception.” At the very least it abets self-deception as we mistakenly extend the intended scope of the Biblical analogy and jump to the erroneous conclusion that Mitochondrial Eve is the only female ancestor common to all mankind. In fact, researchers believe we share many female ancestors through myriad genetic pathways, quite apart from strict descent on the maternal line.
Consider your own forebears. You have four great-grandmothers, but you are descended from only one of them on the maternal line. Go back another four generations, maybe 200 to 250 years ago, a blip in genetic time, and your maternal line represents only one sixty-fourth of your female genetic heritage. Odds are high that we all descend from many women alive at the time of Mitochondrial Eve.
A similar, and similarly misleading, analogy can be made with “Y-chromosomal Adam,” though, disappointingly for the romantics among us, he never met Mitochondrial Eve. He is thought to have walked the earth no more than 140,000 years ago, possibly more recently; she existed at least 50,000 years earlier.
A focus on these unique lines of descent misleads us in a subtler way by shifting our perception of the era in which we can claim shared ancestry. Mathematical geneticists calculate that our most recent common ancestor (MRCA) lived within the past several thousand years! Yes, you’re reading that correctly. It is estimated that 99.99999 per cent of contemporary humans, including you, me, and the Mongolian herder, descend from a single individual who lived within the past five to seven thousand years, possibly even in the Common Era (or AD, as some of us still think of it). The only exceptions: possibly a few hundred individuals in isolated societies with zero contact with the outside world throughout this entire period.
Our MRCA lived side by side with people whose genetic line subsequently petered out and others who have many descendants living today, so we shouldn’t think of the MRCA as a solitary individual or as an unusually prolific genetic provider. We all have many ancestors who were the MRCA’s contemporaries, and there is no guarantee than any one of us still carries any of the MRCA’s genetic material after all this time. Each of us descends from the MRCA through different lines and possibly via different sexual partners. As people die and are born, the MRCA may in fact change. In short, it is the concept of the MRCA that is striking rather than anything inherently special about the individual.
If we push back a little further in time, we reach a moment when every human then living was the ancestor either of no one or of everyone alive today. This identical ancestors point (IAP) is estimated to have occurred five to fifteen thousand years ago.
Why the surprisingly recent estimates for the MRCA and IAP? The answer lies in the phenomenon of pedigree collapse. In our classic understanding of a pedigree, an individual has two parents, four grandparents, and so on, with every successive generation twice as large. Common sense tells us that this exponential growth can’t go on indefinitely. Pedigree collapse is the mathematical explanation for the commonsense reality that you can’t have more ancestors than there were people at the time. Inevitably, and frequently in any pedigree, cousins of some degree marry one another and whenever they do, the overlapping segments of their ancestries are duplicated in their progeny’s pedigrees. For much of human history, marriages between second or third cousins were the norm. The upshot is that you don’t have to go too far back within any population to find that everyone who had descendants is an ancestor, often many times over.
Pedigree collapse explains why we can all claim, with absolute confidence, to be descended from royalty. Everyone of European descent, it is calculated, can count Charlemagne as an ancestor — and quite a few other monarchs before and since.
It’s not just mathematical geneticists who are driving the revolution in learning about deep ancestry. Paleoanthropologists and archaeogeneticists are proving increasingly adept at extracting DNA from ancient human remains and comparing it with modern reference samples.
As an example, it now seems likely that Eurasians derive between one and four per cent of their DNA from Neanderthals. DNA evidence also suggests genetic admixtures between other archaic humans and different populations around the world. At least two major DNA-testing organizations now routinely assess the Neanderthal contribution to the genetic samples they analyze.
Archaeologically retrieved DNA can also give us quite specific information about ancient population dynamics. As a case in point, it has long been debated whether the Otomi people, conquered by the Aztecs in the late fourteenth century, fled from or continued to live in the city state of Xaltocan. Mitochondrial DNA analysis compared human remains antedating and postdating the conquest and concluded that the populations were genetically different — the female populations, at any rate. We can expect scores of comparable findings around the globe in years to come as the history, and pre-history, books are rewritten.
Analysis of the DNA of contemporary indigenous peoples is similarly a burgeoning field, most notably the National Geographic Society’s Genographic Project. You too can participate (US $199.95, plus shipping) and can expect to discover “the migration paths your ancient ancestors followed hundreds — even thousands — of years ago,” as well as to learn “what percentage of your genome is affiliated with specific regions of the world” or with Neanderthal ancestry.
It’s a slow week when there isn’t at least one new research study that challenges our perception of which human populations moved where and when and interacted with whom. As I write, one recent study argues for a “gene flow” between India and Australia about 4,200 years ago.
Another posits that the Roma people left northwest India within the past 850 years and enjoyed a rapid expansion of their population once they reached Europe. All of this may be as nothing compared with what we can soon expect. The mapping of your complete genome, unavailable at any price a decade ago, now costs just six thousand dollars, less than some of us paid for our first plasma TVs. Another ten years and it could be $995 at Future Shop. You’re worth it. You are, after all, royalty. I think I detect a tiara. No, sorry, it’s a brow ridge.
Paul Jones, a former publisher, is a writer, consultant, and avid genealogical researcher.
by Paul Jones
Talk to conservators anywhere in Canada and you will find that they are regularly asked to minister to the sorry remains of once-precious documents and heirlooms. Over and over again they are called in too late by desperate families, often after the failure of disastrous amateur efforts to preserve and repair heritage treasures.
Conservators repeatedly see:
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• vintage photographs handed down through generations only to be ruined after just a decade of “preservation” in magnetic photo albums;
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• prints and paintings irreversibly discoloured, or “burned,” around the perimeter where in contact with a sub-standard mat;
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• so-called archival scrapbooks manufactured with corrosive inks that no archivist would ever countenance;
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• legacy wedding dresses, lovingly recalled from long-term storage for a daughter or niece, discovered to be nothing more than yellowed tatters with barely enough pristine fabric to make a veil or a hankie; and
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• otherwise salvageable heirlooms taped up like a hockey stick for “safe transport” to the conservator, whose first and greatest challenge will be repairing the damage from the tape.
In every case, the owners of the artifacts, intelligent and responsible people, were trying to do the right thing.
Take the wedding dress. It was still wrapped in the tissue paper and sealed in the very plastic bag in which it came home years ago from the dry cleaner. One would think that’s surely the way to store it. In fact the plastic seal stopped the venting of residual dry cleaning chemicals, which then ate away at the fabric of the dress. Over time, acids leached from the tissue paper and plastic, compounding the damage.
Or consider archival scrapbooks. Surely that description must mean something. Sorry, archival is an unregulated word. You can, however, rely on terminology such as “100 per cent acid-free,” “museum grade,” “100 per cent rag” (signifying a paper with no wood content and thus no lignin, a source of acids), or “buffered” (slightly alkaline to neutralize any acids).
What about those works of art you spent a fortune on reframing? Unless you sought out acid-free materials, you are surely inflicting mat burn on these pieces, especially if you opted for something other than white. Colour comes from dyes, which are almost certainly not acid-free.
So what to do? First some basics.
Never:
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• laminate (heat and vacuum seal in plastic) anything of value;
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• encapsulate (in a plastic folder) documents with a powdery surface, such as pastels or charcoal drawings;
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• use polyvinyl chloride (PVC) plastic in the storage or display of valuables;
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• apply tape (transparent, duct, masking) to anything of value;
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• use storage products (such as magnetic photo albums) with adhesives; or
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• do repair jobs with adhesives. In fact, for an heirloom of value, never attempt amateur repair jobs of any kind.
Always:
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• make an inventory of items with historic, sentimental, or intrinsic value;
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• take photographs of your valuables and ensure that they are properly insured;
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• store your photos and inventory, in both hard copy and digitally, in accordance with normal best practices for data protection and backup;
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• purchase storage and display materials (boxes, tissue paper, folders, mats, and so on) that are 100 per cent acid-free — and that means acid-free inks and dyes, not just the supporting medium;
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• use buffered storage products if available, except for wool, silk or other protein-based fabrics that can be damaged by contact with alkaline materials;
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• find a storage location free from extremes of heat and humidity; and
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• seek the advice of a trained conservator if you have a problem, need a repair or restoration, or are uncertain how to conserve an heirloom.
Many of us, let’s face it, are skinflints with an exaggerated sense of our talents. If we just had the time or the connections, we’d be writing great screenplays, managing the Blue Jays to a pennant, and effortlessly handling DIY projects around the home, such as repairing that sculpture we inherited from Uncle Fred.
Let’s meet halfway on this: I’ll concede that your screenplay could be an Oscar contender if you agree to leave Uncle Fred’s legacy to a professional conservator. Next time, among other topics, we’ll discuss how to find a good one, as well as offer more preservation and restoration tips.
Paul Jones, a former publisher, is a writer, consultant, and avid genealogical researcher.
Many resources are available for keeping your heirlooms safely stored. By Paul Jones
In the June-July Roots column, we learned about the conservation disasters inflicted by well-meaning folk on their most valued heirlooms and keepsakes — tattered wedding dresses, disintegrating photo albums, yellowing documents, disfigured artworks. An essential lesson from the school of hard knocks: Always consult a professional conservator when you’re uncertain about how to preserve an item, especially if it needs repair or restoration.
Before we take up that challenge, it’s time to define our terms. Conservation? Preservation? Restoration? Aren’t these all more or less the same thing? Well, not really.
The most general term, embracing the others, is “conservation,” hence “conservators” for the profession. If a document or heirloom is in good condition, then the conservator’s most important decision is “preservation,” as in how to store or display it safely to minimize deterioration.
Otherwise, the keepsake may need the conservator’s intervention to stabilize it to ward off further damage or to restore or repair it to counteract the ravages of wear and tear.
So how do you locate a conservator? Fortunately, the Canadian Association of Professional Conservators makes that a snap. Just go to their site, at Capc-acrp.ca, and look for the “Find a Conservator” tool on the right-hand side of the home page.
You can search by location or by area of specialty (for example, books, furniture, photographs, and so on). All members meet professional standards for training and experience and have passed a qualifying examination.
If you have a highly specialized problem, you may need to look south of the border for assistance. The American Institute for Conservation of Historic and Artistic Works offers a similar tool to identify appropriate conservators.
Also bear in mind that almost any university, library, museum, or archive will have access to conservators, either on staff or on contract. They will often have helpful suggestions.
As with retaining any professional, you will want to satisfy yourself as to the candidate’s training and experience. For a particularly large or sensitive job, you should seek references.
More likely, though, your papers and heirlooms are in good shape and you just want to make sure you’re storing them correctly. With a little care, you can probably figure this out for yourself by consulting credible books and online resources.
Chief among these is Kennis Kim’s Conserving, Preserving and Restoring Your Heritage, a 2010 book published by the Ontario Genealogical Society and Dundurn Press. Comprehensive and forward-looking — there’s a chapter on preserving digital media — this accessible book will address just about every situation encountered by the Canadian do-it-yourself conservator. (Full disclosure: Kim has been a helpful source to me in researching this and the previous column.)
You can order Kim’s book and similar titles from specialty genealogy retailers such as Global Genealogy as well as from major online booksellers, who offer both print and e-book versions.
Online, you’ll find great resources at the sites of companies that market archival products. Gaylord Brothers (Gaylord.com) provides not only helpful answers to many common conservation questions but also a downloadable guide to collections care. The Light Impressions catalog, available on request at LightImpressionsDirect.com, affords many happy moments of browsing as well as tips and pointers for the would-be conservator.
Both of these companies are wellregarded sources for the various boxes, folders, encapsulation materials, boards, and papers you will need to preserve your family documents and heirlooms. Also well regarded is University Products.
To purchase in Canada, conservators rely on Carr McLean and Lines ’n Curves. You can also try your luck at art, office supply, and other specialty retailers. Just make sure you’re getting a product that delivers on its marketing promises of archival quality.
Finally, a note for parents of teens interested in the arts. Conservation may be one of the few practical careers that a fine arts degree can lead to — although expertise in chemistry, materials science, or even structural engineering would also come in handy. Several community colleges and universities offer diploma programs in conservation- related disciplines, and Queen’s University boasts a Master of Art Conservation program.
Photographic conservators in particular can more or less write their own ticket. There aren’t many fields where you can make an assertion like that. Just like the good old days.
Paul Jones, a former publisher, is a writer, consultant, and avid genealogical researcher.
The Grand Banks fishery has been an economic and cultural mainstay for generations of Newfoundlanders. But it was never an easy life for those who toiled in the thousands of isolated outports located up and down the coast.
As historian Tina Loo points out in her article “We Was Drove” — appearing in the August-September 2013 issue of Canada’s History magazine — since the 1960s, outport Newfoundlanders have been under government pressure to move to more populated areas. The reason: Difficulty in providing services to small numbers of people scattered across remote areas.
Yet moving meant a drastic adjustment to a way of life and identity that had changed little over the centuries. Newfoundlanders traditionally made their livings from the sea. Fishing was the main industry.
These articles from past issues of The Beaver dating back to the 1930s and 1940s not only detail how the Newfoundland fishery worked, they also chronicle a way of life that has all but disappeared.
By Bill Waiser
Clutching a handful of old yellowing photographs, Joe Gabski of Chico, California, arrived at Riding Mountain National Park in Manitoba on the morning of September 11, 1991. Introduced to the park interpreter, he spent the morning telling his story to his incredulous host and then cycled several kilometres along an old road to the site of a former German prisoner of war camp on Whitewater Lake. He had finally returned — keeping the pledge that he had made to himself almost fifty years earlier.
There are other men with similar pasts. Frank Goble of Cardston, Alberta, who served as a cook in the Waterton Lakes, Alberta, relief camps, gladly shows interested park visitors where every one of the camps was located along Chief Mountain Highway while he regales them with stories of the men, the work, and the times. Abe Dick of Winnipeg performed alternative service work in both Banff and Jasper national parks during the Second World War. He remembers being shuttled between parks along the Banff‐Jasper highway in the back of an open truck in the dead of winter and trying to thaw out during a break at the Columbia Icefield. When he visited the site of one of his former camps near the Maligne Canyon Bridge, he broke down and wept.
A former Japanese resident of British Columbia’s Fraser Valley, however, will never go back to the site of his internment. Ordered from the province in February 1942, he and his father were separated from their family and sent to work on the Jasper section of the Yellowhead Highway. "It has been a very hard experience at that time of my youth," he wrote from Toronto, "and a bitter pill to swallow."
These men, and several thousand others, were sent to Canada’s mountain and prairie national parks between 1915 and 1946 as a part of a general government effort to remove them from Canadian society. They were Canada’s unwanted — enemy aliens, the jobless and the homeless, conscientious objectors, possible subversives, and prisoners of war. They were men who, because of war or economic depression, found themselves viewed with mistrust. The Canadian government wanted to find a place to put them, as well as to keep them busy.
Western Canada’s national parks officials, in turn, welcomed this labour. The parks system was not only undergoing a period of expansion but wanted to take advantage of the coming of the automobile to attract more tourists. To fulfill this role as national playgrounds, parks had to be developed and made more accessible. They needed visitor facilities and improved roads. Joe Gabski and hundreds of others supplied this labour.
When Canada went to war against Germany and the Austro-Hungarian empire in August 1914, unwelcome foreigners were turned overnight into enemy aliens. Ottawa initially called for public restraint in dealing with these people, but in the end over eight thousand individuals — including women and children — would be held in some dozen stations and camps across the country, including four national parks. The people made available to the national parks service during the First World War were technically prisoners of war. In reality, the majority of the internees were unemployed or destitute Ukrainians from the Austro‐Hungarian Empire who had been brought to Canada in increasingly larger numbers before the war to work on the railways and other construction projects. This labour force initially generated little public interest or concern, especially since the men lived on the margins of Canadian society. But with the outbreak of war, the public became alarmed. The government eventually bowed to public pressure and established a national network of internment camps.
The majority of the park internees were stationed at Banff National Park, Alberta, alternating between a summer site near Castle Mountain and winter facilities at the Cave and Basin pool in the townsite, while constructing a new road to Lake Louise. The Jasper internees devoted most of their energies to building a road to Maligne Lake. Similar work was performed at Mount Revelstoke National Park, British Columbia. With the approach of winter, the men were transferred to Yoho National Park, also in B.C., where they worked on a new highway and a bridge to the Kicking Horse River.
By the end of the first season, parks officials found the work to be satisfactory but complained about the slow pace and the almost constant supervision the men required. One wonders, though, what more could have been accomplished since the internees were using only hand tools. They were also desperately unhappy. One Banff internee confided to his wife in a letter that they were "hungry as dogs." Some quietly waited for the right moment and tried to escape, even though guards were under orders to shoot. At Yoho, prisoners used a shovel and cutlery from the mess hall to dig their way to freedom. By the time their burrowing activity was discovered, the tunnel reached beyond the stockade wall and was only a few metres from the bush.
Meanwhile, as the war continued, casualties overseas mounted and Canada’s military commitments translated into a serious manpower shortage at home. The government reasoned that the interned aliens might as well be released to fill vacancies in factories and other workplaces. Beginning in April 1916, prisoners gradually began to be discharged.
The Jasper and Yoho camps were closed in the fall of 1916. The Banff operations came to an end the following summer. The Dominion Parks Service regarded the internment camp experience as something of a mixed blessing. Parks officials had expected great things from the internees and were disappointed by what had been achieved. At the same time, Parks Commissioner J.B. Harkin had to admit that the men had tackled jobs that otherwise have been impossible during the war.
There was also a sadly ironic aspect to the park internment operations. Throughout the war, Harkin was forever extolling the virtues of the national parks system and how these special places would provide much‐needed sanctuary when the guns finally fell silent. But in making the wonders of Banff, Jasper, Yoho, and Mount Revelstoke more accessible, the internees had known only exhaustion, suffering, fear, and desolation.
The coming of the Great Depression in the 1930s offered parks officials the chance to operate a new generation of work camps. The swelling ranks of the unemployed reminded parks officials of what the enemy alien camps had accomplished in the mountain parks during the war years. Why not do the same thing with Canada’s growing army of unemployed?
Most of the early relief activities consisted of labour‐intensive general maintenance work in and around park townsites. The Edmonton unemployed, for example, cleared brush to improve grazing conditions at Elk Island National Park, Alberta. Once the availability of a large pool of workers had been assured, however, a number of major road‐building projects were launched. Several hundred men worked on a highway link between Banff and Jasper, while in British Columbia, others toiled on a road between Golden and Revelstoke, the Big Bend Highway. In the meantime, at Waterton Lakes in southwestern Alberta, major roads were built to Cameron Lake and the international boundary.
At the outset, camp conditions were not ideal. Many men were not properly outfitted for working outdoors in the winter. During a bout of unusually frigid weather at the Jasper end of the Banff‐Jasper highway in November 1932, two highway workers cut a deck of cards to see who would wear a set of underwear and a pair of socks. These shortcomings aside, the parks department was soon operating an efficient, carefully coordinated relief program. Over the winter of 1931‐32 alone, relief workers provided more than a quarter million days of work.
As for food, men in the camps declared the meals to be wholesome and plentiful. They had to be. The relief workers were expected to do as much as they could by hand; heavy machinery was used only rarely. The bunkhouses in most instances were little more than tarpaper shacks — without insulation! The bunks were not much better. One worker, who spent four consecutive winters in the park camps from the age of fifteen, suggested that only a horse could enjoy the bedding — the men stuffed their beds with straw delivered by local farmers.
"Conscientious objectors — or "conchies" as they were dubbed — would be required to work the equivalent of basic military training in the relative isolation of the mountains and boreal forest."
The most noteworthy feature of the Riding Mountain relief camps in Manitoba was the ambitious recreation program. Because more than one thousand men were housed in a five‐kilometre radius around Clear Lake, park authorities formed inter‐camp soccer and hockey leagues. The park also equipped an all‐star hockey team and hosted an exhibition match against one of the neighbouring communities every Sunday afternoon before a crowd of a thousand spectators. Future Toronto Maple Leafs goalie Turk Broda got his start guarding the net for the all‐star team.
Beginning in 1934, many parks relief workers finally got the chance to use their trades under the Public Works Construction Act. The result was a number of beautiful peeled‐log and stone structures, many of which have been recognized today as heritage structures. Indeed, the cumulative result of relief labour was a level of parks development has rarely been matched in national parks history. It is a legacy that stands in sharp contrast to the experience in the troubled Department of National Defence camps during those same years.
When Canada entered the Second World War in 1939, parks officials lost little time in reaching an agreement with the Department of National War Services to establish alternative service camps in national parks. Conscientious objectors, or "conchies," as they were dubbed, would be required to work the equivalent of basic military training in the relative isolation of the mountains and boreal forest, handling projects left over from the closure of the relief camps.
The first alternative service workers reported in June 1941. By summer’s end, camps had been opened at Riding Mountain, Banff, Jasper, Prince Albert, and Kootenay. Temporary camps were also established the following year at Yoho and Glacier in the Rogers Pass area of B.C.
Most of the alternate service workers were young Mennonite men, quietly committed to completing their term of service. Once settled into camp, the men faithfully observed the rules and gave no cause for complaint, let alone a reprimand. Far from being complacent, the truth of the matter was that the men were simply too homesick to cause any trouble.
The men also proved to be hardened labourers. As the war progressed, the men cut brush along highways, sawed firewood, erected new patrol cabins, and rebuilt or relocated several kilometres of telephone line. In the park townsites, they served as local caretakers, servicing the campgrounds, building new kitchen shelters, hauling ice, or grooming golf courses. They also built a new breakwater at Waskesiu in Prince Albert National Park, in northern Saskatchewan. They also assisted with wildlife management and forest conservation. Teams of men removed some eighteen thousand beetle‐infested trees at Banff, while similar work at Kootenay netted almost one million board feet of lumber.
At Jasper, internees were involved in one of the most bizarre episodes of the war. In the fall of 1942, British inventor Geoffrey Pyke concocted a scheme to fashion a fleet of indestructible warships from "pykrete," a mixture of ice and wood chips.
The idea would likely have been laughed at, but for the fact that Nazi U‐boats were wreaking havoc on Allied shipping. Before construction of the bergships got underway, it was decided to build a small ice prototype in Canada. This work was secretly carried out in early 1943 on secluded Patricia Lake in Jasper by an unsuspecting group of conscientious objectors.
Thanks to the alternative service program, the National Parks Bureau had its own personal army during World War Two. And when Canadians started to visit national parks in unprecedented numbers in the late 1940s, trying to put behind them the dark days of the war, they enjoyed facilities that had been developed, improved, or maintained by men who had chosen peaceful activities over military service.
In the wake of the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941, the Canadian government took increasingly severe steps against the Japanese community of British Columbia. The most draconian of these measures was the decision to remove all Japanese residents, including Canadian citizens, living within 160 kilometres of the Pacific coast effective February 24, 1942. Over thirteen hundred of the evacuated males were immediately sent to work on the Yellowhead Highway between Jasper, Alberta, and Kamloops, British Columbia.
The most easterly section of the new highway was located in Jasper National Park between the townsite and the Alberta‐British Columbia border. There, three temporary work camps — one at Geikie, two at Decoigne — were established in boxcars along the railway siding until the men could build their own camps. Unlike their attitude to other groups that had worked in the national parks during the previous three decades, Jasper National Park officials wanted nothing to do with the Japanese and tried to limit as much as possible the Japanese presence in the park. They were afraid that they would damage tourism.
The Japanese, for their part, initially co‐operated. But when it became apparent that they might be separated from their families for several months, if not years, they decided to disrupt work — mostly by striking — in an atttempt to force Ottawa to do something about their situation.
Project officials, thoroughly frustrated by the behaviour of the Japanese, believed that the easiest solution was to force the Japanese to work on the road and essentially turn the work camps into concentration facilities. Ottawa, however, decided to reunite the married men with their families in new housing communities in the British Columbia interior and ordered the immediate closure of the park camps. In the end, the Japanese had forced the Canadian government to recognize a fundamental fact about human behaviour that transcends all races and circumstances — that men should not be forcibly separated from their families.
The last group of workers in a national park setting were German prisoners of war captured in North Africa. In 1943, 440 German prisoners being held at Medicine Hat, Alberta, were sent to a woodcutting camp on Whitewater Lake in the heart of Riding Mountain National Park.
The new Whitewater camp was an impressive facility. Constructed at an estimated cost of $330,000, it featured six large bunkhouses and a number of other structures. What probably surprised the prisoners most was that there was no enclosed compound or guard towers. Instead, the boundaries of the camp were designated by red blazes on a ring of outlying trees. To help the guards keep track of the Germans, the prisoners wore blue denim work clothes with a red stripe down the outer leg of the trousers and a large red circle — like a target — on the back of the shirt and jacket. This outfit was resented by the prisoners.
The Germans enjoyed a wide range of recreational pursuits. Some of the men had theatrical or musical talents and staged regular performances. Others were fascinated with the forest setting and kidnapped a bear cub for a camp mascot. A good many also turned their hand to crafts and used the readily available forest to create a number of elaborate models, including ships and bottles. Several of the prisoners also applied their skills to boat&dadsh;making and hacked out dugout canoes from spruce logs.
Then there were those who liked to wander at night. Using crude compasses made from watches they had ordered from the Eaton’s catalogue, the men would slip away Saturday night after roll call and be back the next morning in time for the first count of the day. During their clandestine travels, they chanced upon small immigrant communities along the southern and northern boundaries of the park. They became favoured guests at local dances and parties, largely because they carried with them rationed goods.
By the spring of 1945, the Germans had become bored with their woodcutting chores and instituted a series of work stoppages. Ottawa closed the camp and transferred the prisoners to other work projects. The camp structures were torn down, and the site was cleaned up that fall. But even though the Parks Bureau was determined to eradicate all signs of the camp, it could not erase the fact that for a few brief months during Second World War animosities were set aside and Riding Mountain’s Nazis found a home away from home in the farm communities beyond the park’s boundaries. The dances in those little towns were never quite the same again.
In looking back over the history of Western Canada’s national parks during the two world wars and the Great Depression, it is readily apparent that the story is about more than preservation and recreation. Places like Yoho, Jasper, and Prince Albert owe much to the hundreds of "park prisoners" who gave meaning to the term "national playgrounds." They and their work, often performed under duress, need to be more widely recognized and commemorated. In the words of a former park relief worker, the failure to do so would be "a dirty shame."
This article first appeared in the August-September 2013 issue of Canada's History Magazine.
After a publication run that dates back to the year of Confederation, the ongoing record of social and economic facts and analysis known as the Canada Year Book will no longer appear in print. Tony Colasante — who works for Statistics Canada, the book’s publisher — tells about the history of the almanac and the many ways Canadians have used it.
Long before web surfing and social media became normal ways of finding information, people manually sifted through encyclopedias and various other almanacs — like the Canada Year Book — for information about our country.
You could find the Canada Year Book anywhere — resting on library shelves or under Christmas trees, on office desks, in students’ backpacks, in doctors’ offices and even on nightstands. Now, after 145 years, the 2012 edition of the Canada Year Book marks the end of an era — the book will no longer be in print.
But that doesn’t mean it’s gone entirely. You can still find the 2012 edition online, along with a historical collection. A grand total of 111 editions of the yearbook have been produced since 1867. So why not 112, you may ask? Mainly due to the ubiquity of the Internet and our resolution to make our data readily available to Canadians online, at no charge.
The Canada Year Book is Statistics Canada’s most popular, all-time bestselling publication. It’s been an invaluable source for the newest facts and analyses related to current events, important issues and trends in Canada, from both a social and an economic perspective. It’s easy-to-read, comprehensive and paints a detailed picture of living and working in Canada.
The latest edition manages to provide reliable, useful data in just over 400 pages, using attractive charts, tables and maps. It includes 31 key subjects that matter to Canadians, such as culture and leisure, business, crime and justice, the environment, the economy, education and health.
To say that the Canada Year Book’s audience is diverse would be an understatement. The Canada Year Book has something for everyone. The business community, for instance, uses it to help with strategic planning and to evaluate market and labour trends, prices and price indices. Librarians and educators use it regularly to plan course material and to stay up-to-date with current trends and major issues, while students use it as a valuable resource in their studies. Canadian enthusiasts and the general public use it to keep up with the evolving Canadian scene. Even trivia buffs use it to get the upper hand on their friends! And these are just a few of its uses.
But what exactly gave it its well-deserved reputation? How did it endure for more than a century? These are the kinds of questions that naturally come up when we take one final look at the “last ever” of anything. It’s human nature, really. And, despite being the chief promoter of the publication for a few years, I still didn’t know it all. But I can tell you that I gained some insight about the Canada Year Book when I dug deep into the publication’s history.
Few people know that the origins of the Canada Year Book date all the way back to Confederation. That's right, 1867 — which wasn’t that long ago in historical terms. Not much has happened since, if you think about it — just the sinking of the Titanic, the Great Depression, the moon landing, the disco era, the information highway…. The list goes on, but you get my drift.
The Canada Year Book has withstood the test of time because it has responded to Canadians’ need for accurate, up-to-date statistical information when they couldn’t readily find it from other sources.
Starting in 1867, what became the Canada Year Book was known as the Statistical Abstract Record of Canada, a nearly 200-page annual register of facts about Upper Canada. It included vital statistics, including births, deaths, marriages and migrations, as well as statistics about politics, trade, tariffs and excise and stamp duties — the basic information we expect from a statistical compendium.
But at the time the publication had a much bigger job than simply reporting on vital statistics. Early editions also contained a sunrise/sunset calendar, moon phases, a Jewish calendar, the previous year's meteorological observations, provincial balance sheets — the list goes on. Clearly, this was an all-in-one almanac from the start, and it provided the kind of information that citizens of a mostly agrarian society wanted to know. The first issue was theirs for 12½ cents, or 25½ cents for the colour version that included a map.
My research turned up some surprising facts. For instance, from 1867 to 1879, the book was published in the private sector, and not by government — so we can’t take all the credit! Additionally, the early editions of the Canada Year Book contained something unheard-of in the Statistics Canada publications of today — display and classified advertisements.
Left: The first edition of the all-in-one almanac was
available for 12½ cents.
These ads tell a fascinating story about Canadian society around the time of Confederation. For instance, the Great Western Railway of Canada advertised tickets for rail travel between Niagara Falls and Detroit as well as connections with lake steamers. An ad for the Montréal Business College offered courses in penmanship, bookkeeping and telegraphing. There were ads for manufacturers of steam engines, sewing-machine repairmen and psychic seers who promised, for example, to help you acquire land, find a long-lost love, read the minds of people thousands of miles away or determine the success of your marriage.
As our young country was finding its legs as a nation and redefining its goals, purpose and identity, the Canada Year Book was recording our factual history. The evolving content and format of the publication reflect the gradual organization and formalization of our statistical agency.
In 1918, the Canada Year Book was given a formal mandate to chronicle facts about Canada. By 1928, its subjects and organization more closely resembled those of today’s publication, and it contained the foundational subject areas that are still included in recent editions.The fact that the section entitled “The Physical Characteristics of Canada” was placed prominently as the first entry in the table of contents says something about the importance Canadians then placed on geography, which we still do today.
Above: The Great Western Railway of Canada
advertised tickets for rail travel between Niagara Falls
and Detroit as well as connections with lake steamers.
It wasn’t until 1965 that the Dominion Bureau of Statistics was given government department status; in 1971 it was officially renamed Statistics Canada. By 1967, the Canada Year Book had earned its place in Canadian history. The preface to the centennial edition summed up the book's official status: “throughout these one hundred years, the story of the country's progress — economic, social and legislative — has been recorded in the Canada Year Book.... Thus, the whole series of this publication constitutes an official record of a century of Canada’s progress.”
Prior to the computer age, the Canada Year Book was a staple on the bookshelves of many Canadian homes. I know people who remember using it for school assignments as recently as the 1980s. Its devoted readers included business professionals, economists, policy specialists, academics, health experts and Canadian enthusiasts from all walks of life. While the Canada Year Book still appeals to these users, in more recent decades it has also excited interest from members of the general public who have been keen on knowing more about Canada. That’s what made the book so magical — it spoke to a wide range of audiences.
The success of the Canada Year Book rests on its universal appeal. After all, who doesn’t enjoy a good read?
The Canada Year Book adopted and perfected a chronicle style for explaining its data charts and tables. Key environmental issues, economic fluctuations, health concerns and advancements, crime rates, business figures — it’s all there. And, despite pressures over the years from other Canadian almanacs, the Canada Year Book has always prevailed.
Its vast contribution to Canada is legendary, and we have always boasted about how much one little book can cover. As we commemorate the last-ever print version, we as Canadians can reflect on the impressive evolution of the Canada Year Book.
The Canada Year Book has unified us. It has met our needs and excited our curiosity for information. And it always delivered. The book that has reflected Canada’s growth through war and peace as well as depression and prosperity will be no more, but it will always remain an important part of our history.
Left: The final print edition of the Canada Year Book was published in 2012.
A hundred years ago, a monster storm hit the Great Lakes region in November, resulting in the deaths of 256 people and the loss of nineteen vessels. Known by many names — the Freshwater Fury, the Big Blow, the White Hurricane — storm remains the region’s most destructive on record.
It occurred as a result of the collision of two violent weather systems and lasted from November 7 to November 11, with the worst of the storm taking place on November 9 on Lake Huron.
The event is remembered today by many people who live along the shores of the lakes.
David MacAdam is one of them. The singer, songwriter, and marine consultant from Goderich, Ontario, compiled an album devoted to stories about the storm.
Listen to MacAdam introduce and perform the song “Nobody Claims Me.”
MacAdam’s complete album, 1913 Storm, is available on iTunes or by ordering a CD.
Writer Bruce Kemp’s article about the storm, “Freshwater Fury,” appears in the October-November 2013 issue of Canada’s History magazine, now available at newsstands. Or, subscribe to the magazine for convenient home delivery.
The Orillia institution first opened in 1876 as the provincial “Asylum for Idiots.” At that time, the study of mental illness was in its infancy and “idiot” was the accepted way of defining “lunatics” who could not be treated or cured.
As Heather Robertson wrote in the article “Heartbreak in Huronia” for Canada’s History magazine (October-November 2013) “idiots included slow learners, epileptics, the deaf, mute and deformed, incorrigible troublemakers, the elderly, and the homeless.”
In the early years, the institution’s population ballooned and overcrowding was a chronic problem. Renamed the Ontario Hospital in 1907, it became a self-sufficient village with several hundred patients and staff. Later it became the Ontario Hospital School, but overcrowding and squalid conditions continued to plague the institution and it was the focus of a number of investigations.
In 1973, the institution was again renamed, this time as the Huronia Regional Centre. Its closure in 2009 came as former residents launched legal action against the institution.
Read the settlement agreement that was reached in September 2013. To see an academic paper about the social history of the institution, click here.
To view the inside of the Orillia institution after it was closed, see this Urban Explorer video:
Dedicated in November 2012, the memorial at Ottawa’s Confederation Boulevard includes three sections honouring horses, mules, and dogs.
A variety of animals have been used by Canada in wartime: Mules and horses carried supplies; carrier pigeons delivered messages, and dogs worked in various capacities, such as search and rescue. Dogs are still employed by the Armed Forces today.
Canada joins Britain and Australia in dedicating memorials to animals that have served in war.
And don’t miss “Animal Soldiers,” a story about the role of animals during the First World War that appeared in the October-November 2013 issue of Canada’s History magazine.

A conceptual rendering of Upper Fort Garry Historical Park in Winnipeg shows a creative blending of nature and history.

The historic stone gateway will be a focal point of the new Upper Fort Garry Historical Park.

In the 1870s, Upper Fort Garry was a nexus of the fur trade and an administrative centre of the Hudson’s Bay Company.
This brochure explains in detail the design plans for Upper Fort Garry Heritage Provincial Park.
For more on the site, or to find out how to make a donation, visit: www.upperfortgarry.com
by Nelle Oosterom
Since before Confederation, people on Vancouver Island have been lobbying for some form of independence.
Efforts to have Vancouver Island stand on its own continue to this day.
The latest movement is the Vancouver Island Province Association, formed in 2013. It’s goal is to make Vancouver Island a province by 2021. It has launched an online petition. It also wants Canada Post to issue a special stamp.
One of the founders, Laurie Gourlay, spoke to Canada’s History senior editor Nelle Oosterom.
To learn more about past efforts to create an independent Vancouver Island, read the the article “Free the Island” by Forrest Pass in the December 2013-January 2014 issue of Canada’s History magazine.
To learn more about the Vancouver Island Province Association, go to VIProvince.ca.
Dramatic Yukon gold rush tales of the Chilkoot Trail, Skookum Joe, Dawson City, and Mountie Sam Steele all make for good film and television.
Most recently, Charlotte Gray’s book about the Yukon gold rush, entitled Gold Diggers, was adapted for a made-for-television series called Klondike. That series is set to air on the Discovery Channel in early 2014.
Past movies about the Klondike have included Charlie Chaplin’s silent film The Gold Rush, Mae West’s Klondike Annie, and James Stewart’s The Far Country.
And, back in 1957, the National Film Board produced an award-winning documentary called City of Gold, narrated by Pierre Berton.
Watch the 22-minute documentary here:
City of Gold by Wolf Koenig & by Colin Low, National Film Board of Canada
Charlotte Gray’s article, “Too Big to Film,” about the challenges faced by filmmakers creating dramas about Canadian history, appears in the December 2013-January 2014 issue of Canada’s History magazine.
The magazine is available at newsstands. Or you can subscribe now online by going to the top of this page and clicking on Subscribe.
And, click here to read a story in a past issue of the Beaver magazine about travelling along the Klondike's Chilkoot Trail in 1964.
In the December 2013-January 2014 issue of Canada's History, columnist Chrisopher Moore wrote about how historians and health providers are working together to tell stories from the early days of Canadian medicine.
As Moore states, the field of medical history is exploding, from Micheal Bliss's book,The Discovery of Insulin, to books about medical views of women, nursing memoirs, hospital histories, and so on.
In the early 1980s, the Canadian Public Health Association sponsored three educational videos entited Canada's Amazing Health History: Let's Murder the Public Health Officer.
The videos produced by Access, the Alberta Educational Communications Corporation, go back in time to show what it was like to deal with diseases like scurvy and smallpox before the era of modern medicine.
No fort is complete without a cannon or two. In the case of Prince of Wales Fort in Churchill, Manitoba, make that 22. That's the number of cannons that will be sitting on the stone fort's ramparts once a restoration project, now in its final phase, has been completed.
An added benefit of the project is that archaeologists have uncovered new information about the everyday lives of people who were posted at the eighteenth century fort.
To find out what's been happening at the remote former fur-trading post on the shore of Hudson Bay, Canada's History Senior Editor Nelle Oosterom spoke with Cam Elliot of Parks Canada.
The Fara Heim expedition, led by Johann Sigurdson of Winnipeg and David Collette of Cincinnati, used advanced search technology to look for the wreckage of the Pélican and the Hampshire.
Both ships went down at the mouth of the Hayes River on Hudson Bay during a fierce battle between French and English forces in 1697.
Because of the shifting topography of the area, the Pélican is believed to be buried on shore, while the second ship may be covered by mud or sand at the bottom of the Hayes River.
The team used ground penetrating radar for the ground search and a magnetic anomaly detection system for scanning the riverbed. They did not find traces of the wrecks, but they hope to renew the search in 2014.
This video, narrated by David Collette, was taken with a flying drone camera. It gives a good view of the topography of the Hayes River at low tide. Warning: The camera is shaky!
As part of Creative Communications (a program designed to prepare students for careers in advertising, journalism, media production and public relations) at Red River College in Winnipeg, MB, students must write a Remembrance Day story for the first-year journalism course.
The students with the top marks on this assignment not only get it posted online on our website, but also receive a one-year subscription.
Congratulations, Trevor Hnatowich, Michael Wilms and Alex Hamade! Check out their stories and a photo gallery below:
Trevor Hnatowich provided two submissions. The first is a story about 93-year-old Lawrence Hnatowich who was 20 years old when he volunteered with the Royal Canadian Air Force in 1941 during the Second World War. The second submission describes a Remembrance Day ceremony Trevor attended this year.
*Click on image to read the article in full screen
Michael Wilms's Remembrance Day story centres around 85-year-old Harry Giesbrecht's experience growing up in Ukraine under Nazi occupation.
*Click on image to read the article in full screen
Alex Hamade's submission is from the perspective of a Teri Hamade who is now in her 70s, but was a child when she and her family were sent to a Japanese internment camp.
*Click on image to read the article in full screen
By Paul Jones
A few years ago (“Combing for Cousins,” December 2010–January 2011), this column explored the many reasons for tracking down distant, living relatives — such as seeking out old family photos, investigating genetic illnesses, planning a far-reaching family reunion, or verifying a time-honoured tale of a forebear’s emigration. There’s also the potential bonus that a researcher from another line of descent may have missing information about common ancestors.
So how do you go about finding “lost cousins”? Here’s a methodical approach.
Step 1: Determine why you’re looking. For instance, planning a family reunion or tracing an emigrant ancestor? The nature of your descendant search will depend on your goal.
Step 2: Select the ancestor or ancestors whose descendants you want to contact. This will flow out of Step 1. Note that it’s perfectly okay to name “everyone” at this stage if you are just curious.
Step 3: Check into whether your cousins are indeed lost. Perhaps members of your extended family are still in touch with them. You might be surprised to learn who’s on Aunt Ethel’s Christmas card list.
Next we undertake a number of simple searches to ascertain if someone — likely a lost cousin — has already expressed an interest in your ancestor.
Step 4a: Search at Ancestry and FamilySearch for online family trees containing your ancestor’s name. Repeat for each name you’ve targeted. If you find a match, you will usually be able to send an email message to the person who posted the tree, very likely a lost cousin or someone married to one. A piece of friendly advice: Don’t be a hopeless newbie. Contact your prospective cousin only when details of timing, place, and family composition indicate that there is a real likelihood of a bona fide match.
Step 4b: Google your ancestor’s name. Try variants and play around by adding in the places where you know your ancestor lived.
Step 4c: Enter your ancestors’ names on the LostCousins website. Include the relatives on your family tree who were recorded in selected U.S., Canadian, British, or Irish censuses. You will be notified and put in contact with anyone who shares an ancestor.
If you’ve struck out up to this point, it means your lost cousins aren’t looking for you. You will have to actively find them. You need to undertake Steps 5 to 8 below for each ancestor whose descendants you want to seek. Pursue just one ancestor (or husband-wife couple) at a time to keep things manageable. When you exhaust all lines of descent, return to Step 5 for your next ancestor or proceed to Step 9.
Step 5: Using conventional genealogical research methods, identify the children of the target ancestor. For some purposes, the siblings of the target ancestor will do in a pinch.
Step 6: Start bootstrapping your research forward in time. This process is similar to conventional genealogical research in that we use the facts gleaned from one source to point us to more facts from another source, drawing ever closer to our goal with each iteration.
Tracing forward is more complicated than conventional research for two reasons:
• Documents by their nature tell of the past, not the future. So, they’re useful for researching backward in time; less so coming forward.
• Any descendant search will need to navigate the information void created by the unavailability of many records in recent decades due to privacy legislation.
As a result of these constraints, researching forward relies on sources that are generally not subject to privacy legislation, such as newspaper social pages and obituaries, wills, telephone directories, some voters lists, and, in modern times, social media. Researchers in the United States make heavy use of the Social Security Death Index. United Kingdom researchers benefit from a long-standing tradition that births, marriages, and deaths are a matter of public record, not private mystery.
Since researching forward is so difficult, there is a price to be paid for unnecessary steps. For this reason it is often prudent to research the youngest child or sibling of your target ancestor. This may enable you to reach the present with fewer steps.
Some authorities recommend that you follow a male line of descent on the grounds that their surnames remain constant throughout life. In a given case, this may be good advice. Still, I normally prefer to follow a female line of descent. Engagement and marriage, the supposed causes of name confusion, actually generate plenty of documents that may be relatively easy to find and quite informative. More importantly, the obituaries of women typically contain extensive family details. And, as they are more likely to live to a ripe old age, you may identify descendants still living today within just a couple of steps.
Step 7: Acquire contact data for the living. You can resort to social media, to Canada 411 (or its equivalent in other countries), to Google, and, if necessary, to people-locating databases, many of which are pay-to-play. The local genealogy society where your lost cousin lives may be helpful. Virtually everyone can be found if you’re patient and willing to pay when necessary.
Step 8: Initiate contact. Some people are thrilled to hear from you. Others don’t want to know about it, no matter how polite, transparent, respectful, and affable you may be. Maybe they worry that you want to borrow money or that your brood of ten will show up next week for an indefinite stay. With luck, you’ll identify several living relatives, and at least one will be happy to share in the adventure.
Step 9: If all else has failed, leave bread crumbs for others to find. For example, a few years ago I prepared a small website about my wife’s missionary ancestors. I wasn’t trying to attract the attention of relatives, but even so a few months later I received an email message from a woman descended from the missionaries through a different branch of the family.
Of course you don’t have to go to the trouble of creating a website; a simple query posted to an online surname or locality discussion group might do the trick just as well.
You can maximize your odds of being found if you upload your entire family tree (having removed all identifying information about living members) to Ancestry, FamilySearch and other sites offering a similar service (the flip side of Step 4b). Distant cousins who share your ancestors may soon be in touch.
Unfortunately, so will “name collectors” — incompetent genealogists who promiscuously graft your tree onto theirs based on no connection more substantial than a shared ancestral name. Don’t be surprised to see your tree proliferating, often incorrectly, across the Web. You may wish to tell these bogus “cousins” to get lost.
Paul Jones, a former publisher, is a writer, consultant, and avid genealogical researcher.
When the Hudson’s Bay Company set up its fur trading posts along the coast of Hudson Bay in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, their locations were extremely remote.
Although not as difficult to get to today, York Factory and Prince of Wales Fort in northern Manitoba remain adventure travel destinations far off the beaten track.
Every summer, Heartland Tours of Winnipeg takes a small group on an exclusive tour to these fascinating spots.
A Canada's History Getaway article about a recent Manitoba Historical Fur Trade Tour appeared in the April-May 2014 issue of the magazine.
Below is a collection of photos highlighting the tour. Click on the first image to start the slideshow. All photos are by Nelle Oosterom unless otherwise specified.
The February-March 2014 issue of Canada’s History magazine includes the story of a little-known wartime pipeline-building project in Canada’s North.
The Canol Road pipleline was an ambitious project to ship oil overland from Norman Wells, Northwest Territories, to military bases in Alaska.
It required building a 350-road kilometre road over an untracked wilderness of heaving permafrost, mountains, rushing rivers and other extremely difficult terrain. Its advocates in the United States military underestimated how difficult the project would be.
The Canol Road was completed at a cost that went many times over budget and proved difficult to maintain. In the end, it was in operation for just one year before being shut down in the spring of 1945.
Today the road has become the Canol Heritage Trail, a recreational trail used by off-roaders, cyclists, and hikers. The magazine article describes a cycling trip over the trail by writer Ryan Stuart, photographer Ryan Creary, and Paul Christensen and Anthony DeLorenzo.
View a photo gallery of Creary’s photos of the trip.
For more about this story, read the February-March 2014 issue of Canada’s History magazine, available at newsstands or by subscription. Subscribe online by clicking on Subscribe at the top of this page.
by Paul Jones
Ask the typical Canadian about Mormons and you’ll get an earful about polygamy, preternaturally polite Utahans, and clandestine baptisms of dead popes. And, oh yeah, they do genealogy.
Over my next two columns, I will try to explain why Mormons are so interested in family history. Let’s start by covering more basic ground: an overview of Mormon genealogical accomplishments and an introduction to an essential Mormon tenet: “continuing revelation.”
Full disclosure: I’m not religious and find much of Mormonism hard to accept. Even so, virtually all family historians, including me, appreciate the resources Mormons have made available — without charge — to genealogists of all faiths around the world:
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In 1894, the Genealogical Society of Utah (GSU) was formed both to support Mormon family history research and to document the identities of as much of humankind as possible.
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With the efforts of successive church leaders and outstanding organizers such as the suffragist Susa Young Gates (a daughter of Brigham Young, the movement’s second leader), the church’s research resources and genealogical education programs expanded exponentially in the early twentieth century.
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In 1938, the GSU began its program of filming the world’s records. Today more than 3.5 billion images are stored in the Granite Mountain Records Vault near Salt Lake City, and more than two hundred cameras are active in forty-five countries.
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The Family History Library, the world’s largest of its kind, opened in 1985 on Temple Square in Salt Lake City. When visiting, one is apt to bump into other researchers from just about anywhere in the world.
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About 4,500 Family History Centers operate in church facilities around the globe, including many in Canada. Genealogists can view microfilm, use dedicated computers, and receive research advice, all without having Mormon beliefs pressed upon them.
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Since 2006, volunteers have indexed more than a billion records for online access at the church’s FamilySearch website, a giant first step toward indexing the entire collection.
So far, I used the words “Mormon” and “church” rather freely. In precise parlance, a Mormon is someone who accepts the scriptural authority of the Book of Mormon, which was purportedly transcribed and translated in the 1820s from golden plates revealed by the angel Moroni to the American Joseph Smith.
The largest bloc of Mormons, more than ninety percent of the total, are members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (LDS), based in Salt Lake City. These are the benefactors whose acts of largesse towards genealogists were cited above. LDS Church leaders, in the manner of their counterparts of other faiths, assert that the only true Mormons are their members, although scores of splinter groups exist, such as the polygamous Mormon fundamentalist community in Bountiful, British Columbia.
Fortunately for the LDS Church, it has a remarkable process for reinventing itself when facing a sticky situation. The doctrine of continuing revelation asserts that LDS presidents receive divine guidance on Church-wide affairs. But there’s a rub: Even though divinely inspired, these ex officio prophets are deemed to be fallible; their revelations come with godly authority but an uncertain shelf life. Revelations can be, and are, superseded as circumstances change.
So it was with polygamy. Joseph Smith (who had about thirty wives) had a revelation in 1843 that the taking of plural wives was a divine commandment. Brigham Young (who had more than fifty wives) affirmed this tenet in 1852. Yet Church president Wilford Woodruff (with seven wives) announced a contradictory revelation in 1890. He outlawed plural marriages among LDS members, in the process conveniently thwarting a U.S. government investigation. Needless to say, not all church members take well to abrupt reversals in doctrine. Continuing revelation can challenge cohesion in the ranks. Indeed, more than a century after the official LDS decree, the polygamous practices of fringe Mormon sects continue to pop up in the headlines from time to time. No amount of revelation, it seems, can undo the vivid examples set by Mormonism’s two most significant prophets.
In my next column, I’ll show how doctrine promulgated by Joseph Smith interacted with another of Woodruff’s revelations to produce the explosion of Mormon interest in genealogy that continues to this day — along with some distressing excesses. There’s no free lunch, not even in genealogy.
Paul Jones is a genealogical researcher whose column appears regularly in Canada's History magazine.
Canadians today tend to take universal health care for granted.
But back in 1962, medicare seemed like a pipe dream.
That year, doctors launched a strike against the introduction of medicare in Saskatchewan. The majority of the public initially supported doctors in their fight against ‘socialized medicine.’
Had the Saskatchewan doctors won, the accessibility of Canada’s health care system might have been very different today.
View this National Film Board video about the history of medicare and the role Tommy Douglas had in making it a reality.
The February-March 2014 issue of Canada’s History includes a story by Christopher Moore which explores what could have happened — a Canada without medicare — had doctors won the 1962 strike. The issue is available on newsstands or you can subscribe online by clicking on Subscribe at the top of this page.
The centennial marking the end of the War of 1812 prompted a flurry of plans to build highways, bridges, and monuments to celebrate a hundred years of peace between the United States, Britain, and Canada.
However, many influential Canadians opposed the Anglo-American Peace Centenary, since the American invasion of Canada was still fresh in their minds.
In the end, the vast majority of the proposed projects were scuttled, not so much because of Canadian opposition but because the start of the First World War in 1914 shifted attention away from the peace centenary.
One peace centenary project that did see completion was the Peace Bridge linking Buffalo, New York, with Fort Erie, Ontario.
Completed in 1927, the bridge is today one of the busiest border crossings in Canada.
The February-March 2014 issue of Canada’s History magazine includes the article “Trouble Over Bridged Waters” by Brandon Dimmel, which takes an in-depth look at the issues surrounding the peace centenary. The magazine is available at newsstands. Or, you can subscribe online by clicking on Subscribe at the top of this page.
See the slide show below to look at historic photos related to the Peace Bridge.
The Beothuk people of Newfoundland became culturally extinct in the nineteenth century after being hunted down and driven from their land.
Little is known of Beothuk spiritual beliefs, but two archaeologists believe they may have found the key to understanding their religion — birds. Seabirds in particular were important sources of food for the Beothuk, who hunted the birds and their eggs by making dangerous journeys by canoe to nesting islands far offshore.
Artifacts found in burial sites, such as pendants carved in the shape of feathers and bird feet, suggest the Beothuk may have believed these objects would speed a departed person's journey into the afterlife.
For more about the Beothuk and their beliefs, see the story “Wings and a Prayer” by Todd Kristensen in the February-March 2014 issue of Canada’s History magazine. Subscribe today!
The Graphic History Collective is a cadre of historians, artists and activists championing social justice via comic books. Together, they have published a free comic on Canada’s early labour movement. This one is called Dreaming of What Might Be: The Knights of Labor in Canada 1880–1900.
*Click on image to read the article in full screen
Check out more of their work here.
How a former limestone quarry became the one of Canada's most popular tourist destinations.
In 1904, Robert Butchart began producing cement from limestone near Victoria, B.C. His business lasted a short twelve years before exhausting the limestone deposits.
Once the quarry had been abandoned, his wife Jennie Butchart was inspired to create a beautiful and unique garden in the area that once housed the cement factory. Topsoil was brought in by horse and cart to begin the creation of a Japanese Garden, an Italian Garden and a Rose Garden. The gardens were given to the Butchart’s grandson, Ian Ross, on his 21st birthday.
For fifty years Ian worked to make the Butchart Gardens the famous destination that they are today. By the 1920s, more than fifty thousand guests were visiting the gardens each year. The tall chimney of the original cement factory can still be seen from the Sunken Garden Lookout and some of the original cherry trees may also still be seen.
The Gardens are now more popular than ever. Every year they are visited by almost a million people who come for the beauty, the entertainment and the history that the gardens offer.
— Text by Tya Waterman
Millions of Canadians have grown up learning about history through 60-second movie theatre and television placements that brought the stories of great Canadians like Nellie McClung, Emily Carr and Dr. Wilder Penfield to life. Last fall, the Historica-Dominion Institute launched the first new Heritage Minute to be made in since 2005 about the story of Richard Pierpoint and the War of 1812.
Now HDI has launched a new call to action to Canadians to help craft the next two Heritage Minutes about the lives of Sir John A. Macdonald and Sir George-Etienne Cartier.
Anthony Wilson Smith, the President of the Historica-Dominion Institute, joined Canada's History to talk about the plan for these new Heritage Minutes. Learn more about their request for proposals.
by Keith Foster
“The Government have put down a formidable rebellion without a mistake, in a manner which sheds [honour]on Canada and her young chivalry, [honour] on the Government, and especially on [Minister of Militiaand Defence Adolphe] Caron.”
So declared the Regina Leader shortly after the North-West Rebellion of 1885 came to an end. Yet this cheerful assessment was not shared by all the victors. At least one of the participants in the campaign had a much more jaundiced view. The title of Lewis Redman Ord’s 1887 book says it all: Reminiscences of a Bungle, by One of the Bunglers.
Then, as now, the North-West Rebellion of 1885 was a subject of contention within Canada. Aside from the interpretation of events, which is an endless task in itself, is the problem of simply trying to determine the facts.
The conflict remains shrouded in confusion, contradiction, and controversy.
Even the name stirs strong emotions. Variously known as the Second Riel Rebellion, the North-West Rebellion, the North-West Uprising, and the North-West Resistance, its names convey various interpretations and levels of intensity. Since the term “rebellion” was used most often in contemporary accounts and since this article focuses primarily on the military campaign rather than on the rights and resistance of the Metis, that term seems appropriate here.
Accounts of the time tended to regard the expedition to suppress the uprising as an efficient and even glorious little campaign. Reports also lavished praise on the commander of the expedition, fifty-nine-year-old British-born General Frederick Middleton. Again the Leader commented: “The Government and the country were specially fortunate in their General who is not only a brave man and good commander but one who understands the temper of Canadians. We hope he will be rewarded by Knighthood. "
Contrast that with what Ord, the self-described “bungler,” had to say about Middleton after serving under him as a member of the Dominion Land Surveyors Intelligence Corps: “Blinded with a sense of his own importance, he was above advice of any kind and from the day he left Qu’Appelle until his return to Winnipeg his course was one continued series of gross blunders, the result of conceit and stupidity. "
Outside observers weighed in as well. The Minneapolis Tribune, for instance, stated that the Canadian government had sent out an expedition “totally unfitted for the work it has on hand. "
Meanwhile, Deputy Minister of Militia and Defence Charles-Eugene Panet probably made the understatement of the year when he reported to Parliament that the department “was very severely tried” and that the campaign to suppress the uprising became “a very arduous and trying one. "
Unresolved grievances in parts of the vast region then known as the North-West Territories had simmered for years before boiling over. Just as in the Red River settlement in 1869-1870, Metis in the territory of what is now Saskatchewan feared losing their land as government surveyors ignored the boundaries of their familiar river lot farms, chopping them into squares. The new railway brought an influx of settlers who took out homesteads, and many Metis no doubt resented the ability of the newcomers to obtain land while their own was in doubt. Meanwhile, Aboriginals were facing hunger due to the disappearance of the bison, and whites on the frontier felt Ottawa was ignoring them.
Hoping to unite all in a common cause, Metis leader Louis Riel sent a petition to Ottawa outlining their grievances. Ensuring Metis property rights and increasing food rations to Natives would have alleviated many of the problems before they reached the boiling point. But government inertia proved disastrous. When Ottawa disregarded Riel’s petition, he formed a provisional government on March19, 1885, and established an armed force at Batoche under Gabriel Dumont.
Prime Minister John A. Macdonald’s federal government lost little time in responding to what it saw as a threat to the new dominion, which was barely eighteen years old. On March 23, Macdonald ordered Middleton to the troubled region and called troops into active service. A government that had long procrastinated over Metis rights was now acting to suppress an uprising that had not yet broken out.
The young nation was ill-prepared to deal with the logistics of crushing an uprising. The conflict was 3,200 kilometres from Canada’s chief population centres. The only full-time soldiers were 750 men of the permanent corps,and they were scattered in various schools as instructors. Other than that, only the officers were professional soldiers — the rest were volunteers — and the army had neither a hospital branch nor a transport service. Food for up to five thousand troops had to be provided. The teamsters and surgeons who waited on the troops also had to be supplied. But there was no government supply depot. Nor was there,according to the 1886 Sessional Papers of Parliament that reviewed the matter, even a round of hardtack in store.
In addition, the outbreak came at the worst possible time of year. It was late winter,the snow was too soft to bear heavy teams,and there was little grass for horses and cattle to eat. Also, there was no shelter along wide stretches of open prairie. Under these conditions, supply convoys — one was five kilometres long had somehow to make their way.
Few people in eastern Canada understood the enormity of the task. Even settlers in the affected region laboured under misguided optimism. The editor of the Regina Leader stated, “We are satisfied that if there is any disturbance, the police are quite equal to the occasion, and we in Regina are not likely to find it necessary to call out our reserves. ” It was a bold declaration, considering that Regina did not have any reserves at this time. Nor were the North-West Mounted Police equal to the occasion when fighting broke out at Duck Lake on March 26.
Superintendent Leif Crozier, with a combined force of a hundred police and Prince Albert volunteers, was on his way to pick up supplies when a band of armed Metis led by Gabriel Dumont confronted him. Accounts vary about what happened next. Dumont related that his brother Isidore and a nearly blind Cree man named Assiyiwin advanced to speak with Crozier, who was accompanied by Joseph McKay — a.k.a. Gentleman Joe McKay — a Metis interpreter for the police. Dumont said Assiyiwin tried to grab a rifle from McKay: “This English Metis fired and I think it was this rifle shot which killed my brother Isidore. . . . ”
Crozier claimed that while he was trying to talk to Assiy-iwin, the Metis were moving to outflank him. Fearing that he would be surrounded and cut off, and hearing what he thought was McKay’s shot, he gave the fateful order: “Fire away, boys. ” McKay, however, said he waited for Crozier to give the order before shooting.
The first battle of the rebellion was on. Although the police at first outnumbered the Metis and were armed with better rifles and a cannon, they were virtually surrounded, exposed to deadly crossfire, and without cover except for the sleighs they had brought with them. They were also confused and disorganized as Metis reinforcements poured in. When Crozier gave the order to fire, he was in the line of his own cannon, so the gunners refused to shoot. He later said they should have fired anyway The cannon got off only a few rounds before one of the nervous gunners put the shot in before the powder, making the cannon useless.
Gabriel Dumont described falling as a bullet grazed his scalp: “I wanted to get up, but the blow had been so violent, I couldn’t. When Joseph Delorme saw me fall again,he cried out that I was killed. I said to him, “Courage, as long as you haven’t lost your head you’re not dead.”
The battle lasted little more than half an hour. Crozier saw the hopelessness of his situation and ordered a retreat,leaving some of his dead on the field. The bodies of nine volunteers and three police littered the snow, and another eleven were wounded.
Gabriel’s other brother, Edouard, who had taken over command when Gabriel fell, wanted to follow the police as they withdrew. Riel would not allow it, however, saying there had been too much bloodshed already. If the Metis had pursued the police, there is little doubt that the retreat would have become a rout. Volunteer Alexander Stewart recalled, “If we had not retreated when we did, we would all in less than five minutes have been massacred. "
The troops had a carefree, almost nonchalant attitude toward the prospect of fighting.
Middleton was on his way to Winnipeg by train when he received word of the clash at Duck Lake. He telegraphed for more troops. The response was immediate and immense. Almost five thousand militiamen volunteered their services. Two-thirds were from eastern Canada. One observer noted that they responded to the call “like guests to a wedding breakfast. ” The Leader suggested sending some of them back, saying not all would be needed.
The task of outfitting the soldiers was a challenge that enthusiasm alone could not overcome. Major Charles A. Boulton — who had been held prisoner by Riel in the1870 Red River uprising — raised a corps of mounted riflemen from western Manitoba at his own expense. Boulton’s Scouts did not have uniforms. They rounded up their own horses from farms and ranches. Saddles, cartridge belts, and rifles were supplied without any regard to uniformity of pattern. One observer, George J. Kinnaird, recorded, “Both drill and discipline were very defective, in fact almost a negligible quantity, but they could ride and they could shoot and there weren’t any cold feet in the outfit.”
The troops had a carefree, almost nonchalant attitude toward the prospect of fighting. Kinnaird reported thatBoulton’s Scouts behaved “like a bunch of school boys let out to play; their worries must have all been locked up in their old kit bags and the keys dropped into the river.”
As the campaign progressed, the problems became more apparent. Rifleman John Andrew Forin of the Queen’s Own Rifles recorded in his diary: “Our food mostly consisted of hardtack biscuit and tea — pork and beans for a change.... Never appreciated letters like I do now — this is real warfare.”
Until troops arrived, many settlements were almost defenceless. In Moose Jaw, a resident noted that the Canadian Pacific Railway “kept an engine ready for quick removal of women and children should the town be raided.” In Regina,citizens organized a home defence unit called the Regina Blazers, but promised federal assistance in outfitting them was long in coming. After much delay and negotiation, the rifles and belts arrived, but no uniforms or ammunition. The Blazers began to see why Riel had become so exasperated in dealing with Ottawa.
Ammunition finally arrived just before Riel’s surrender. After drilling faithfully for eight hours a week during the entire campaign, the only service the Blazers saw was when they turned out, still without proper uniforms, to present arms to General Middleton during Riel’s trial.
Thanks to the nearly completed transcontinental railway, the first troops from eastern Canada arrived in Qu’Appelle within a week. William Van Horne, the Canadian Pacific Railway general manager, had experience dispatching troops during the American Civil War and put this experience to good use.
Middleton’s strategy was simple, at least on paper. He proposed a three-pronged assault and assembled three columns of troops along the CPR line. He chose to lead the first column himself. These troops detrained at Qu’Appelle and were to move north to the Metis stronghold at Batoche and then on to Prince Albert. Their departure was delayed, however,as Middleton wanted to give them additional training, since “many of the men had never pulled a trigger.”
The second column, under Colonel William Otter, set out from Swift Current to relieve Fort Battleford, where terrified settlers, huddling inside, watched their homes being ransacked and burned as a large band of starving Cree established a camp nearby. Chief Poundmaker tried, but failed, to stop rogue warriors from looting the town.
The third column, under General Thomas Bland Strange, moved north from Calgary to Edmonton and then down the North Saskatchewan River in the direction of Big Bear’s Cree encampment near Fort Pitt. This third thrust was a response to the Frog Lake “massacre,” as it was called at the time. Over Big Bear’s objections, a faction of warriors, emboldened by the Metis victory at Duck Lake, attacked the settlement at Frog Lake on April 2 and killed nine men, including two priests and the local Indian agent.
The incident outraged many Canadians of the time. More recently, however, historians have cast it in a different light — as a desperate act by people who had survived a particularly severe winter and suffered food shortages and harsh treatment at the hands of Indian agent Thomas Quinn.
The Metis were scattered throughout the North-West Territories, but Middleton directed his main thrust at Batoche, where Riel had established his headquarters. As the column moved north, Dumont prepared an ambush at Fish Creek on April 24. The plan failed because, by chance, the infantry stopped to examine a house that had recently been ransacked. This delay enabled Boulton’s Scouts to get far in advance of the main body. The Metis opened fire prematurely on the scouts, who were advancing in skirmish formation, and revealed the trap.
Although outnumbered, the Metis and their Aboriginal allies fought the troops to a standstill and forced them to withdraw. Dumont’s troops might have withdrawn if they had been able, but they were pinned down by heavy rifle and artillery fire. Despite the torrent of bullets, Dumont urged on his troops by shouting, “Don’t be afraid of the bullets. They won’t hurt you.”
But some of the bullets did find their mark. Dumont’s forces lost at least four men, while Middleton’s side suffered ten deaths. The general himself was almost killed at Fish Creek. Too dignified to seek cover, he made himself a conspicuous target: “I received a bullet through my fur cap from one of the men in the rifle-pits, who had made several attempts to hit me before, and whom I have reason to believe was Gabriel Dumont himself.”
Dumont later disputed this: “Middleton might, as a matter of fact, have had a shot pierce his fur cap, as he said in his report, but he can congratulate himself that I didn’t recognize him.” Dumont was an excellent shot and seldom missed.
After an all-day battle, Middleton’s troops withdrew from Fish Creek. They halted for a couple of weeks to care for their wounded and to await the steamer Northcote. Although it had a draft of less than a metre, it repeatedly got stuck on the mud banks of the South Saskatchewan River;Middleton sarcastically noted that it came “mostly by land. "Ironically, the Northcote was fortified with wood taken from Dumont’s own stables; Middleton’s troops had overrun his homestead on May 7, removing timber to reinforce Canada’s first and only prairie warship.
Middleton proposed a simultaneous assault on Batoche by his troops, supported by the Northcote. On May 9, the “simultaneous” attack got off to a bad start when the steamer arrived at Batoche an hour ahead of schedule. To add to the difficulties, the Metis stretched a cable across the river, knocking over the Northcote’s two smokestacks and starting a fire that the troops had to extinguish while the Metis took potshots at them from shore.
The Northcote’s captain, in the unprotected wheel-house on the top deck, was unable to steer the vessel as Metis bullets whistled overhead, so he sought cover and allowed it to drift downstream, effectively knocking it out of the battle.
At Batoche, the Metis faced a deadly weapon they had never encountered before — the Gatling gun. First used during the American Civil War, the rapid-fire weapon had been brought up from the United States by Captain Arthur Howard of the Connecticut Home Guard to demonstrate its effectiveness in battle.
Besieged and outnumbered by Middleton’s troops, Dumont’s forces desperately held on. By the fourth day they were so low on ammunition that they were reduced to using nails and stones instead of bullets. Some fired their ramrods as a final gesture of defiance. But since this revealed their desperation, Middleton’s troops advanced with greater boldness.
The final assault was a muddled affair. While Middleton was having lunch, some troops in forward positions could see no reason to wait for orders, so they decided to charge. Other troops, seeing their initial success, joined in to complete the capture of the village.
Middleton’s side suffered eight deaths; the Metis lost fourteen. Of the latter, five were killed in their rifle pits in the final bayonet charge. Two of them were in their sixties, two were seventy-five, and one, Joseph Ouellette, was an astonishing ninety-three years old.
Riel gave himself up to Middleton on May 15. Dumont escaped and planned to spend the summer harassing the troops, but instead fled to the United States, where he later joined Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show. His parting words to his wife Madeleine were, “If the enemy captures you and blames you for my actions, you tell them that since the government couldn’t manage me, it wasn’t easy for you to do so. "
In the meantime, Colonel Otter, commanding the second column of troops from Swift Current, had reached Battlefront. He then proceeded to attack Chief Poundmaker on his reserve fifty-five kilometres west of town. The Battle of Cut Knife Hill took place May 2. Although Otter intended to surprise the Cree force, the Natives soon gained the upper hand and forced the troops to withdraw.
Several warriors wanted to pursue them, but Poundmaker would not allow it, saying, “They have come here to fight us and we have fought them; now let them go. ” He later surrendered after learning of Riel’s defeat.
General Strange led the third column from Calgary to Edmonton and then to Fort Pitt to confront Big Bear’s warriors. Many whites held Big Bear personally responsible fort he killings at Frog Lake, even though he had tried to stop the slaughter. The clash occurred on May 28 near Frenchman’s Butte, about twenty kilometres east of Fort Pitt. Although taken completely by surprise, the Cree quickly recovered and took up defensive positions in the brush. The troops could make no headway and Strange ordered a retreat.
They withdrew just as the Native warriors began to flee the battlefield. But Strange was reluctant to pursue them without reinforcements. Demoralized and hungry, Big Bear gave himself up in early July. The uprising was over.
The campaign from March to July 1885 had been short, but it was expensive, running into the millions of dollars for military expenditures alone and several more millions in compensation for war losses.
Yet the greatest cost was in human terms. For instance, the twelve dead and eleven wounded among the hundred police and volunteers engaged in the skirmish at Duck Lake amounted to a casualty rate of twenty-three per cent.
Saskatchewan historian Norman Fergus Black stated that Crozier’s force had twenty-five wounded; if true, this would boost the casualty rate to an astounding thirty-seven per cent. If Riel, Poundmaker, and Big Bear had not displayed the restraint they did, casualties would have been even higher.
Fortunately for Macdonald, support for Riel’s provisional government was weak, as almost all white settlers rallied to the side of the government, and many Metis communities remained neutral. The Aboriginal people were divided but essentially loyal. Otherwise, the conflict would have been longer, costlier, and deadlier.
In spite of being grossly ill-prepared, the young dominion struggled through and survived. George Kinnaird perhaps best summed up the conduct of the campaign when he said, “In that war as in every other, we blundered through somehow and came out all right in the end. "
Whether one views the campaign as being efficiently run or a blunder-filled mess, the troops were able to suppress an uprising in a relatively short time.
Yet had the government attended to the concerns of the region in the first place, there would have been no need for a military campaign.
How time has changed our ideas about the 1885 North-West Uprising
Louis Riel and the Metis were justified in starting an armed uprising.
This was not the prevailing view among English speaking white people in eastern Canada in 1885. Clergyman C. P. Mulvaney, writing shortly after the event, saw Louis riel and the “halfbreeds” — as he called the Metis — as trying to establish “an island of mediaevalism,” thus impeding the spread of civilization.
This view started to change in the 1930s with historian George F. G. Stanley, who saw the events of 1885 as inevitable as a complex culture came into contact with a more “primitive” one. After the Second World War, historians started seeing Riel as a heroic resistance figure.
More recently, controversial historian Thomas Flanagan has challenged that view,arguing that the grievances of the Metis were partly of their own making.
Aboriginal people were driven to rebel out of desperation because of the disappearance of their main food source, the bison.
Actually, most Native people were loyal to the Crown. Only a few warriors, acting against the wishes of their leaders, took part. The actions of these few warriors incensed white Canadians of the time, who saw all Aboriginals as being ungrateful for the relief — including food, clothing, and farm machinery — they were receiving from the federal government. “Five years of pampering and petting have failed,” said the Saskatchewan Herald of May 25, 1885.
Yet they were hardly pampered, as writer Maggie Siggins points out in Riel: A Life of Revolution (1994). An economic depression in the early 1880s led the government to drastically cut back funding to the Indian Department, leading to widespread starvation. Pleas to John A. Macdonald’s government to increase rations went unheeded.
Fort Battleford was held under “siege.”
Hundreds of terrified residents of the town of Battleford sought refuge in the nearby NWMP fort as a large Cree-Assiniboine force under Chief Poundmaker arrived in the area.
After Poundmaker was refused a meeting with the Indian agent, a number of warriors looted and burned some homes and emptied a Hudson’s Bay Company depot. Citizens of Battleford later described a scene of wholesale destruction, but there is evidence that much of the looting was done by Canadian soldiers looking for supplies and souvenirs.
Until 2010, Parks Canada had described the event at Fort Battleford as a “siege.” But Aboriginal oral histories point out that the fort was never attacked or surrounded, nor was its surrender demanded. Poundmaker was there to ask for supplies and to assure authorities that his people would not join Riel’s revolt.
Parks Canada now describes the people inside the fort as having a “siege mentality.” Fearing an attack that never came, they stayed inside the fort for almost a month.
Louis Riel was unjustly hanged and should be pardoned.
In 1875, Parliament granted Riel amnesty for the Red River Rebellion, including his role in the execution of surveyor Thomas Scott. Ten years later, on November 16, 1885, Riel was hanged for treason in connection with the1885 North-West Rebellion.
Riel has since been lauded as the founder of Manitoba, a Father of Confederation, and a Metis hero. He has also been decried as a madman with a messiah complex.
Since 1979, the House of Commons has received numerous private members’ bills and resolutions to pardon Riel and/or to revoke his conviction. The last attempt was made by Winnipeg Centre MP Pat Martin in 2010, the 125th anniversary of the rebellion. It was unsuccessful. — Nelle Oosterom
This article originally appeared in the February-March 2013 issue of Canada's History.
by Mark Collin Reid
Quick quiz: Which War of 1812 jingle is among the most famous songs in the world? Here’s a hint — you heard it during the 2014 Winter Olympics, each time the United States won gold. That’s right, “The Star-Spangled Banner” — America’s national anthem — was written to celebrate the 1814 American victory at Baltimore.
Now for a follow-up: Name one historic Canadian song commemorating the 1812 conflict. Stumped? So was Ontario folk musician Peter Boyer. That’s why he and his bandmates in Same Latitude As Rome decided to write and record an album’s worth of 1812-themed songs. The Essex County band has spent the past two years performing the album at festivals across Ontario. Canada’s History recently caught up with Boyer to discuss the project.
Canada’s History: What was the inspiration for the 1812 CD?
Peter Boyer: The Americans are really great at telling their stories. We really try to be a Canadian band and honour the Canadian narrative as much as we can. When [the bicentennial of] 1812 was coming up, I went to the traditional catalogue to find some songs to perform, and there were virtually none. Stan Rogers had written a couple. Other than that, there was nothing to draw on.
While there are British military tunes from that era, few are sung from a Canadian perspective, and very little sheet music exists. Why do you think that is?
Peter Boyer: I have puzzled about that myself. There was one, “Come all ye brave Canadians …” [the song is “The Bold Canadian,” composed in 1812] — you might be familiar with that one. I think it was the only one that emerged from the time.
In Ontario, especially, there was so much privation and suffering that most people wanted to put it behind them and move on. Some of the roots of anti-Americanism came from that time. The population didn’t want to tell the story any more — they knew it too well. They just moved on, and it was forgotten.

Same Latitude as Rome playing in Windsor, Ontario. Photo courtesy Peter Boyer.
Canada's History: I suppose, back in Britain, people were still more fixated on the Napoleonic Wars, which had just ended.
Peter Boyer: For British folksingers and storytellers, [the War of 1812] was the forgotten war. The Napoleonic Wars are much more in their minds.
For several of the songs, you collaborated lyrically with Windsor historian Dan Loncke. Is it true that you met during one of your performances?
Peter Boyer: He said, you know, those are great songs. I have a bunch of 1812 poems I have been working on — maybe we could collaborate? And you know what? It turned out to be a great collaboration. The inspiration grew from that. We decided at the end we would have a whole 1812 CD and put it out for the bicentennial. At the larger shows, Dan came out and did a narrative in between the songs. We also showed all kinds of archival photos and maps. It told the whole story [of the war]. The show was called 1812 in Story and Song.
The CD’s eleven songs highlight many key moments in the war. What’s your favourite track on the album?
Peter Boyer: I think my personal favourite is “Tecumseh.” I think Tecumseh is one of the great unheralded Canadian heroes. One thing that really emerged for me [during the bicentennial] was the consensus that the big losers were First Nations and that Tecumseh’s vision was lost … in the Treaty of Ghent negotiations. [One reason why Tecumseh, an Aboriginal leader, supported Britain was a promise that Aboriginals would receive an independent homeland near the Great Lakes after the war.] The British pretty quickly abandoned the Natives’ claim. I think Tecumseh’s story needs to be told. I gave it my best shot. I think it’s a great song, and it’s certainly my favourite. I tried to really honour Tecumseh and the First Nations of 1812.

Same Latitude as Rome playing in Fergus-Elora, Ontario. Photo courtesy Peter Boyer.
Here is one of the songs off the album, called "Brock at Detroit."
You can also listen to the song here.
And if you want to learn how to play the song, here are the lyics and chords.
The entire album is available for purchase on ITunes. For more information about the band, go to Same Latitude as Rome's website
I can’t keep the tears from springing to my eyes, or my throat from constricting so much I think I might stop breathing. Shannon Prince, curator of the Buxton National Historic Site and Museum, has just put a pair of actual shackles used on an actual human being into my hands, and the sobs well up from nowhere.
The community of Buxton, just south of Chatham, Ontario, represented freedom for those who had been enslaved and made it north to Canada via the Underground Railroad. Former slaves and free Black Americans settled in the village, which was founded by Rev. William King in 1849 as a place where his people could find dignity and fellowship. Its outstanding school educated generations of youngsters, and descendants of the original residents still live in the area today.
Prince is one of those descendants. Her warm and compassionate presence brings humanity to the story of the journey from horror to hope. Visitors can visit the small museum, the well-preserved schoolhouse and the cabin built according to the rules of the settlement. Visit the museum’s website for more information.
And if you’re in the area, be sure to visit other nearby sites to learn more about the Black pioneers and personalities who helped build our nation. Uncle Tom’s Cabin tells the story of Rev. Josiah Henson, believed to be the model for Uncle Tom in Harriet Beecher Stowe’s famous novel. The Chatham-Kent Historical Society highlights the surprising history of invention, perseverance and pride among members of the area’s Black community over several generations. At the John Freeman Walls Historic Site and Underground Railroad Museum near Windsor, meet Walls’ great-grandson Bryan Walls, who describes his ancestors’ struggles to make it to freedom in Canada.
There are many other sites in the area that make our shared Black history come alive. Visit Ontario Heritage Trust’s Slavery to Freedom site to learn more.
- Text by Nancy Payne, Editor of Kayak Canada's History Magazine for Kids
In this video Shannon Prince, curator of the Buxton Museum and National Historic Site, demonstrates how these shackles were used on enslaved Africans
by Mark Abley
On April 17, 1680, a young unmarried woman died in a little settlement on the south shore of the St. Lawrence River. She was a Mohawk. As a child she had suffered from smallpox, and its ravages left her with permanent scars. In the last few years of her short life, she had become a devout Christian.
That much is agreed upon. The rest is open to debate.
In the eyes of Roman Catholics, the woman born with the name Tekakwitha is now Saint Kateri. Pope Benedict canonized her in a ceremony at the Vatican in 2012. Yet, long before her canonization, Kateri — an Aboriginal version of Catherine, the name she chose when she converted to Christianity — had been the object of intense devotion.
To Catholics, her readiness to suffer without complaint, her self-willed virginity, her fierce love of the sacraments — such qualities prove that she lived out her faith in an exemplary manner. According to the Jesuit missionaries who were near her at the end, she told her friends to “Take courage” and “Never give up mortification.” She lost the world and found herself in God.
Many Mohawks, especially those who adhere to the Longhouse traditions, see things very differently. In their eyes, Tekakwitha was a victim of colonialism. Having abandoned her own community, she cast her lot with the French invaders of her people’s land. The French instilled in her a foreign religion that promoted ideals contrary to those of the Iroquois Confederacy, to which the Mohawks belonged. After she died, her image was used by the church to help stamp out Iroquois culture and to promote a vision of assimilation that remains alive to this day. In this Mohawk view, her life is to be regretted, not held up as a model.
Such is the division of opinion about Kateri Tekakwitha. In the Mohawk town of Kahnawake, where some of her remains lie in an imposing church near the St. Lawrence River, Kateri is one more source of discord in a remarkable community — one that is full of strong, tough, successful people but is all too familiar with bitter differences. The Jesuits hoped she would become a rallying symbol. She has proved to be anything but.
And yet, in the past few years, another view has begun to emerge — a view that suggests a way forward, a chance to understand Kateri beyond the ruptures of belief.
”I think of her as a storyteller,” said Orenda Boucher-Curotte, standing on a street in Kahnawake near Kateri School, just down the road from the Kateri Memorial Hospital Centre. “She’s our window into women’s lives in that particular period. What were the women facing? What kind of experiences were they having?”
Boucher-Curotte attended Kateri School when it was Catholic-run; now it’s non-denominational. She earned a master of arts in the history and philosophy of religion from Concordia University and is studying for a Ph.D. at the University of Ottawa. She notes that the early texts about Kateri were written not just from a European standpoint but from a male one, too. “Yet we know,” she said, “women were integral to the survival of that society. What interests me are the relationships she cultivated, before and after she came here. How can we reread her story, understanding it from a Mohawk world view?”
The way the tale usually goes, Tekakwitha was the daughter of a Mohawk chief and an Algonquin woman who had been captured and absorbed into Mohawk society. They lived in what is now upstate New York, in a village whose spelling has gone down in history as Caughnawaga (“by the rapids” in the Mohawk language). The mid-seventeenth century was a period of great turbulence, with societies and nations dissolving and reshaping themselves as European weapons, diseases, and beliefs swept over eastern North America. A smallpox epidemic left Tekakwitha an orphan, facially scarred and with poor sight. At four she was adopted by an uncle on her father’s side.
Or was she? Boucher-Curotte is not so sure. “The story doesn’t make sense to me. She should have gone with her mother’s brother. The Jesuits may have confused the kinship ties — they don’t talk about her mother. I’m curious about all the things the Jesuits left out. Why did they leave them out?”
Missionaries were active in Caughnawaga, and Kateri was baptized at the age of twenty, on Easter Sunday, 1676. That fall she travelled north to the Jesuit mission on the St. Lawrence to live in the company of other converts. The community was founded as a refuge for “praying Indians.” The mission was located east of present-day Kahnawake; it moved to its present location, across the river from the Lachine Rapids, early in the eighteenth century. Kateri lived only three years at the mission, spending much of her time in acts of fasting and extreme penance.
“Jesus, I love you,” she said, before expiring in the arms of a female friend. Then, as the Jesuit priest Pierre Cholenec wrote, “This face, so marked and swarthy, suddenly changed about a quarter of an hour after her death, and became in a moment so beautiful and so white that I observed it immediately.” To the faithful, this was Kateri’s first miracle. She became known as “Lily of the Mohawks” forever linked to a white flower that connotes chastity, purity, and innocence. The lily was also a royal emblem of France and would eventually be a symbol of Quebec. Today, in the Catholic church at Kahnawake — named after the first Jesuit missionary to Asia, Saint Francis Xavier — her tomb has a carved lily.
Cholenec’s story has been hugely influential. Yet, by describing Kateri’s natural skin colour as “swarthy” and by associating beauty with whiteness, the priest created a troubling image for Aboriginal people. Before she was canonized, Kateri was beatified — a preliminary step on the ladder of sainthood. Maybe it’s just a spelling mistake, maybe it’s a Freudian slip, but a booklet about Kateri that is still available in the gift shop of the Saint Francis Xavier Mission at Kahnawake declares that, in 1884, the bishops of the United States asked Pope Leo XIII “to institute the process for the beautification of Catherine Tekakwitha.” To the church she was indeed beautiful, once death had whitened her skin.
Darren Bonaparte, a Mohawk historian from Akwesasne, titled his 2009 book about Kateri “A Lily Among Thorns.” For him the phrase not only refers to the Old Testament verse in the Song of Solomon but also suggests how Kateri’s people are too often viewed. Bonaparte set out to reclaim Kateri as a Mohawk woman. “It’s as if she has always been a porcelain icon,” he wrote. “Her memory has been so thoroughly appropriated that even her own people speak of her in terms taken verbatim from the writings of others. For a nation that has laboured for the repatriation of human remains, wampum belts, false face masks, and other significant items held by museums and universities, we seem to have neglected something just as important —the memory of one of our own.”
Today, Kahnawake, in addition to its Catholic church, has three flourishing longhouses where traditional spirituality is practised. The community also contains three small Protestant churches. Yet, through nearly all of the Kahnawake’s long history, the dominant world view was Catholic. Akwiranò:ron Martin Loft, the supervisor of public programs at the Kanien’kehá:ka Onkwawén:na Raotitióhkwa Language and Cultural Centre, grew up at the end of that era. “We used to go to the church for baptism, first communion, catechism,” he recalled, “and Kateri’s bones were on display. When we were children we used to kneel there and look down at the bones. Her image was there in the background. We had to kiss the glass and then wipe it clean with a little cloth for the next person.”
Only a few of Kateri’s bones are still in Kahnawake. As her fame grew, the church distributed relics as far afield as Montana, South Dakota, and the Vatican. Her skull went to Akwesasne, where it disappeared in a fire. A theft of one of her bones from the church in Kahnawake means that only a small replica is now on show. Such are the risks of sanctity.
“When I arrived here,” said Ron Boyer, “I’d say the reservation was ninety-eight per cent Catholic.” Boyer is an Ojibway man from northern Ontario who, as he jokes, “was kidnapped by the Mohawks. My wife’s a Mohawk, and she always says, “We’re not fussy who we adopt.’” They settled in Kahnawake in 1957 and are among the small minority of Kahnawake residents who remain devout Catholics. Indeed, Boyer is an ordained deacon and spent seven years as the “vice-postulator” for Kateri Tekakwitha, building a case for her to be canonized. Meanwhile, the Vatican awaited a miracle clear enough for the already beatified Kateri to step into sainthood.
The miracle arrived with news of a six-year-old boy in Washington state, Jake Finkbonner, who had contracted flesh-eating disease through a cut on his lip. The bacteria spread quickly, the last rites were performed, and the boy’s life hung by a thread. But Jake’s father, a member of the Coast Salish nation, had heard stories of Kateri when he was young, and, at the urging of the parish priest, the family prayed to Kateri. A Mohawk nun who was a family friend visited Jake in hospital and placed a tiny relic of Kateri on his leg. Inexplicably the boy recovered, though his face will always be scarred. Soon Ron Boyer’s work was complete.
One thing this story reveals is the extent to which devotion to Kateri has spread all over North America — and, indeed, farther south. On the day she was canonized in Rome, the church in Kahnawake held a large service, and Orenda Boucher-Curotte recalls meeting a woman who had flown in from Guatemala. “Kateri Circles” for American Indians exist in about twenty-five American states; at the Mission Dolores in San Francisco, where Spanish Franciscans established the first white settlement in the region, a statue of Kateri stands in the garden. In New York City, a bas relief of Kateri decorates the main doors of St. Patrick’s Cathedral. For Aboriginal Catholics everywhere, she remains a powerful symbol.
But a symbol of what, exactly? “Catherine Tekakwitha,” says the narrator of Leonard Cohen’s novel Beautiful Losers, “I have come to rescue you from the Jesuits.” Cohen was writing in the mid-1960s, when there was “a plastic reproduction of your little body on the dashboard of every Montreal taxi.” Now the power of the Catholic Church in the province has receded dramatically, and the meanings of Kateri’s suffering and death are in dispute. In most of Quebec, her name is still recognized, but her story seems to belong to a distant, priest-ridden past. Yet vestiges of that past remain. Boucher-Curotte points out that, at the Kahnawake service in 2012 celebrating the canonization, a priest referred to the non-Christian Mohawks of Kateri’s time as “heretics.”
When Martin Loft thinks of Kateri now, his mind dwells on subjects far removed from the faith of his boyhood. “It’s an incredible story,” he said. “It’s tragic. It’s uplifting, if you’re a believer. And, generally, people are proud that it makes us a well-known community. But you wonder about the legacy of residential schools, the abuses the people had to suffer, all the things that were done to ingrain Christianity in us. That’s part of the colonial legacy we have, and you could argue she’s a symbol of that.” He stops and catches himself. “You have to be careful what you say. You don’t want to offend people.”
Over the past year or so, Ron Boyer declares, Kateri’s canonization has brought a “very noticeable” increase in visitors. Other people aren’t so sure — and they don’t necessarily think it would be good if crowds of pilgrims began descending on Kahnawake.
“I’m surprised, and pleasantly so,” said Brian Deer, a respected elder and Longhouse member, “that there wasn’t more hullabaloo about her canonization.” Sure, hundreds of visitors came to Kahnawake when she was sainted and many residents of Kahnawake made a once-in-a-lifetime trip to Rome for the occasion. “But, after that weekend, I didn’t notice an influx of tourists. What I feared the most was that Quebec province would hijack her for tourist purposes — but it didn’t happen.”
Deer said Kateri is “not on the radar” for most people in Kahnawake today. She is seldom talked about, except for an occasional negative remark made by people who are hostile to the church. Admittedly, her name remains prominent. But just because the school and the hospital have Kateri in their title doesn’t mean people stop to think about the saint every time they go there.
Steve Bonspiel, the editor and publisher of the Eastern Door,Kahnawake’s main newspaper, agrees with Boyer that “there’s been an increase of tour buses. I live near the church, and I pass by them every day. But the problem is, the church in Kahnawake doesn’t have any money, and they don’t want to spend anything for fear of not getting the returns.” In a community of about eight thousand residents, only about sixty people regularly attend Mass. The church no longer has a resident priest, and the dwindling number of parishioners struggle to pay an annual heating bill of roughly $25,000.
Unlike Brian Deer, Bonspiel hopes that Kahnawake will become a welcoming destination for tourists: “Pilgrims are coming here all the time, and they have nowhere to go. Even the people who aren’t Catholics know that we’re not going to stop them [from] coming here. At the end of the day, if they can find places to eat or hang out, the community would benefit.”
His motives for saying this are not purely economic. Bonspiel wants to break down some of the barriers that separate Kahnawake from the rest of society. “There’s still a prejudice,” he noted, “that Mohawks act in a certain way.” It’s less than twenty-five years since residents of the nearby town of Châteauguay infuriated by the Oka crisis, burned a Mohawk warrior in effigy. Some francophones still casually refer to Aboriginal people as “les sauvages.” If the church’s museum and gift shop were upgraded, and if local restaurants and cafes attracted more visitors, would outsiders begin to see Kahnawake more clearly?
Cross-cultural interaction is one of the things Kateri Tekakwitha did well. As an adolescent, despite her weak sight, she moved successfully from one community to another, impressing and finally humbling the black-robed priests she met along the way. “She was something other than a victim,” said Allan Greer, a historian at McGill University and the author of Catherine Tekakwitha and the Jesuits, the standard academic work on the subject. “In my classes I present her as someone of a Mohawk culture who was pursuing Mohawk priorities.”
And what might those be? Greer, sipping a coffee in a west end Montreal cafe, looks slightly uncomfortable at being pressed. “I have misgivings about my own vocabulary,” he confessed before saying: “Spiritual power. In a situation of crisis and turmoil, which is what indigenous people were experiencing in the seventeenth century, they were pursuing not just survival but empowerment — which necessarily has a spiritual dimension. There’s almost a curiosity-driven exploration. People often think of the Jesuits as being heroic explorers of foreign lands — and that’s what she was, too. She was confronting the question: How do you figure out these strange people and their strange ways?”
Kateri was steeped in traditional religion as well as in Catholicism. For centuries, that duality of knowledge was very difficult to attain. Yet today, said Kahente Horn-Miller, the coordinator of the Kahnawake Legislative Coordinating Committee, “the distinctions — Longhouse, Protestant, Catholic — are not as strongly drawn as they were. I go to the church for funerals, I’ve been to the midnight Mass for the singing, and I know of other Longhouse people who do the same. My aunt is a devout Catholic, and she goes to the Longhouse as well as the church.” A generation or two ago, Longhouse people and Catholics in Kahnawake were never allowed to socialize. The lines are fuzzier now.
Orenda Boucher-Curotte, who also grew up in a Longhouse family, said that, for decades after the church’s influence had waned in Kahnawake, “men wouldn’t talk about Kateri, and women would roll their eyes. She didn’t represent what it meant to be a Mohawk woman. Motherhood is a central part of our culture, and she forsook that. The Jesuits always pointed out how different she was from the other converts. That’s one of the qualities of sainthood — they have to be different. But the reality is, she couldn’t have survived for twenty years after her parents died without being part of a community.”
Likewise, Kahente Horn-Miller suggested that different parts of Kateri’s story speak to different elements in the community. The miracle stories may not seem to resonate for Horn-Miller, yet Kateri’s “relics were used to heal others,” she said. “And, likewise, we have our ceremonies, our herbs, our rituals, our traditions. Those are areas where I can identify with her. I identify with her wanting to practise her religion, too.” Eventually such perceptions may allow more of the Longhouse adherents in Kahnawake to forgive Kateri her sainthood.
On a summer morning, Boucher-Curotte and I stroll around the Saint Francis Xavier Mission. She grew up attending a longhouse and, unlike most of the older generation, has seldom been inside the ornate church. We pass stations of the cross that have Mohawk names and carved prayers in the Mohawk language. But, in the church gift shop, a local volunteer named Cathy Rice shows less interest in talking about Kateri than about a 1907 bridge disaster in Quebec City that claimed the lives of seventy-five people, thirty-three of them from Kahnawake.
Near the front of the church stands a cross made of steel from the World Trade Center in New York; it was donated by Mohawk ironworkers after the terrorist attacks of 2001. Men from Kahnawake helped construct many of New York’s iconic skyscrapers. They took little part, however, in building the St. Lawrence Seaway in the late 1950s; the project meant that about five hundred hectares of Mohawk land were expropriated, and Kahnawake was cut off from the great river. Across the road from the church, a cenotaph honours the dead of several conflicts, including the War of 1812. Memories are long here, and Kateri is only the beginning.
A second volunteer emerges from a back room of the museum attached to the church. She is carrying an oval case with a narrow rib bone inside. “I took it out of the safe for you,” she explains. The label says, in French, “bone of Catherine Tekakwitha.” I hold the case in my hands. Orenda Boucher-Curotte is looking as surprised as I am. And a moment of visceral understanding comes to me: Kateri lived and died down the river from where I’m standing now. She became a symbol only because she once had a body. This small curved bone helped her live and breathe.
A saint, perhaps. A Mohawk woman, beyond doubt. I take a deep breath of my own and give back the oval case.
For more about Kateri’s remarkable life and legacy, see this video hosted by Father Thomas Rosica.
This article originally appeared in the April-May 2014 issue of Canada's History.
We tend to think of Vikings as warring marauders who prowled the coasts of Europe in their warships.
But Canada has a Viking connection too. Not only did they settle on the northern tip of Newfoundland for a brief period a thousand years ago, they also travelled to the far reaches of the Canadian Arctic.
The Royal BC Museum in Victoria is hosting a travelling exhibit about Vikings that runs from May 16 to November 11, 2014.
Canada’s History program director Joel Ralph spoke with Mark Dickson, head of exhibitions at the museum, and Erin McGuire, an archaeologist at the University of Victoria, to find out more about how Vikings fit into Canadian history.
To learn more about the Viking settlement at L’Anse aux Meadows, Newfoundland, watch this Parks Canada video.
Canada’s History magazine features a story about Arctic Vikings in its April-May 2014 issue written by David Keys. The issue is available at newsstands, or you can subscribe online by clicking on Subscribe at the top of this page.
Tobacco advertising is today severely restricted in Canada but that wasn’t always the case.
Before 1970, tobacco was heavily marketed on radio, television and in print.
Women’s magazines contained many ads for cigarettes made to appeal to women.
The typical cigarette-smoker was portrayed as young, attractive, cool, and cosmopolitan, as this compilation of pre-1970 cigarette ads shows:
Read an article in the April-May 2014 issue of Canada’s History magazine entitled “When Smoking Was Chic” by Sharon Anne Cook. It’s available on newsstands or you can buy the magazine online by clicking on Subscribe at the top of this page.
As writer Pierre Home-Douglas pointed out in an article in the April-May 2014 issue of Canada’s History, Canada had a deep connection to the American Civil War.
While most Canadians sympathized with the Union side, there were pockets of support for the Confederates in Montreal and other cities.
There were also about 40,000 British North Americans who fought in the war.
The Ontario Archives has letters relating from Canadians relating to that conflict. To see them or hear recorded excerpts from the letters, go here.
You can read Home-Douglas’s story in the April-May 2014 issue of Canada’s History.
By Paul Jones
As we discussed in the previous issue, the typical Canadian associates Mormonism with polygamy, preternaturally polite Utahans, and clandestine baptisms of dead popes. And, oh yeah, they do genealogy.
So why do Mormons engage in genealogy? In my previous column, I described the unmatched contributions of Mormonism to the field. We also explored the doctrine of “continuing revelation” that allows leaders of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (the LDS Church) to adjust or even reverse doctrine — for instance, the 1890 banning of polygamy, which had previously been encouraged.
Some revelations have been an unalloyed success from the get-go. Consistent with his view that he was restoring, not reforming, Christianity, Joseph Smith, the founder of Mormonism, championed what he took to be the documented Biblical practice of baptism in death and reconfigured it as proxy, or vicarious, baptism. Why should someone be denied Heaven for all eternity, his argument went, because he or she was not so fortunate as to be baptized in life? In 1840, addressing the funeral of an unbaptized Mormon convert, Smith spoke of the desirability of baptizing the departed through a proxy. He also assured a woman in the crowd that her recently deceased unbaptized son could indeed receive the sacrament, clearing the way for parent and child to enjoy the eternal hereafter “sealed” together.
In an era when life expectancy was much less than today, the Mormon “ordinances” of proxy baptism of the dead and “sealing” family relationships in eternity seemed a literal godsend to the bereaved and became powerful tools in attracting converts to the faith. Mormonism promised an irrepressibly upbeat American take on religion at a time when the country was ascending to world leadership in so many other fields. Soon the dead were being baptized by the boatload, and the process continues to this day with earnest Mormon teens often serving as the proxies.
Yet, for the ordinances to work as intended, it was essential to unambiguously identify who had to be baptized and who should be sealed to whom. The priesthood needed names, family relationships, dates. And it couldn’t afford mistakes. Who wants to spend eternity “sealed” to the wrong set of relatives because of slapdash work at the temple? In short, Mormons required accurate family trees, the production of which would in turn depend on the ready availability of records that had hitherto been accessible to only the most persistent and well-travelled researchers. Hence LDS Church president Wilford Woodruff — who had outlawed polygamy four years earlier — made two important proclamations in 1894. First, he announced a revelation obliging Mormons to perform temple ordinances on their ancestors. Then, he inaugurated the Genealogical Society of Utah, thereby kick-starting Mormonism’s unstinting efforts to acquire copies of the entire world’s genealogically relevant documents.
What many did not recognize was that proxy baptism wasn’t confined to Mormon relatives and ancestors. Woodruff envisioned that ordinances could also be performed on documented non-Mormons and that they would have the option to accept or reject the offer from beyond the grave. Death would no longer be a barrier to Mormon evangelism.
So there was no free lunch — or, at least, no free genealogy — for non-Mormons. As the contents of LDS databases have become more transparent in the Internet era, the extent and inappropriateness of the proxy baptism program have become clear:
• Catholics were outraged to find that all the popes had been baptized in death; accordingly, since 2008, the Vatican has forbidden local dioceses to share their records with the LDS Church.
• Jews were similarly appalled to learn that hundreds of thousands of Holocaust victims had been given the treatment — Anne Frank no fewer than nine times, in what we might think of as spam for the spirit world.
• During the last U.S. presidential election, Mitt Romney, a devout Mormon, was heavily criticized in some quarters for never fully disclosing his precise role in the proxy baptism of his atheist fatherin- law.
In response to the worst excesses, the LDS Church brass has apologized repeatedly, removed inappropriate names from their databases of ordinances, and issued increasingly firm policies limiting proxy baptisms to the families and ancestors of LDS members. That’s the easy part. Policing the activities of fifteen million Mormons is proving a challenge, and new transgressions keep being discovered, often outside the U.S., that deplete what little goodwill still remains between the LDS Church and offended parties.
Many find it hard to square this behaviour with their perception of the almost universal likeability of Mormons, so memorably portrayed in the multi-Tony Award-winning Broadway hit The Book of Mormon. Some ascribe this legendary niceness to the success of strong families in instilling positive traits in their children. Others more cynically say Mormon missionary training deliberately fosters an optimistic, trustworthy demeanour as an aid to evangelism. In fact the two explanations are complementary, not contradictory.
Perhaps more than any other aspect of Mormonism, the pursuit of genealogy captures the uneasy relationship between the LDS Church and the outside world. Church ordinances, conceived with the profoundly touching goal of unifying families in death, have resulted, a century and a half later, in the enrichment of humanity through the creation of what is arguably the world’s most extensive archive dedicated to a single topic, the Family History Library. Yet at the same time these practices have led the LDS Church into fundamental conflict with two of the world’s most influential faiths while giving the impression in some quarters that it hasn’t tried nearly hard enough to discipline its rogue elements.
Genealogists have a vested interest in seeing these conflicts resolved. Around the world each year, too many irreplaceable documents are destroyed by fire, flood, mould, or human stupidity. Those who forbid the LDS Church from filming their records rarely put in place a digitization program of comparable ambition, so losses are permanent, a tragedy for all. Unfortunately, the interests of genealogists — and the future of a pile of crumbling documents — seem to count for little in the high-stakes world of priestly realpolitik, or in the holier-than-thou hideaways of Mormon renegades.
Maybe prayer is the answer.
Paul Jones, a former publisher, is a writer, a consultant, and an avid genealogical researcher and volunteer.
By Deborah Morrison
A rare gathering of Canadian archivists was held in January 2014 at the Munk School of Global Affairs at the University of Toronto. An estimated seventy people were gathered onsite, but surprisingly, another four hundred joined n through thirty regional sites linked via the Internet. Anyone who worried that the conference — organized by former Librarian and Archivist of Canada Ian Wilson — would be a dry conversation was instead pleasantly surpised.
Many readers will be aware of the challenges facing the archival community (or the “information industry,” as it now calls itself) due to cutbacks at Library and Archives Canada, the closing of interlibrary loan services, and increasing demands to provide more access through digitization, to name but a few challenges. Although these problems are real, the archivists had not gathered to dwell on them. Rather, the presentations and discussions were focused on the future of their profession and how best to serve the needs of Canadians in this rapidly changing technological universe.
It was generally agreed that the greater priority was not digitizing the records we already have but, rather, developing a strategy for collecting and storing the massive amount of new records being created today.
Ontario Information and Privacy Commissioner Ann Cavoukian was one of seventeen “agents provocateurs” who delivered short presentations on the issues a new national archival strategy needs to address. She spoke about the challenges of securing records related to key decisions of government — as evidenced by the highly publicized case of the Ontario premier’s office destroying all emails pertinent to gas plant closures at Oakville and Mississauga. It brought into stark relief the need to have enforceable policies and procedures in place if we are to have any documented record of public decision-making for tomorrow’s historians to analyze.
But the greatest threat to our historical record isn’t coming from these types of allegedly deliberate efforts to erase the past. Rather, it is coming from a complete values shift for those who have grown up in a world where information is “born digital,” as opposed to the rest of us who still try to apply the principles of paper and file folders to the digital age. The University of British Columbia’s Luciana Duranti and Corinne Rogers define the tipping point as occurring with anyone born after 1981. According to them, this generation “considers communication more important than memory, and the material it generates is supposed to have an immediate impact and be consumed instantaneously. Thus, there is no expectation of preservation, only a desire to generate output throughout each and every event….” Most of today’s records are ephemeral, and the longer it takes to create new processes for collecting and permanently storing them the greater the amount that will be lost forever.
Finding a solution means rethinking a lot of the things we have come to trust about archival records. Issues of provenance, authorship, copyright, and privacy must be redefined for a world where documents are routinely shared and edited. A generation of leaders — both in business and in the not-for-profit sector — need to invest in training and record-keeping systems to ensure that electronic documents endure. Everyday Canadians need to be aware of the importance of maintaining their own collections of photographs, blogs, and emails so that future generations can benefit from what these say about the lives we’ve lived. These efforts need to be coordinated nationally so that, in a world of diminishing resources, this is done as quickly and efficiently as possible. And finally — if government cannot be persuaded to support this effort — trustworthy private-sector partners need to be found to help.
Over the past year or so, the archival community has been unfairly stigmatized, largely because of what’s been happening at Library and Archives Canada. Coming together, so that archivists can see beyond those issues and restore confidence in their own capacities, was an important first step. Far from being passive observers of the modern age, archivists in Canada have demonstrated an impressive breadth of foresight and ingenuity. However, the community will need support to develop its strategies and solutions, and archivists need to know that Canadians value and understand the importance of this enterprise. Anyone looking to follow the discussion should visit Archivists.Ca.
Deborah Morrison is the President and CEO of Canada’s History.
Canada commemorates 12-year mission in Afghanistan
The National Day of Honour for Canada's mission in Afghanistan on May 9, 2014, is a one-time only event. But for the famlies of the 158 military personnel who died on the mission, the memory of the conflict will endure long past the official commemoration. Some have questioned whether the sacrifices were worthwhile. Others insist the mission helped bring about positive changes to the regioin.
The April-May 2012 issue of Canada's History magazine featured an article that looks at the positive and negative impacts of Canada's involvement in Afghanistan from a historical point of view. The article is by Matthew Fisher, Canada's longest serving news correspondent in that country.
Read Fisher's article
See photos of the National Day of Honour
A treasure trove of historic photos has been donated to the University of British Columbia.
By Steve Ducharme
A unique collection of rare photos from British Columbia’s past has recently been donated to University of British Columbia Library. They are images from a bygone era, a time when prospectors and fortune hunters scraped out a living amidst the forests and valleys of the Pacific coast. Many of these photos are the only remaining images of communities and people who have long since disappeared.
Uno Langmann, a Vancouver art dealer, had been collecting the photos since he first arrived in BC from Denmark in 1955. Langmann donated the $1.2-million dollar collection to the library in the hope it will be viewed and appreciated by a wider audience.
“They had to get a home, and I felt that the best place would be UBC,” said Langmann. “I wanted to get it out to the people, they are going to be digitized and they will be everywhere.”

Work has already begun to process the collection —18,000 photos spanning from the 1850s until the 1970s. UBC plans to digitally scan each photo and offer the collection online for free. University librarian Ingrid Parent eagerly anticipated working with the photos. “We knew he had this collection he was building,” said Parent. “We were hoping, at some point, that he would decide to donate it.”
Some 600 photos have been uploaded so far, and the library has already received requests by scholars and students to work with the collection. The library hopes to hold physical exhibitions outside the campus if it can obtain funding for a tour. “In this collection there are photographs that people didn't even know existed, it’s going to really improve how we see our history and interpret it,” said Parent.
For Langmann, the photos put faces on the past of his adopted province — they captured the hardships of early pioneers who survived in British Columbia. “The Prairies and up to the Rockies was very well kept, and you had connections to the East,” said Langmann, referring to nineteenth century overland transportation systems. “But once they got to the Rockies it really stopped. British Columbia was more or less left on its own until the Royal Engineers came — how far they were from civilization is just incredible.”
The photos will be available for viewing on the UBC Library website in the summer of 2014. The university hopes to have the entire collection up within the year.

by Joanna Dawson
On the first days of April, 1914, crowds of people gathered around the telegraph office in St. John’s Newfoundland. Word was coming through about the greatest marine disaster in the nation’s history. Mothers, wives and children were anxious to find out if their loved ones would be among the few lucky survivors or among the unfortunate souls who perished at the hand of the frigid North Atlantic.
What’s now known as the 1914 Sealing Disaster refers to two separate, simultaneous tragedies on the sea in the spring of 1914. The SS Southern Cross and SS Newfoundland suffered a combined loss of 251 men, leaving hardly any person or community unaffected by the events.
The Southern Cross was returning from a successful hunt and was on track to be the first ship to return to port that year. She was spotted as she sailed by Cape Ray on the south west coast of the island and again by the SS Portia near St. Mary’s Bay. All reported that the Southern Cross was sailing with all flags flying — a sign that she had a full cargo and was returning home.
But the men on the Southern Cross never had a chance to boast about their successful hunt. The ship inexplicably sank, taking all 174 men to their watery graves. Without any surviving witnesses, wireless communication, or ship logs, little is known about the Southern Cross. The official verdict was that the ship sank in the blizzard of March 31, but theories that the ship’s heavy cargo contributed to the accident were prevalent.
At the same time, a horrific, sad, and preventable tragedy was unfolding for the men of the SS Newfoundland. The Newfoundland was one of the smaller ships in the 1914 fleet – without a strong icebreaker it was immediately at a disadvantage. However, the ship’s captain, young Captain Westbury Kean came from good lineage – his father was the famed mariner Captain Abram Kean of the SS Stephano. Although the father and son were working for competing companies, they had arranged a discrete signalling system so that one could notify the other when he came across a group of seals.
And so when Captain Abram raised his derrick on March 30th, only his son knew that he had found a good patch of seals. Unable to cut through the thick ice, the captain of the Newfoundland ordered his men to make their way to the Stephano by foot.
The men followed orders and set out around 7:00am. Sensing foul weather on the horizon, a few of the men headed back to their ship a few hours into the journey. The rest of the group forged ahead through some of the toughest ice they had ever seen. It was over four hours later when they finally boarded the Stephano. After a quick cup of tea and some hard tack, Captain Abram Kean ordered the men back onto the ice for a killing.
Captain Abram sailed the ship to where he thought he saw a patch a seals closer to the Newfoundland – however, he misjudged the direction and ended up leaving the sealers off course and further away from their own ship than they thought. The men walked for some time looking for seals, but soon abandoned the hunt and tried to return to their ship.
But the men were exhausted and disoriented, and the harsh weather prevented them from finding the Newfoundland. Sadly, the Newfoundland had no wireless machine — the ship’s owners had removed it the previous week because it seemed an unnecessary expense. With no means of communication, both captains presumed that the men were safe aboard the other’s ship . Neither sent out a search or even sounded the ship’s whistle through the night. One hundred and thirty two sealers were stranded on the ice for two nights. By the time the men were rescued, 77 had perished from the cold.
An inquiry into the disaster was held in 1915. Although nobody was held legally responsible, the captains of the Newfoundland and Stephano, as well as George Tuff — the officer in charge of the sealers on the ice — were all found guilty of errors in judgement. The commission recommended that all ships must carry wireless sets, barometers, and thermometers. In response to the tragedy of the Southern Cross, legislation was passed to prohibit vessels from carrying more than 35,000 pelts. Family members could take some comfort knowing that conditions would be better and safer for future sealers.
One of the Master Watches of the Newfoundland, Thomas Dawson, was my grandfather’s cousin. “Skipper Tom,” as he was called led the sealers on the ice for much of the time, breaking the path through the hard snow for the others. When he lay down to sleep on the second night, the other men assumed that would be the end of Skipper Tom. But one of the sealers stacked the bodies of the perished men around Tom while he slept and he miraculously survived the night. He suffered badly from frostbite and was unable to stand or walk by the time the men were discovered. His legs were amputated and he relied on prosthetics for the rest of his life.
On the 100th anniversary of the 1914 sealing disaster approaches, many Newfoundlanders reflected on the lives lost and lessons learned. The Elliston Heritage Foundation launched a campaign to create an interpretive centre to commemorate all the sealers about the Newfoundland and Southern Cross. A memorial statue, created by Morgan MacDonald, depicts the true story of a father and son who were found frozen in an embrace. It’s a haunting image, but one we must remember to honour all those affected by this tragic event.
Website:
Heritage Newfoundland & Labrador
Article:
Books:
Death on the Ice, by Cassie Brown
Perished: The 1914 Newfoundland Seal Hunt Disaster, by Jennifer Higgins
Left to Die: The Story of the SS Newfoundland Sealing Disaster, by Gary Collins
Death On Two Fronts, by Sean Cadigan
Videos:
Caught Out In A Storm, Land and Sea (original air date May, 2009)
54 Hours (National Film Board)
An Ursuline nun and the first bishop of Quebec have been declared Canada’s newest saints.
They are Marie de l'Incarnation, a French Ursuline who led a group of nuns to Quebec in 1639, and Francois de Laval, who arrived in Quebec in 1659 and became the colony’s first bishop. A third saint in the Americas, Jose de Anchieta, a Spanish-born Jesuit who traveled to Brazil in 1553, was also canonized on April 2, 2014.
For more about Bishop Laval, see this story from the February-March 2008 issue of The Beaver (now Canada's History magazine).
Marie de l'Incarnation established the Ursuline Order in New France and founded North America’s first school for girls. The boarding school taught the daughters of Aboriginals as well as French colonists.
Marie mastered local Aboriginal languages and composed dictionaries in Algonquin and Iroquois. She also left behind detailed accounts of events taking place in the colony. Her writing remains an important source for the history of the French colony from 1639 to her death in 1672.
Among the events she witnessed was a massive earthquake on February 5, 1663. It struck with such ferocity that many people believed it was the end of the world.
In a letter, Marie wrote: The weather was very calm and serene … when a sound of terrifying rumbling was heard in the distance, as if a great many carriages were speeding wildly over the cobblestones.This noise had scarcely caught the attention then there was heard under the earth and on the earth and from all sides what seemed a horrifying confusion of waves and billows. There was a sound like hail on the roofs, in the granaries and in the rooms. Thick dust flew from all sides. Doors opened of themselves. Others, which were open, closed. The bells of all our churches and the chimes of our clocks pealed quite alone, and steeples and houses shook like tresses in the wind — all this in a horrible confusion of overturning furniture, falling stones, parting floors, and splitting walls. Amidst all this the domestic animals were heard howling. Some ran out of their houses; others ran in. In a word, we were all so frightened we believed it was the even of Judgment, since all the portents were to be seen.
No greater safety was to be found without than within, for we at once realized by the movement of the earth — which trembled under our feet like agitated waves under a shallop — that it was an earthquake. Some hugged the trees, which clashed together, causing them no less horror than the houses they had left; others clung to stumps, the movements of which struck them roughly in the chest. …. Amidst all these terrors we did not know where the whole thing would end.
The Blinding Sea, a 52-minute high-definition film, explores the life and loves of Roald Amundsen (1872-1928), the most successful polar explorer of all time.
In the film produced by George Tombs and Evidentia Films Inc., the Norwegian explorer is portrayed not as a lone white hero of legend, but as a person who shared with the Inuit and Iñupiat of Arctic Canada and Alaska and the Chukchi of Siberia.
From the indigenous people, Amundsen gained vital knowledge that enabled him to navigate the Northwest Passage, conquer the South Pole, navigate the Northeast Passage, and be first confirmed to have reached the North Pole.
The film was shot entirely on location in Antarctica, the High Arctic between Alaska and Nunavut, and Mexico and Norway.
George Tombs wrote a story about Amundsen entitled “Amundsen’s Family Secrets” for the October-November 2011 issue of Canada’s History magazine.
For more information or to purchase a DVD of the film, go to the Evidentia Films website.
by Steve Ducharme
The Mystery of the Bell traces the history of the “Bell of Batoche,” an item stolen by Ontario soldiers in the 1885 North-west Rebellion. First Nations people cherish the bell and until last year its whereabouts were completely unknown.
In the program, Mark Starowicz, Executive Director of Documentary Programming at the CBC, and producer Wayne Chong, explore the timeline of events leading to the bell’s repatriation last summer in Batoche, Saskatchewan.
Canada's History caught up with Starowicz who is a twenty-five-year industry veteran and has received numerous accolades for his work on Canadian television. He is also the Creator and Executive Producer of Canada: A People’s History.
“We want to tell the remarkable story of this bell, and what its roots are,” said Starowicz. “We trace how it was stolen, who had it and the various identities it has assumed, the political battle for it, right up to the current day.”
The bell was taken as a war prize during the Battle of Batoche — one of the final conflicts in the North-west Rebellion. The battle forced the surrender of Louis Riel, and he was executed later that year. The relic eventually turned up in Millbrook, Ontario in the 1930s hanging in a fire hall. After numerous diplomatic attempts by the Metis community, the bell was stolen in 1991 — not to be seen in public again until 2013 at a parade in Batoche, Saskatchewan.
What happened in the interim is the subject of much debate and controversy.
“It's a terrific detective story, a journey through Canadian history,” said Starowicz.
“It’s a Canadian Da Vinci code.”
The Mystery of the Bell can be seen on CBC’s DocZone.
Steve Ducharme / Updated by Jessica Knapp
The goal is to move the 13,000 pieces currently in the WAG vaults and create a dedicated exhibition space for the collection, which is the largest of its kind in the world.
WAG director Stephen Borys has advised "The goal is to open for Canada’s 150th anniversary of Confederation in 2017.”
The Inuit Art Centre will be the largest space devoted to an indigenous group in North America. For Borys, the benefit to visitors will be immediate. “It will allow us to expand our display many times fold,” said Borys. “There will be a huge visible vault where you will see thousands of works at any given time.” The centre will be built adjacent to the existing art gallery.
The new centre will also allow the gallery to expand its educational services. Room for new studio and school programs will be included. The advantage of integrating classrooms into the new centre will be to give visiting children firsthand experience with the internationally distinguished collection. “The first object schoolchildren see when coming to the WAG will be an Inuit object,” said Borys.
Angeliki Bogiatiji, a volunteer at the WAG who is a specialist in Inuit art, sees the transition to a fully dedicated building as the next step in understanding the evolving art form. “There are challenges to managing a collection this size,” said Bogiatiji. “We exhibit very little right now, but that will be addressed with the new centre.”
A past Inuit exhibition at the WAG, From Our Land, was a small cross-section of works collected by the gallery. Limited floor space was available to showcase this collection in the main building, and that restriction requires smaller exhibits to be rotated over the year to maximize content.
While the WAG has always enjoyed a strong relationship with the Arctic, Borys hopes the centre will bring that relationship to a new level. “While we’ve worked with the Inuit for decades, we’re thinking of new ways to teach, and to correspond,” said Borys. “It’s not just about the WAG and the North, it’s about the North coming to the WAG.”
The contract for designing the new building was won in 2012 by Michael Maltzan, an award-wining American architect. Maltzan’s design was one of sixty-five submissions, with teams representing fifteen different countries.
The WAG’s collection of Inuit art dates back to the early 1950s, when the Hudson’s Bay Company brought the first pieces south to Winnipeg from Arctic trading posts. Since that time, a strong community has grown around the development of the art, which now not only includes sculptures, but prints, tapestries and visual media. The works have also been the focus of academic scholarship and have contributed to the understanding of Inuit culture.
Update
TD Bank announced a $500,000 donation Thursday March 26, 2015 to help fund an artist-in-residence and a printmaking studio. TD Bank has been collecting Inuit art for almost 50 years and believes it has one of the largest corporate holdings of its kind.
The June-July issue of Canada's History includes "Upstart Empire" by Mark Collin Reid, Editor in Chief, explaining how the Hudson's Bay Company defied the odds to become North America's oldest company. You can read an excerpt of his article below.
The HBC is usually associated with chilly northern outposts on the Bay. But there was one glaring tropical exception — twenty-five years spent in Hawaii. To learn more about that chapter of HBC history, click here.
Upstart Empire
Image, right: Indians with Pierre Esprit Radisson and Médard Chouart, Sieur des Groseilliers, Charles Fort, 1671, by George Lorne Holland Bouchard, circa 1968. Courtesy of the HBC Corporate Collection.
The investors were worried. It had been more than a year since two would-be French fur barons had sailed west on a speculative mission to launch a new, and hopefully lucrative, fur trade business in the New World. The men were Pierre-Esprit Radisson and his brother-in-law, Médart Chouart, Sieur des Groseilliers. In 1666, the duo had arrived in London overflowing with vision, but sadly lacking in funding. Gathering before an assembly of London businessmen and nobility — an influential clique that included Prince Rupert of the Rhine, a favoured cousin of King Charles II — they made their pitch. Their scheme was to sail directly into the heart of the new-found continent via the mysterious “Inland Sea” discovered by Henry Hudson in 1610.
Hudson Bay offered access to an untapped fortune of the finest furs in the New World. Even better, the Bay route circumvented rival French merchants who dominated the main fur trade route along the St. Lawrence River to Montreal. Control the Bay, and you control the fur trade.
“A more daring pair of international promoters cannot be found in the history of commerce,” Douglas Mackay would later write in his 1936 book, The Honourable Company: A History of the Hudson’s Bay Company — described by a contemporary reviewer as “a daring and heroic tale of the birth and growth of the Hudson’s Bay Company, overflowing with zeal, bloodshed and romance.”
“Glib, plausible, ambitious, supported by unquestionable physical courage, they were completely equipped fortune hunters,” Mackay wrote. “They knew more about fur trading than any men of their time.”
To read more of this story, subscribe to Canada’s History now.
Hawaii's HBC History
When Canadians think about the Hudson's Bay Company's long history, they usually think of beavers, cold northern outposts, fur brigades, and a vast resource of archives. Few think of palm trees and hula dancers. As unlikely as it seems, Hawaii was the site of an HBC post from 1834 to 1859. And it proved rather popular too. The Honolulu store offered fixed prices and liberal credit terms. West coast salmon was particularly sought after. The story of HBC's post in Honolulu is carried in the September 1941 issue of The Beaver. You can read the story below.
Beaver In Hawaii
By William P. St. Clair, Jr.
It was over a hundred years ago that the Sandwich Island agency of the Hudson’s Bay Company was established in Honolulu. George Pelly, a close relative of Governor Sir John Pelly, came from London in 1834, and after carefully looking over the islands in the interests of the Company, decided that an office should do well there. Previous to Pelly’s arrival from England the interests of the firm had been handled by Richard Charlton, the British consul at that time.
After the establishment of the agency a shipload of goods was brought in annually from England for sale in the islands. The Company vessels would often stop at Fort Vancouver on the Columbia River, on the way out from England, and pick up lumber from Dr. McLoughlin’s pioneer sawmill and barrels of salt salmon. This salt salmon soon became popular with the Hawaiians. They would slice it up into small bits, and with the addition of tomatoes, green onions, water and ice would serve up a tasty dish called lomi lomi salmon. On the outgoing voyage from the islands the vessels carried Hawaiian salt, molasses, sugar and coffee.
In 1836, the Sandwich Island Gazette, first English language newspaper published in the islands, made its appearance. The issue of August 5, 1837, carried an advertisement for the Hudson’s Bay Company agency, reproduced herewith, announcing that the brig Lama has arrived from the Columbia, bringing 30,000 feet of inch boards, seventy 18-foot beams 12x4 inches, and 500 rafters. This advertisement was changed March 31, 1838, to note further lumber supplies, as well as salmon, butter, flour, etc., by the Company’s barque Nereide, followed by one in December of like supplies by the Columbia, and again in February, 1839, by the Nereide.
Whenever such shipments arrived in the islands, the Hawaiians made light work of removing the cargoes from the vessels o the warehouses of the Company. Pelly became impressed with the physical power of these natives. He knew, moreover, that back in 1829 six fearless Hawaiians had helped to save Fort Umpqua during an attack by the Indians. And in 1840 we find him making arrangements with Governor Kekuanaoa of Oahu to permit the Company to take sixty Sandwich Islanders to the Columbia River post for a period of three years. At the end of this time the Hawaiians were to be returned. The penalty for non-return would be $20.00 each, except in the case of death.
The Company ships plying to Honolulu sometimes carried notable passengers too. Rev. Herbert Beaver arrived there in 1836 from London on his way to Fort Vancouver. Alexander Simpson, brother of Thomas, came in 1841. His famous cousin, Sir George, arrived the following year on his journey round the world, bringing with him on the Cowlitz Dr. McLoughlin, John Rowand of Fort Edmonton, and his own secretary, Edward Hopkins. These three returned to the Columbia on the Vancouver, wile Simpson on the Cowlitz headed for Sitka, accompanied by Charlton and Pelly. As they left the harbor they were saluted by the guns of the Fort.
By that time, George T. Allan, whom Simpson in his book refers to as “an officer in our regular service,” had joined Pelly in Honolulu. Under this partnership the Hudson’s Bay Company in Hawaii waxed and grew mightily, becoming a financial and commercial power in the islands.
For one thing the Company always maintained a one-price store. The rate was the same whether one bought singly or in dozen lots. The good quality of the merchandise was a known fact. Most important, perhaps, was the liberal credit plan of the Company. Selling on the “easy pay plan” had already proven of some merit even then, and was one of the factors which helped to make the Company’s store one of the leading mercantile houses in Hawaii.
The agency was also financially sound, as good-sized loans were at various intervals made to envoys of the Hawaiian government in England and on the continent when they were in need. These little courtesies on the part of the Company helped to strengthen and added to the good will of the Hudson’s Bay Company in Hawaii.
Following the formation of a constitutional form of government in Hawaii, the first tariff act was approved May 11, 1842, and took effect the following year on January 1. The first vessel to make customs entry and to pay the ad valorem duty at three percent was the Hudson’s Bay barque Vancouver from the Columbia River, January 6, 1843.
The vessel’s cargo consisted of 695 barrels of Columbia River salmon valued at $4,170, a tidy sum in those days, and 160 twelve-foot four-inch planks valued at $307.20. On this amount $134.32 in duty was collected.
Through the Company’s friendly dealings, and the words of praise from Company officials for the people of the Hawaiian kingdom, Great Britain took a fatherly interest in the people of Hawaii. Even in those times, England played the role of protector and not that of the aggressor or dictator.
When in 1843 it became known that the French had designs on the Hawaiian Islands after they had taken o9ver Tahiti and made a colony of it, Lord George Paulet, commanding Her Majesty’s frigate Carysfort, was dispatched from the coast of Mexico to the Hawaiian Islands to see that no outside nation should interfere and try to subdue the peace loving natives. At that time, the Hawaiian people did not know that this was England’s motive for keeping her warship in Hawaiian waters for five months until danger from invasion by the French had passed.
This laudable act of Great Britain was brought to light through the efforts of the Hawaiian Historical Commission in 1925. When this commission was given access to the British Archives, diligent research was made of this act of the British, and the above motive of protection for the Hawaiian people was confirmed.
The same commission, however, was forbidden to do any research in the French archives.
The Company’s first store at the corner of King and Nuuanu Streets was a bit up-town in those days. In 1846, preparations were made for moving it nearer the waterfront—a logical choice for a company in the importing business. By the end of the year they had moved into a two-story building at the corner of Fort and Queen Streets. Here business was carried on as briskly as ever. This last location remained the Company’s place of business for the years which followed.
Pelly, the original agent for the Company in Hawaii, even though he became a landowner with a residence in town and a country home in cool Nuuanu Valley, never forgot his dear old England. Perhaps, feeling that he had established the Company in Hawaii and that his work was over, he sailed for his homeland after disposing of his property.
Other representatives who came and took charge of the Company’s affairs were: Dugald MacTavish, David McLoughlin, Robert Clouston, and James Bissett.
James Bissett arrived in Hawaii, January 28, 1859. The former agent, Robert Clouston, had left Honolulu by barque Fanny Major in August, 1858, for San Francisco, for a rest and change. After a brief illness of just four day’s duration on the homeward voyage, he died, and was buried at sea.
There was a lapse of four months before Bissett arrived to take charge of the Company’s affairs in the islands. Under his guidance the Company continued to carry on its business as in the past, but on November 26, 1859, the people of Honolulu were amazed to read a notice in the Polynesian, announcing the Hudson’s Bay Company’s withdrawal from the Hawaiian Islands. James Bissett’s name as agent appeared at the bottom of the notice.
All the holdings of the Company were advertised at reduced prices for quick sale, but even then it took some months finally to wind up its affairs.
Mr. Bissett, his wife and child, left the Hawaiian Islands for Victoria on the barquentine Jenny Ford, August 25, 1860.
The reason for the Company’s withdrawal from the Hawaiian Islands may be better explained by quoting the Polynesian, which paid the Company the following tribute:
“As a mercantile house, in all that constitutes the credit and glory of a merchant, the Hudson’s Bay Company’s agency in Honolulu stood in the foremost rank. It was for years a sort of commercial moderator, a mercantile balance wheel when fluctuations seized on others. Their withdrawal from Honolulu was understood to be owing to the fact that the discovery of gold mines on Fraser River and consequent settlement gave new employment for the capital of the Company near home.”
The Hudson’s Bay Company may have left the islands in 1859, but the memory of the Company did not pass like a ripple on the water or a breeze in the air. Today, in 1941, on top of Fred. L. Waldron’s building at the corner of Fort and Queens Streets, the site of the last Hudson’s Bay Company’s store in Honolulu, a weathervane turns listlessly in the tropical winds. And the silhouette it presents against the sky is that of a beaver. On warm days, when the wind is from the south, people riding or walking along Honolulu’s busy waterfront look up at the beaver and study it, as George Pelly must often have done, for some indication of a return to the cool trade winds from the northwest.
Nor is the weathervane the only reminder of the Company. Under the roof below the beaver, jst a few doors up Fort Street, is the Merchant’s Grill. And in a prominent place toward the rear of the restaurant, visible from all parts of the room, is another beaver.
This one has been carved from wood and is of an Ethiopian hue. At the Grill, prominent business leaders and captains of island industry gather for their noonday meal. An inquisitive tourist saunters in looking for lomi lomi salmon.
“Yes, we have iced lomi lomi salmon,” the tourist is informed by the genial head waiter.
“I’ll try some. I’ve heard much about it.”
“You’ll enjoy it, madame.”
“Waiter, is this a truly Hawaiian dish?”
With a twinkle in his eye, the waiter will nod in the direction of the beaver. “Yes, madame; you see, salt salmon — it came over with that beaver.”
Originally published in The Beaver, September 1941
Lundy’s Lane saw one of the deadliest battles ever fought on Canadian soil. Historian Donald Graves wrote about the battle in the June-July 2014 issue of Canada’s History. Here is an excerpt from his article:
Most visitors to Niagara Falls, Ontario, know Lundy’s Lane as a busy urban thoroughfare leading to one of the world’s most famous natural wonders. But, two hundred years ago, it was the scene of one of the bloodiest battles of the War of 1812.
The story of that famous action properly begins in the early hours of July 3, 1814, when a formidable American army crossed the Niagara River at Fort Erie to commence the seventh enemy invasion of Canada since the war had begun. Led by Major General Jacob Brown, a thirty-nine-year-old former Quaker and the most successful of America’s wartime leaders, the army was largely composed of well-trained veterans. The result was that the Niagara campaign of 1814 would be the most hard-fought military operation of the war.
For Brown, the campaign started well. The British garrison of Fort Erie was hopelessly outnumbered and quickly surrendered. Brown then advanced north up the Canadian side of the Niagara River and reached the hamlet of Chippawa. There he was attacked by British regulars under the command of Major General Phineas Riall.
Riall (pronounced “Rye-all”) was a somewhat hot-tempered forty-nine-year-old Irishman who held a very low opinion of the fighting abilities of American soldiers. His underestimation of the enemy would prove his undoing.
To read the complete article, subscribe to Canada’s History now.
Click here to view a quick video overview of the battle hosted by historian Tim Compeau.
And, don’t miss this PBS feature-length documentary on the War of 1812.
Spy or refugee? How Gerda Munsinger got caught up in Canada’s first national political sex scandal.
Unlike the United States, which has a long history of political sex scandals, Canada has had relatively few instances of its politicians becoming embroiled in embarrassing behavior.
One exception was the Munsinger affair. Gerda Munsinger was an East German woman living in Canada in the 1960s who became intimately involved with two cabinet ministers. The fact that she was suspected of being a spy made the situation front-page news.
Historian Allan Levine wrote about the Munsinger affair in the June-July 2014 issue of Canada’s History. Here is an excerpt from his story:
Lucien Cardin, the Liberal minister of justice, was in a foul mood on March 4, 1966. Like most members of Prime Minister Lester B. Pearson’s Liberal Cabinet that spring, Cardin was feeling the pressure of being in a minority government rocked by scandal. For weeks, the Opposition had been accusing him of trampling on the civil rights of a Vancouver postal clerk who was suspected of spying.
Finally, following yet another tongue-lashing by John Diefenbaker, Cardin snapped back that the Conservative leader should not be lecturing anyone about dealing with security issues —“and I’m not kidding,” he added.
“I want that on the record,” retorted Diefenbaker. “I understand the right honourable gentleman said he wants that on the record. Would he want me to go on and give more?” asked Cardin. Some of the members shouted their approval. “Very well,” Cardin continued. “I want the right honourable gentleman to tell this house about his participation in the Monseignor case when he was prime minister of the country.”
Reporters in the press gallery immediately perked up. They wondered: Who or what was “Monseignor”? And so began the unveiling of one of the most notorious political sex scandals in Canada’s history.
To read the rest of this story, subscribe to Canada’s History magazine now.
Click here to see an hour-long CBC documentary made as the scandal was unfolding in 1966.
And finally, listen to this ballad by the Brothers-in-Law, called OH OH Canada, from their Expose 67 album.
Writer Lyndsie Bourgon wrote about the dying tradition of military bugling in the June-July 2014 issue of Canada’s History magazine. Here is an excerpt from her article:
Buglers were often boys as young as twelve. Douglas Williams of the Queen’s Own Rifles was a young teenager — and just five feet tall — when he blew the bugle to sound the charge during the 1900 Battle of Paardeberg, South Africa, during the Boer War. He later recalled: “Four times I did it and the last time we were moving forward so rapidly that I was stumbling as I pumped out the notes.”
Buglers haven’t been used extensively in combat since the Boer War. By the time of the First World War, the call of the bugle could scarcely be heard over heavy artillery bombardments — combat had simply become too loud. But cavalry units — themselves obsolete by this time — still employed buglers to sound orders to charge and retreat. In the heroic charge of the Canadian Cavalry Brigade at Moreuil Wood, France, on March 30, 1918, the bugle call to announce the charge was reportedly silenced by German fire before it was even sounded.
Today, bugle calls have been relegated to ceremonial obligations, especially Remembrance Day ceremonies and funerals. In Afghanistan, bagpipers accompanied Canada’s fallen soldiers as they were lifted out of Kandahar Airfield — but buglers or trumpeters were not always available. The changing of the guard still takes place on Parliament Hill to the accompaniment of bugles, an event with much ceremony and pomp. To many, that is what bugles have become — simply pomp.
The read the complete article and other stories in Canada’s History magazine, subscribe now.
See this video to hear “Last Post” and “Rouse.”
And here is a video of the Andrews Sisters singing “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy” in the 1941 Abbot and Costello film entitled Buck Privates.
By Deborah Morrison
It was in June 1994 when I first met Laird Rankin, then general manager of the newly established Canada’s National History Society, created by Rolph Huband and the Hudson’s Bay Company. There wasn’t a lot of activity in the field of popular history back then. Indeed, the society was the first of its kind . . . well, with the exception of the CRB Foundation where I worked, creators of the now iconic Heritage Minutes and the Heritage Fairs program.
In addition to the society taking over publication of The Beaver, the Hudson Bay Company’s history magazine, Rankin explained that it was exploring options for a new national history-teaching award. I handed him a research file we’d recently completed on the very same thing and encouraged him to pursue it. I had no way of knowing that, eight years later, I would move to Winnipeg and become the person responsible for leading the history society for more than half of its twenty years in operation.
Today, as I reflect on Canada’s History Society, I’m struck by how different the his- tory landscape has become, but also by how some challenges simply endure. From the outset, early board minutes reveal animated discussions about the challenges of building on subscription sales and diversifying reve- nues; of finding the right balance between growing the magazine and finding new ways to bring history to Canadians; and of leading and operating a national cultural organization outside of the “golden tri angle” of Toronto-Ottawa-Montreal. (And yes, the magazine’s name, The Beaver, was also debated then . . . as it had been routinely since the Hudson’s Bay Company first trans- formed it from a company newsletter to a publicly sold magazine in 1930.)
Canada’s History magazine will always be the society’s flagship activity, not just because it provides us with one of the most fun, cre ative, and dynamic ways of telling Canada’s stories but because it is also a reflection of the evolution of Canadian history itself. Magazine circulation has held steady, somewhere around the forty thousand mark, throughout the society’s existence, except for a brief surge past fifty thousand in early 2002. Finding ways to break through that thresh old has bedevilled every publisher, including me, but it should never be the full measure of Canada’s History’s success.
In 1994, popular media was limited to newspapers and magazines, radio, and a handful of English and French Canadian television channels. The Internet was still new to most people. And the typical cellphone was a brick — weighing nearly two pounds!
What’s more, the future audience for history was shrinking. Only two of the provinces and territories required high school students to complete a Canadian history course in order to graduate — an observation that historian Jack Granatstein hammered home in 1997 with his battle cry of a book Who Killed Canadian History?
That book fuelled the establishment in 1997 of the Dominion Institute, whichis remembered for launching a project to record the oral histories of war veterans, as well as the creation in 1999 of Historica, which gave a permanent home for the CRB Foundation’s “Heritage Project” and the Canadian Encyclopedia.
Throughout this bustle of activity, Canada’s History Society continued to expand its programming, in large measure thanks to the strength and support of its own long-standing blue-chip members, who understood the value and untapped potential of the modest Winnipeg-based organization. Under the leadership of volunteer president Joe Martin, the society quietly set to work improving its editorial program, building its internal fundraising capacity, and strengthening its connections to classrooms and community organizations.
Back then, the federal government did not see Canadian history as a priority to the extent that it is seen today. In 2003, The Beaver magazine was declared ineligible for the Canadian Periodical Fund because it didn’t have enough advertising to merit consumer magazine support and wasn’t considered “cultural” enough to qualify as an arts and literary title. However, in typical Canadian fashion, any major expansion of programs was unsellable in the private sector, unless we could demonstrate that the federal government was already invested. And so we began pressing hard for project support, both publicly and privately.
Getting Ottawa’s attention was an even greater challenge for the history society, simply because it was based in Winnipeg. In Ottawa, some officials had difficulty seeing the history society as being truly “national” because of its western location. But we persevered, spending plenty of time in Ottawa and Toronto to make its presence felt and being very focused on our plan to build from core strengths: our capacity to tell Canada’s stories and our connections to the broader history community through our awards and recognition programs.
Over the course of the next few years, Canada’s History developed a number of new initiatives, including the launch of Kayak: Canada’s History Magazine for Kids in 2004; the creation of Fur Trade Stories — an online resource with material from The Beaver, the HBC Archives, and other sources; and the expansion into book publishing, producing For The Love of History to honour the tenth anniversary of the Pierre Berton Award and Those Earlier Hills, reprinting The Beaver’s R.M. Patterson articles chronicling his adventures exploring the Nahanni River.
By 2008, the society had secured multi-year funding from the federal government to expand both its online programming and the Governor General’s History Awards. It confirmed new partnerships with TD Bank Financial Group and Great-West Life, as well as the University of Winnipeg, on whose campus the society is now located. The Beaver magazine was doing well, with a new design, an expanded distribution onto more newsstands, and a growing reputa tion within the media industry. Annual rev enues had doubled with new investments equally from federal and corporate support. And then, in fall 2008, as the stock market crashed, the print publishing industry experienced a sudden paradigm shift to online media. On average, magazine paid subscrip- tions in Canada have declined since then by almost thirty percent, although industry readership surveys report that the total number of readers held steady.
Dealing with such an abrupt change in popular media consumption meant rethinking audiences, as well as platforms. Finding ways to reinforce marketing for our magazines, educational resources, awards programs, travel tours, and advocacy efforts ultimately led to the decision in 2010 to consolidate under a single new name — Canada’s History — that unequivocally spoke to our mission.
Through it all, our founder and partner, Hudson’s Bay Company, has stood firmly behind us. There is no company that has done more to create, preserve, and honour our history, and we hope that we have lived up to the vision it had for the organization when it stood up to announce the society’s creation all those years ago.
Our reach into Canadian families and households is much broader today than in 1994, with a growing circulation of nearly ten thousand English subscribers for Kayak and more than thirty-three thousand for its French edition. CanadasHistory.ca attracts more than one million page views each year, and an overwhelming majority of the site’s visitors have never been print subscrib ers. We support hundreds of thousands of students each year across Canada through the Heritage Fairs program and the different writing and video challenges we offer them annually. The Governor General’s History Awards program has expanded to recognize excellence in eleven different award categories, and has brought together Canada’s five major history and heritage organizations in an annual event to celebrate history and to explore ways to improve upon the work we are collectively doing through the National History Forum.
This year, Canada’s History will continue to expand its programming, travel tours, and educational programs. It will launch a new book, Canada’s Great War Album, this fall, which will feature never-before-seen images and untold stories of the men and women of the Great War generation. And, as this column is being written, development work is beginning on a series of one-minute television commercials that will expand the reach of those stories to broadcast and online as well.
Which brings me full circle to the first history project I ever worked on, signalling that a generational cycle is now completed. It is time for new history to be made, with a new leader to guide the way forward for Canada’s History Society, and so this will be my last contribution to Canada’s History Society as President and CEO.
This has been more than a job to me — it has been a privilege. I take pride in noting that some things have changed for the better over the past twenty years. All but two of the provinces and territories have added more history courses to their curricula; there are more opportunities for teacher training in Canadian history, and more resources are being created and maintained thanks to the now permanent Canada History Fund.
But there are still other challenges ahead. Canada’s History will continue to be an influential voice in driving change, and addressing challenges, in part because of the networks it has built within the history community. But, ultimately, Canada’s History’s greatest strength still comes from you, our readers and members, who never hesitate to set us straight on the real issues and priorities and will always continue to inspire us with your knowledge, passion, and commitment to the past. Thank you for permitting us (and me) to continue to make history.
This article was published in the June-July 2014 issue of Canada’s History magazine.
Canadian War Museum historian and author Andrew Burtch has won the C.P. Stacey Award for his 2012 book Give Me Shelter: The Failure of Canada’s Cold War Civil Defence.
The prize, presented by the Canadian Committee for the History of the Second World War and the Canadian Commission for Military History, recognizes the year’s most distinguished publication on the twentieth-century military experience.
The book casts a harsh light on Canada’s plans to protect the public in the event of a nuclear exchange between the United States and the Soviet Union between 1945 and 1963.
Burtch wrote an article based on his book for Canada’s History magazine. It appeared in the December 2012-January 2013 issue of Canada’s History.
Burtch, the museum’s historian for the post-1945 period, drew on previously unreleased documents detailing the nuclear survival strategy developed by Civil Defence Canada and the Emergency Measures Organization. The plan, which met with widespread skepticism and mockery, relied on citizens to prepare for the looming threat of nuclear annihilation by volunteering as air-raid wardens and by building their own fallout shelters. The civil defence program struggled with chronic underfunding and bureaucratic mismanagement before being abandoned in the mid-1960s.
You can buy the book online at Chapters-Indigo.
You can read the article here:
Canadian Army Video Reel
Canadians celebrate Allied defeat of Hitler and his Nazis; wild rejoicing from coast-to-coast was caught on film.
Frank Rowan: A WWII "death march" survivor
For soldiers, VE Day couldn't come soon enough. Flying Officer Frank Rowan survived his 35th parachute landing into enemy territory only to be rounded up as prisoner of war. German surrender was only a few weeks away, but these were still the days of the army's "death marches" driving POWs eastward.
Rowan shared his harrowing experiences with Canada's History in the October-November 2010 issue "Shell Shock". You can read his ordeal below.
Untitled Document
June 6 marks the anniversary of the D-Day landings in Normandy that led to the liberation of Europe during the Second World War.
In order to clear the way for the invasion, the Allies launched increasing numbers of bombing raids to soften resistance. It was dangerous work and allied aircrews were often shot down, either dying of their injuries or taken prisoner. But some escaped.
It was the job of an elite group of French-Canadians working behind the lines in France to safely usher the flyers back to Britain.
Behind Enemy Lines
Fighting a rising sense of dread, Lucien Dumais slowed his bicycle. Standing in the bombedout roadway ahead, with a rifle slung over his shoulder, was a German Army sergeant, signalling him to halt. It was late fall 1943. Dumais and his travelling companion, Raymond LaBrosse, had just left the French city of Rennes and were on their way to the Britanny coast to complete a dangerous task. This holdup could easily end their mission, endangering the lives of many people, including themselves.
Dumais thought fast as LaBrosse wheeled up beside him.
“We’ve had it if he finds the radio,” the short, stocky Dumais whispered to LaBrosse. “You keep going and I’ll see what he wants.”
LaBrosse, taller, huskier, and almost two decades younger than his partner, continued on his way while Dumais came to a stop in front of the German, talking fast in an effort to divert the sergeant’s attention. Dumais had good reason to be worried. If the German soldier found the wireless radio hidden in a suitcase strapped to LaBrosse’s bicycle, the two cyclists would either be shot immediately or taken to the nearest Gestapo headquarters, where they undoubtedly would be tortured and executed.
What made the situation even more perilous was that Dumais and LaBrosse were not who they said they were — two Frenchmen headed to the small coastal town of Plouha for work. Their identity papers named Dumais as Jean-Francois Guillou, a mortician, and LaBrosse as Marcel Desjardins, a medical equipment salesman.
In reality they were two plainclothed French-Canadian soldiers operating secretly in Nazi-occupied France. The francophones — Dumais was from Montreal, LaBrosse from Ottawa — were spies working under the direct orders of Britain’s espionage agency. Their task was to work with the French Resistance in smuggling downed Allied flyers out of France.
As he pedalled away — leaving Dumais to deal with the German — LaBrosse was torn between a natural instinct to go back and help his partner and a strong sense of duty. But the Canadian spy doggedly pushed on toward the Brittany coast, as ordered, though he was almost certain the effort was pointless.
Their task had been to set up an escape network — code-named Operation Bonaparte — in occupied France. With Dumais, the chef de mission, possibly out of action, the mission seemed doomed to failure. Fortunately, LaBrosse knew the plans by heart.
LaBrosse rode on until dark. He slept that night in an open field and woke up at the crack of dawn, hell-bent on reaching his destination later that day. As he approached Saint-Brieuc, a town near Plouha, he was exhausted, despondent, and thirsty. Seeing an outdoor café ahead, he decided to take a break. He noticed a man sitting at a table with two cognac glasses in front of him. LaBrosse almost fell off his bicycle when he realized who it was — Lucien Dumais! But surely this was impossible.
“What took you so long?” Dumais said with a grin as a shocked and elated LaBrosse sank into the chair opposite him, reached for the proffered glass and downed its contents in one swallow.
“All the German wanted was the bicycle,” Dumais revealed, then went on to explain that he’d then done what any self-respecting Frenchman would do. He’d stormed off to the nearest German army post and insisted that since one of their men had stolen his bicycle, they owed him a ride to the coast. For good measure, he’d hinted he had connections to the universally feared Gestapo.
The German army vehicle that whisked Dumais to Saint-Brieuc apparently had passed right by the field where LaBrosse had collapsed, dog-tired, for the night.
Dumais and LaBrosse were the backbone of Operation Bonaparte, the Brittany segment of a larger Allied escape network called the Shelburn Line. With plans in the works to invade Normandy in June of 1944, increasing numbers of Allied aircraft were flying massive bombing raids against strategic targets in France in order to soften up the enemy. More flights meant more aircraft being shot down, so an escape network for surviving aircrew was needed.
The network was set up by the British spy agency known as M.I.9. Dumais and LaBrosse were selected as agents in charge of Operation Bonaparte because not only were they bilingual, they both had first-hand experience in escaping from France back to England.
LaBrosse first signed up for active duty with the Canadian army in 1940, when he turned eighteen. He was a sergeant in the Royal Canadian Corps of Signals when the British recruited him as their first Canadian spy.
He parachuted into France on February 28, 1943, to be the contact between a French Resistance cell in Paris and the British secret service. He was soon blowing up bridges and rail installations, as well as firing machine guns and other small arms in raids against the Germans.
But the German secret police had infiltrated the Resistance cell. Learning this, M.I.9 ordered LaBrosse to leave France at once to avoid arrest. LaBrosse radioed back that he had become mother hen to twenty-nine downed Allied flyers, most of whom spoke no French. The next M.I.9 message ordered LaBrosse to leave the others behind. He flatly refused and instead guided his flock through enemy territory, crossing over the Pyrenees mountains into Spain, then on to the British-held territory of Gibraltar on the Mediterranean.
Dumais was a thirty-eight-year-old career sergeantmajor with Les Fusiliers Mont-Royal when he and some two thousand other Canadian soldiers were captured in a suicide raid on the port of Dieppe in August 1942. Vowing he’d never be delivered alive to a Nazi prison camp, he escaped from the train heading to Germany. Like LaBrosse, he fled via the Pyrenees.
LaBrosse and Dumais met in England, where they trained together as spies. The young, soft-spoken LaBrosse and the older, tough-as-nails Dumais proved to be an excellent team, although Dumais would admit later that he had his doubts. He thought the easy-going LaBrosse would not be able to stand up to the roughhewn French Resistance fighters they would be dealing with.
But not long after they landed at a makeshift landing strip outside of Paris on November 19, 1943, LaBrosse proved his mettle as Resistance members moved in to help them.
“Everyone started grabbing up our off-loaded equipment in their haste to get away from the rendezvous area,” Dumais recounted during a 1984 return to Plouha for a French government ceremony honouring the members of Operation Bonaparte.
“Raymond’s suitcase with the wireless radio was between his feet. When one of the Frenchmen reached for it, Raymond hissed: ‘Laissez-ça tranquille.’ [Leave it alone!] There was a tense moment as the two men eyed each other. Then the Resistance fighter gave a small smile and a shrug and left the suitcase alone — as Raymond had ordered. The moment passed without incident.”
They easily passed as French nationals. Any locals or German soldiers they dealt with regarded their Quebec accent as a dialect from some remote French village. “What one had to be very careful about,” LaBrosse would say later, “was not to use French-Canadian slang or idiomatic expressions. If you spoke correct French but had an accent, that didn’t tell anyone you were Canadian.”
Upon landing in France, they immediately set to work — planning escape routes, selecting hideouts, and arranging for the delivery of supplies and weapons. They recruited dozens of French civilians to funnel the fugitive airmen to Plouha, a tiny coastal village with a strong Resistance cell, where airmen could be hidden until they could be evacuated off a nearby beach.
The next few weeks raced by and the two men were soon ready to launch Operation Bonaparte. Finally, on the night of January 29, 1944, Dumais and LaBrosse were listening to a low-volume radio in a small stone farmhouse in Plouha when they heard a welcome phrase: “Bonjour tout le monde à la maison d’Alphonse!”
In bringing greetings to everyone at the house of Alphonse, the announcer from the BBC French Service had uttered a call to action. A Royal Navy Motor Gun Boat (MGB) had left Dartmouth, England, and was streaking across the 140-kilometre expanse of the English Channel toward the coast of Brittany. The rescue was on. The agents quickly switched off the radio. “That’s it,” said LaBrosse. Dumais turned to the third man in the room, section chief François LeCornec, and nodded: “Let’s go!”
The Plouha area was crawling with German troops, Gestapo agents, and French collaborators. It was common knowledge that the Allies were planning a massive invasion of France. The tense, trigger-happy Germans were likely to shoot first and ask questions later.
As they exited the “House of Alphonse” — a misnomer, since the small stone dwelling actually belonged to French Resistance member Jean Gicquel — Dumais and LaBrosse could make out a number of human forms moving in the darkness toward them from other houses in the area. The escape party consisted of sixteen American and RAF airmen and two British agents. LaBrosse had sent a message to M.I.9 earlier that day saying he had eighteen “packages” to be picked up.
With the eighteen “packages” forming a huddle around him, Dumais whispered last-minute instructions for getting down the nearby steep incline to the beach. He warned them that the slope had been mined by the Germans but that a Resistance member had marked each mine with a small white cloth. Dumais would lead the way by the light of a hooded flashlight, and everyone was to follow in his exact footsteps down to the beach about seventy-five metres below.
“Many lives have been risked to bring you this far,” Dumais warned. “There is just a mile left, and it is the most dangerous you will ever travel. You will maintain absolute silence and do exactly as you are told. There are enemy sentries and patrols in the area. If it becomes necessary to kill any of them you are expected to help — use knives or your hands. Be quick and above all be quiet. Your lives and ours depend on it.”
With LaBrosse bringing up the rear, the men moved stealthily down the small hillside to the beach. Shivering in the damp cold, they strained their eyes and ears for some sign of their rescuers. The minutes dragged by. Suddenly, out of the darkness, the silhouettes of four small rubber boats appeared, each manned by two paddlers. The craft nosed silently up onto the sand and the eight crew members of the gunboat, which was anchored about two kilometres out in the channel, jumped ashore.
An officer snapped: “Okay, get aboard fast.” At the same time, the crew began off-loading arms, money, and supplies desperately needed by the French Resistance.
Within a few minutes the four rubber dinghies were relaunched, disappearing into the gloom. Dumais and LaBrosse watched them go, then picked up the delivered goods and carefully made their way back to the stone hut, retrieving the pieces of cloth that had identified the placement of the German mines.
While awaiting the 6 a.m. lifting of the German curfew so they could move about the village freely, Dumais raised a wine glass in a toast: “Eh bien. To our first success. It went like clockwork. But we have a busy season ahead.” By the time the Allies landed in Normandy with their D-Day offensive of June 6, 1944, Operation Bonaparte had, in the space of six months, saved 135 Allied fugitives from right under the noses of the Gestapo without losing a single man. Dumais and LaBrosse had certainly proven their worth.
“Our judgment of both men was fulfilled, and they produced magnificent results,”Airey Neave, chief organizer of M.I.9 during the last two years of the Second World War, said in his book Saturday at M.I.9.
After D-Day, Dumais and LaBrosse worked with the French underground to fight the retreating Germans. Following the Nazi surrender in May of 1945, Dumais was assigned to root out German collaborators in deep cover. He retired with the rank of captain at the end of the war and proudly wore such decorations as the Military Cross, the Military Medal, the Efficiency Medal, and the Freedom Medal.
LaBrosse rejoined the Canadian Army after the war, eventually serving with the Third Battalion of the Royal 22nd Regiment — the Vandoos — in Korea. He retired with the rank of lieutenant colonel in 1971. Among his awards were the Military Cross, the Legion of Honour, the French Croix de Guerre (avec palme et étoile de vermeille), and the U.S. Medal of Liberty with silver bar.
Unfortunately, the crew of the gunboat — MGB 503 — that had been used for each rescue didn’t fare as well as the two Canadian spies. The boat hit a floating mine in the English Channel — sadly, just after hostilities had ceased — and the entire crew of thirty-six was killed.
Another casualty was the House of Alphonse. After Operation Bonaparte had been disbanded, the Germans belatedly suspected that the small cottage was being used as a Resistance hideout and torched it, with only the stone walls surviving as witnesses to a clandestine operation.
Due to its nature, Operation Bonaparte received little publicity during or after the Second World War. In fact, when orders were issued to turn papers over to the public archives in Great Britain, it was discovered that several volumes of records about the project had disappeared.
But some of the ninety-four American airmen who had been spirited out of occupied France showed their appreciation by holding a special ceremony in Buffalo, New York, in 1964. LaBrosse and Dumais were on hand, along with two former Resistance members, when William Spinning, vice-president of the newly formed Air Forces Escape & Evasion Society said: “Theirs were calculated feats of audacious, rash fearlessness — carried out under the very eyes of the German occupational forces. The odds against success were staggering. The penalties for failure were almost incalculable. We of America can never repay these noble people. Nothing can ever balance the score, and nothing will ever dull the glory.
“In greatest humility we say: We will never forget!”
Tom Douglas, copy editor of The Canadian Military Journal, has written six books with a military theme.
Et Cetera
For the 50th anniversary of D-Day, army chaplain Tom Saunders published a selection of his war poetry in the April-May 1994 issue of The Beaver.
Saunders described how the strongest element that came through in his war poems was in “how much Canada had come to mean to me in the days when I was far from it.”
The transiency of war was also a strong theme: “One day this, too, will be a memory/this demi-life of servitude to Mars, this madness, this world-fevered plague, that scars the tissues of the soul…all this, too, will be a memory.”
After the war, Saunders published six books of poetry and contributed to many journals and books. In 1960 he joined the staff of the Winnipeg Free Press as an editorial writer and later as literary editor. Saunders passed away in 2005.
Read the article with his poetry below:
D-Day Plus Fifty Years
These poems belong to a long-ago, but still very-present, part of my life — to the years of the Second World War and the time spent as a chaplain in the Canadian Army in Great Britain and Northwest Europe. Only the first of the poems was written in Britain, at an army camp in the south of England. Of the others, some were composed during the campaign in Northwest Europe, the remainder in periods of reflection in Holland following VE-Day (8 May 1945).
At the time they were written, I had the thought that there might be enough of them to form a small book; but, on my return to Canada, other interests intervened — the task of getting re-established in my profession, etcetera — and the mood for writing more war poems passed. So the book I had in mind never materialized.
When I did get back to writing poetry, my interests had returned to the prairie environment which I know as home; and, when I finally had manuscripts ready for book publication, the handful of poems I had written during the war never seemed to belong. As the years passed and more books of prairie-based poems appeared, the small sheaf of war poems lay neglected, to the point where I actually forgot I had written them.
Then, a few years ago, when my wife and I decided to sell our house and move into an apartment, they were re-discovered. While going through a filing cabinet, trying to decide what to keep or discard, I came upon an unmarked folder which I was on the verge of throwing out. Before doing so I decided to have a quick peek at its contents — and there were the war poems I had composed so many years before.
As I read them I felt they had merit, an opinion which was endorsed by my wife. I showed them to a few army friends and to a Professor of English at the University of Manitoba. They, too felt they had merit. The trouble was I personally believed that the time for publication had passed. They should have been offered for publication, either in chapbook form or as a contribution to some periodical, as soon after war’s end as possible. I decided that now the best I could do with them was to have a few copies made for my children and grandchildren. And there the matter rested.
Then, a year or so ago, I felt there might still be an opportunity for publication. The year 1994 would mark the fiftieth anniversary of D-Day. Might not these poems be used to help mark that occasion? I thought it was at least a possibility.
As I re-read the poems, I realized that they represented only a small part of my reactions to my wartime experiences. They said nothing about camaraderie among the troops, for example; nothing of friendships forged in conflict that were to endure through the years; nothing of regimental or unit pride or the many little human foibles and frailties that endeared us to one another; little of the tremendous acts of heroism performed by ordinary men, all of whom were citizens before they were soldiers; nothing of the lusts, as well as the heroisms, that are the accompaniment of war. And much, much more — aspects of the war experience that these poems do not touch on at all.
Yet I felt they had captured at least something of what war had meant to some of us, something that might speak to others who has shared a common experience, and might even speak to those who have come after us and know the wartime experience only through hearsay, or the inadequacies of historians, or the various media interpretations and misinterpretations which have come to us over the years. Whatever their merit, these verses have the authenticity of lines written by on who, even though a non-combatant, and not himself a D-Day soldier, was present for some of the action in Northwest Europe and was exposed to many of the same dangers and temptations as the troops with whom he served.
As I re-read the poems, too, I became increasingly aware that they were the most personal poems I had ever written — and, using traditional forms, very much the poems of a young man of that era. I could trace in them innocence being forced to come to grips with the harsh facts of experience, and the frustrations of idealism in the face of some all-too-grim realities. But I could also see idealism surviving the worst that war had to offer. That is there, in the last, as well as the first, of these poems, and is nowhere more explicit than in the penultimate poem, Imago Dei.
Not long after VE-Day, when I had been seconded from my regiment to act as Staff Chaplain at Army Troops Headquarters, I had occasion, in the course of my duties, to visit a medical unit in the Reichwald. In doing so I took the opportunity to drive through the German towns of Cleve, Calcar and Emmerich, all if which had been reduced to rubble. Yet people existed in the rubble. I could see them scrambling out of it — men, women and children — like rats out of their holes. I remember thinking that, physically, these towns might be rebuilt, but how could anyone hope to rebuild the broken, seemingly sub-human, lives? Yet, in course of time, these people did rebuild their lives as well as their towns. The human spirit ultimately triumphed over the worst that war could bring against it. To me, that remains a parable on the resiliency of the spirit of man.
I find that a very strong element in most of these poems. And I find something else. I find how much Canada had come to mean to me in the days when I was far from it. The references to that part of Canada which I have long known as home keep recurring in these verses, to the point where Canada becomes not only a symbol of home but of peace. Stated or implicit in virtually all of these verses is a realization of the transiency of war and the permanence of something that will outlast all wars. What that something is finds expression, for me, most fully in Canada itself.
So, half-a-century after these poems were written, they finally see the light of day. On this fiftieth anniversary of D-Day, I dedicate them to all — both living and dead — who served and shared in that memorable experience.
Interlude
The air is still tonight; the sky is clear;
the ominous, sodden blanket of the clouds
is rolled away; the stars drift low above
the draggled fields, bringing the prairie to
the English Downs, flooding the world with light,
thrilling the soul with strange, unquiet peace,
And pushing back the harsh frontiers of war
toward the borders of the mind. The long,
imposing hum of planes is past; and now
the air is drenched in a great weight of silence.
The eyes and heart look up and seek the sky…
The same stars mark the heavens I have known
above the wheatfields and the whitened winter
plains of home: Cassiopeia, Leo
and the Bear, the trembling Pleiades, and gaunt
Orion and the faithful Dogs. Only
the magic motion and the cold ephemeral
colours of the sweeping Northern Lights
cast no elusive spell. All else is as
the heart remembers it: the same sky I
have loved, unveiled for this brief interlude
of peace between the awful acts and aching
tragedy of war.
But from the earth,
in the pervading stillness, speaks a harsh,
daemonic voice of life, flouting the stars
as curses flout the sanctity of God,
a voice of things seen rather than things heard:
the flat, squat shapes of buildings housing troops,
the shadowed, rutted tracks of tanks and guns,
and all the baleful symbols of man’s vile
subservience to Mars.
The same sky but
another earth is here, a part of life
that is not England or the Western Plains,
but something evil, sinister as death:
the dark malignant forces of the world
reaching with grasping hands to pluck the stars.
One Day This, Too, Will Be a Memory
On day this, too, will be a memory,
this demi-life of servitude to Mars,
this madness, this world-fevered plague, that scars
the tissues of the soul — this, too, will be
a prospect to look back upon and see
in quiet retrospect; and other wars,
a thousands years gone by, will dim the stars
no less than this. Life’s basic dignity,
lost in the holocaust of hate and strife,
will turn again, assert itself, and tower,
to crown the world with peace. The turbid sea
of life, now at the ebb, with stormings rife,
will surge again to shore in quiet power;
and all this, too, will be a memory.
Portents
Presaging Duncan’s murder there were weird,
unnatural events in heaven and earth;
and Birnam wood, Macduff’s untimely birth,
were omens to Macbeth. Great men have feared
great things in nature and themselves, and steered
their course against relentless fate; and, dearth
of hope, have heard the very gods make mirth
at their expense. Portents of death have leered
from heaven’s face and from earth’s bosom flamed.
But now there are no portents in the sky;
for death itself pours down in mortal flood.
There are no omens telling who will die,
or who will cry in anguish with the maimed,
or what life will be stirring, quick with blood.
The Dead
They cannot go again, what way they came,
to that young, shining world they know; and all
the dread adventure of their deaths goes with
them where they go; and none can tell their tale.
In days when men shall write the story of
this war, how will they know the things the dead
alone can speak? How will they say what they
have known and felt? How see their world?
They, who
live history, are never truly part
of the historian’s chronicle. The cold,
objective statement, leech-like, sucks the blood
from life, and makes a war a diagrammed
reality that is not war, nor life.
Nor any part of all the world they knew.
There is a tale the dead alone can tell,
a world of which the dead alone can speak;
and they are silent, and their tale untold.
Lament
Norman is gone and Paul is gone,
and Damon whom I loved;
and I am left here all alone —
alone, and deeply moved.
O, could I love my friends less well,
I would not know this pain,
or feel my aching heart rebel
for those I love, in vain!
On an Avenue of Beech Trees
The tortured landscape seemed to breathe in pain,
like some great giant stricken in his pride.
Great, gaping wound-holes torn in its side,
a casualty of battle with the men,
it lay in dismal plight; while death, like rain,
poured down in battle-carnage, and the tide
of war rolled on. Grim trees, uprooted, died
in silent anguish with the bleeding slain.
Then the vast din of war edged into silence.
The little jeep crept through the jagged field,
beyond the battle’s orbit, into peace:
an avenue of beech trees stood revealed
against the skyline, mocking all the violence
of men, and battle’s bold indecencies.
At Peace
So short a time ago he know no peace:
only the harsh discord of battle in
his soul cried out, piercing his nerves and flesh
and scorching through his brain; and horrid fear
and strident hate froze his young features in
a mask of age.
Then time recoiled upon
itself, and he was young again; death tore
from his a single, rending cry, and life
fled forth like some dread daemon exorcised
by Christ.
In quietness more perfect than
the quietness of sleep, he lay at peace.
The Soldier
He saw his world grow smaller, closing in
on him as water closes in on some
bare rock with the incoming tide; and fear
laid hold on him, sweeping like waves across
the reaches of his heart.
In all the fateful
years of war he know no fear: his world
was large and he a giant striding through
its wastes. He was a soldier’s soldier — smart,
immaculate in dress and drill; and in
the fire of combat like a god, unmoved,
unscathed, amid the flames: one of the heroes
who would save the world.
And now this Christ
was coming to his cross. War, that had freed
him from the little world that once had fenced
him in and crushed his soul with the dead weight
of custom and the mores of his race,
had brought new stature to himself and to
his world. In all that hell of fear for other
men he knew no fear, in the dread heat
of battle know no dread.
But now he faced
Gethsemane and all the torture and
anticipation of death within
the soul; and all the gods of war whom he
had served availed him not.
Unmanned by peace,
he crawled back to his little world to count
the empty days and die before his time.
Vimy Ridge — Spring 1945*
Across the ridge of Vimy
and down the quiet steep
wanders the silent shepherd
tending the silent sheep.
The little fields slope gently
to meet the greening plain
Where soft the wind caresses
the young, unheaded grain.
The head-stones and the trenches
are hid behind he trees,
where mating birds shrill sweetly
their native melodies.
And, like a benediction
in smooth and sculptured stone,
the monument on Vimy
stands peaceful and alone.
And ruined Lens lies hidden;
And there is naught to say,
If war and all its terrors
Had ever come that way.
*In the early Spring of 1945, in a period of rest before the last push that brought to an end hostilities in Europe, three friends and I decided to pay a visit to the Canadian War memorial at Vimy Ridge. We drove through the rubble of Lens, partially destroyed for the second time in two wars, past the Vimy memorial and up the ridge. There, before we could see the cemeteries and trenches, we came upon a shepherd with his flock of sheep.
Imago Dei
These men were infantry. They fought
the hard way — yard by yard, and mile
by bloody mile. Who would have thought
that they’d have come out with a smile,
knowing the hell they’d left behind
and carried with them in their heart?
Six weeks of action, underlined
by fear and death, had been their part:
foot-slogging soldiers in a grim
advance — forward a mile, dig in,
beat off attack; hold fast the slim
thin-edge of gain; again begin:
over and over, till the mind
was numb. Nerves tensed to steel, and steeled
their hearts, they moved, in bodies’ blind
automaton advance, to shield,
in chaos, chaos from the world.
Now their long stint was ended. Now
they plodded back. They who had hurled
themselves against destruction’s brow
and triumphed, plodded back. They came,
leaving their dead behind them where
they lay. Gone from their eyes the flame
of battle-passion, past all care
and feeling, slow they moved. Along
the ditch in single file they moved,
Bren-gun on shoulder — one foot up,
then down — beyond all agonies,
they moved; drained to the dregs the cup
of human suffering, and drained
all manhood from them to the lees.
This was the price, past pain, that gained
the victory. They paid the fees
of war, not with their blood alone,
but with the spirit’s sacrifice
that made them men. This, war had done to them: the human edifice
had crumbled to the ground in days
and nights when time was but caprice,
and all that’s bestial found way
to soil the beautiful and good.
So now they plodded back, no more
the men they were, no more than crude,
bleak shells of what they were, before
their triumph brought catastrophe.
Then someone cursed; and someone smiled;
and someone started suddenly
to sing; and soon there was a wild
outburst of singing. Feet that dragged
picked up the step, shoulders went back,
heads high, and every arm that lagged
limp by the side swung free. The black,
dull mood has passed, and they were men
again. The human spirit soared
into their song down the long line
of marchers; in their eyes, though blurred,
enthroned, Imago Dei shone.
The Heart’s Cry for Home
The things that count are always personal;
I cannot see the world except through eyes
grown used to the familiar things I’ve loved;
and all the bitter transiency of war
cannot erase what the proud years have writ,
but scrawls a pale palimpsest on my heart
but dimly traced and scarce discernible
to my own mind. For war, which has the world
in thrall, to me is personal as life
and death; and all the things I’ve loved, like leaves
blown by the wind, storm over me till all
the present’s shrouded in the past; and fear,
and the black thunder of the guns, and blood,
and death, and the unspoken dreams for which
men fight, fade in a vision of the land
I love, at dawn and sunset, and the peace
Of home; and little feet go pounding down
The torn arterial highways of my heart.
[Following the war, Manitoba poet Tom Saunders was, for ten years, attached as Chaplain to the Militia Battalion of the Royal Winnipeg Rifles. He is a member for the Royal Winnipeg Rifles Association, permanent Chaplain of the Little Black Devils Officers’ Association, and, at the age of 85, continues as an active member of the Regimental Advisory Board. He has published several collections of poems.]
June 6, 2014, marks the seventieth anniversary of D-Day, the largest seaborne invasion in history.
The assault on the beaches of Normandy by British, American, and Canadian troops who would eventually fight their way across Europe has gone down in history as a watershed event.
The codenames of where the troops landed — Omaha and Utah for the Americans, Gold and Sword for the British, and Juno for the Canadians — remain familiar today.
The Normandy landings, part of Operation Overlord, marked the beginning of the end of six long years of conflict between Adolf Hitler’s Nazi Germany and Allied forces.
Canada’s History asked John Maker, a Second World War historian at the Canadian War Museum, some questions about D-Day.
Canada’s History: British military planners were not keen on a direct assault on the coast of Northwest Europe because the coastline was so heavily defended. What changed their minds?

John Maker: It wasn’t really that their minds were changed but the conditions changed such that by 1944 the prospect of attacking the coast was much more feasible than it had been earlier in the war.
You can take planning for the invasion all the way back to May 1940 after the surrender of France and the evacuation of British forces from Dunkirk. Churchill at that time had promised that the Allies would return and liberate the continent but at that time only British and Commonwealth forces stood alone against Nazi Germany.
The Soviet Union and the Americans were not in the fight, so the prospect of returning at that time was pretty grim. You can imagine why they wouldn’t have been very keen then.
The Axis itself really created the conditions that in many ways were conducive to the D-Day assault. The Germans attacked the Soviets in June of ’41 and then the Japanese attacked the Americans in December of ’41, bringing both the Soviets and the Americans into the war on the side of Great Britain, which of course increased the possibility of Allied victory in the war.
Nevertheless, the Atlantic wall was still a formidable obstacle and by 1944 it was even stronger and not a very welcoming target. So planners had decided that Normandy was the location most likely to succeed, for various reasons: the beaches could accommodate a buildup of forces; the German approaches to the beaches could be more easily contained then elsewhere; and it was less well-defended than other areas along the coast.
Another thing that people consider when they think of British reluctance to attack the coast was that throughout the period of planning, once the Americans come into the war, the Americans are quite impatient about attacking the continent. They wanted to go in 1942 and 1943, and the British acted with much more caution. Churchill spoke of not wanting a repeat of a First World War battlefield and, after all, the British homeland was closest to this battlefield, so they were quite prudently cautious.
Probably the most crippling real weakness was the lack of adequate landing craft. It wasn’t until late ’43, early 1944 that there were enough landing craft to mount a large enough invasion that would be successful.
And by that time various other actions had weakened German resistance — the practice and success achieved by the Allies in North Africa and Sicily would create confidence, overall.
CH: Two years earlier, Canadians took part in the disastrous raid at Dieppe. What impact, if any, did the lessons learned at Dieppe have on the D-Day invasion?
JM: A lot of the writing that came out immediately after the war suggested that there were quite a few lessons learned at Dieppe that helped the Overlord planners. But much of this is post facto justificaton for the losses incurred.
If one wanted to look for lessons learned, one could more confidently look at the invasion of Sicily, Operation Husky, which took place 10th of July, 1943. This was another amphibious assault, supported by a naval bombardment, troops coming on shore in landing craft, assaulting a defended coastline. Similarly, the Allies — the Americans and the British — had landed in North Africa in 1942, gaining more amphibious assault experience there as well. The Canadians also took part in operations in Sicily – the 1st Canadian Infantry Division, the 1st Canadian Armoured Brigade assaulted Sicily, and there the Allies gained experience in joint planning, and the Canadians in amphibious assault. Canadian commanders gained much experience on the ground in Sicily and mainland Italy that they brought back to Northwest Europe for the Normandy campaign.
So, I think those are better exemplars than Dieppe.
That said, the Dieppe raid did reinforce certain notions that were alive in the minds of the Overlord planners. Probably chief among these was that surprise was key. In Dieppe, surprise was lost in the early hours of the raid, so the Germans were pretty sure that an invasion was coming, which obviously didn't bode well for the attackers.
But in Overlord you see some really, really complex operations going on to try and deceive the enemy and maintain that element of surprise. For example, you have the enormous diversion campaign taking place on the Kent coast, called Operation Fortitude (which included fake army camps, dummy airfields and other deceptions designed to make the Germans believe an invasion force would land further north and east and not in Normandy).
Also, the choice of Normandy was not, by German estimation, the most conducive to invasion.
The other factor Dieppe reinforced in the minds of planners was the need for overwhelming fire support from the air and from the sea.
CH: How did Canada come to take on such a major role in the D-Day invasion?
JM: The development of the role for Canada in the D-Day invasion has a history going back a few years, especially following the Dunkirk evacuation, in that when Canadians began to come over to Great Britain, they took on the role of defending the British Isles, so they built up around the south coast of England and operated in a defensive and anti-invasion role from May 1940 to July 1943, when the 1st Canadian Division was detached and sent to Italy. But the bulk of Canadian forces remained in Britain for all those years.
There was a political feeling in London and Ottawa, and a rising popular feeling, that Canadian soldiers needed action.
Because it was there in such large force, the Overlord planners, almost from the beginning, determined that a large Canadian force would be part of any cross channel invasion. 2nd Division went to Dieppe, 1st to Italy leaving 3rd Division the logical next one to take part in offensive operations.
CH: On the eve of the operation, the leaders privately expressed fears that the landing would fail and there would be massive casualties. Why, after all the planning and preparation, were they still so fearful of the outcome?
JM: I think you see more of that on the British side than the American side. This concern is quite natural when you are planning an invasion on this scale. They certainly were not filled with any sense of hubris. I think they were properly concerned about the negative outcomes. Churchill was worried about another First World War type casualty situation. Tactically, it was a very complex operation that required the co-ordination of airborne paratroopers, naval forces, air forces, amphibious forces, armour, artillery, some of which fired from landing craft offshore, which is all very difficult to co-ordinate. In short, there was much that could go wrong.
Also, politicians were still answerable to their electorates. It was politically somewhat easier for the governments of Germany and Soviet Union to send soldiers to the field than it was for western nations because the latter were answerable to their electorates.
And, an amphibious invasion of this size had never been tried and certainly the Germans had put out much propaganda that this was an impregnable Fortress Europa, as they called it. So I think these fears were realistic and prudent.
CH: Was the success of the landing due to good luck or good planning or both?
JM: The invasion met with its fair share of good luck and bad luck. But I think planning was the key to success here.
In terms of good luck, though, the weather was barely sufficient to allow a good landing, the choppiness of the sea made an invasion seem less likely to the German defenders, who were relatively slow to counterattack, and the German Commader Rommel had conveniently left Normandy for personal reasons the day before, among other examples.
In terms of planning, the assault had in one sense been going on since April 1944, when Allied strategic and tactical airforces began attacking transportation, and other targets inside and outside the invasion area. The detailed timing, the deception operation, the different types of equipment used – certainly planning was key to success, much more than luck.
CH: How prepared were the Canadians who took part?
JM: They were well-prepared. The Canadians had been in England since the winter of ’39-’40, and had been building up their forces there. They were chomping at the bit by this time to get into the action.
The commanders of the Canadian operation had gained combat experience in North Africa and Italy. And though none of the rank and file in Italy actually took part in Overlord, the army had amended its training practices in light of lessons learned there. For example, back here in Canada, there was a marshalling base in Debert, Nova Scotia, where the army built "Ortona Town," a mockup of a little village based on their experience in Italy. They put troops through Ortona Town as part of their training before sailing to Europe, which gave them practice in street fighting, house-to-house fighting and that sort of thing.
And they had taken part in assault training with the purpose of attacking the Normandy coast for a year, beginning in the summer of 1943. They had done preliminary training in 1943, which taught them the principles of combined operations, embarking, disembarking, scaling obstacles, clearing minefields, and then basic training in the mechanics of assault landings, which took place largely in Scotland, then assault training by brigade groups and this culminated in the early months of 1944 with collective divisional assault training, which was basically a series of rehearsals based on the final plan, which by then was coalescing.
So lots of training, lots of experience, and lots of lessons learned in operations.
CH: How did the Canadians do in meeting their objectives that day?
JM: All things considered, the Canadian troops did very well.
The Canadians and the British in the Gold and Juno sector made it farther inland than any of the other invasion forces. They had managed to link up their forward units some distance inland, which was a measure of success.
However, none of the formations that took part in the operation actually achieved their objectives for day one, which for the Canadians was Carpiquet airfield and the railway running between Caen and Bayeux. The airfield was not actually captured until a month after D-Day.
The Canadian assault beach at Juno was among the more successful. Canadians began landing at around 7:30 in the morning. The assault batallions took heavy casualties in the first waves. Through strength of numbers, fire support, artillery, and armoured squadrons, by about two hours after landing they had started to come off of the beach and began landing their reserves about an hour after their initial landings. The reserve brigade, which brought in three new batallions, came in at about 11:30 in the morning. At the end of the day, June 6, the Queen’s Own Rifles had actually captured its objective, which was short of the overall divisional objective but goes to show that some of the Canadian units were quite successful in the first hours.
CH: What impact did their success have on people on the home front in Canada?
JM: The impact at home was large. Psychologically, especially. An invasion had been expected for years. As we got closer to it, there was a sense of tension on the home front and amongst soldiers that this was coming. And there was the sense of relief that it had finally happened. When all was said and done, the casualties, while not light, were not has heavy as they could have been.
Following that, however, there did actually come casualty lists, which brought anxiety, fear, and heartbreak in many cases. We started to see these lists in the Italian campaign, but after June 6, they began to grow exponentially. Before the year was out, because of the casualties and the need for reinforcements growing to an urgent status, we see the beginning of another conscription crisis in Canada, which Prime Minister Mackenzie King had been at great pains to avoid.
Despite this, Canadians began to look to the end of the war. They looked back at the end of the First World War and how the Canadian government had not really prepared Canadian society for the return of veterans and other issues. The D-Day assault really got the ball rolling on postwar planning. So it had quite a profound impact at home.
CH: Of all the Allied victories of the Second World War, D-Day seems to be the one that lived on in the public’s consciousness, at least among Canadians, even in the present day. Why do you suppose this is so?
JM: Certainly it lived on, not just for Canadians, but for all the participating nations. It’s a big deal in Great Britain, it’s a big deal in the United States, it was a big deal for everyone, especially the successful nations. I think the enduring memory of D-Day goes back to a couple of factors. We know this was a tough nut to crack and the fact it was a success helps to keep it in the public memory. It also acted as a release valve on public expectations and fears of the time. When it came off, it immediately took on this legendary status. I think most importantly, for civilians anyway, it was an easy battle for them to conceive and understand. Troops had to land, to stay landed, with their backs against the wall — in this case the English Channel — so that the measure of success was easily understood. It was also for the western nations the main show, the most decisive of all the western operations. And it was launched against the main bulk of German forces. Up to now they had been fighting in North Africa and Italy, and although important, I think in the public consciousness, people conceived the D-Day operation as more central to the ending of the war.
CH: Why is it important for us now, 70 years later, to remember D-Day?
JM: First, it was an extraordinary event in our Canadian history and in world history. And it signaled the beginning of the end of Nazi Germany. When I think of my own experience of when I was a kid, there were First World War veterans still living and now they are all gone. It won’t be much longer before the living memory of the Second World War has also passed. D-Day embodied the courage and determination to prevail in that war. It was fought over issues that are still alive today — such as ideology, nationalism, and injustice. It was an exceptionally difficult and hazardous military operation. It was an operation in which Canadians took a major central part in the war. For these reasons and more, it’s important to keep the memory of D-Day.
Though less storied than the Titanic, the sinking of the Empress of Ireland in 1914 remains the largest peacetime maritime disaster in Canada’s history. The Liverpool-bound passenger steamer sank in the turbulent waters of the St. Lawrence River within minutes of being accidently hit on the starboard side by a Norwegian collier in dense fog near Rimouski, Quebec. Of the 1,477 people aboard, 1,012 perished.
The heartbreaking event seemed destined never to fade from public memory, but it did, when Canada entered the First World War a few months later. For fifty years, the wreck sat undisturbed at the bottom of the St. Lawrence. In 1964, divers rediscovered the wreck and pulled up a ship bell, renewing interest in the forgotten disaster.
To mark the centennial of the event, which took place on May 29, Canada Post unveiled a set of stamps, a full-colour book that tells the story of the Empress, plus two Empress postcard reproductions.
In addition, the Royal Canadian Mint released two commemorative coins.
Also, a special exhibit has been put on display at the Canadian Museum of History. The exhibit will be open until April 2015.
To learn more about the exhibit, listen to this podcast with the museum's Dominique Savard:
Other commemoration events took place during the anniversary at Rimouski, Quebec. These included: The ringing of church bells at the time of the early morning sinking, boat tours of the wreck site, the inauguration of a new monument, and the presentation of a new documentary about the disaster.
Click on the pictures below to view a photo gallery that tells the story of the sinking and its aftermath:
June Ivany’s grandparents and three of their adult children were on board the Empress of Ireland when it sank in the St. Lawrence River on May 29, 1914.
All were separated, yet all but one survived, which was miraculous considering that most of those on board — 1,012 out of 1,477 — perished.
Yet their survival was bittersweet. One of the sons made a heroic effort to save his mother. In doing so, he lost his own life.
Canada’s History spoke with Ivany about a story her family wanted to forget.
Listen to the interview with Ivany here:
Read more stories submitted by descendants of the passengers, crew, and rescuers at the Site historique maritime de la Pointe-au-Père website.
by Nelle Oosterom
On June 6, 1944, a massive fleet set forth from England for the Normandy coast of France. Aboard the ships were thousands of Allied soldiers who were about to take part in the D-Day assault on five German held beaches. The Canadians were tasked with taking Juno beach, a stretch of coastline that included the village of Courseulles-sur-Mer.
Thankfully, the D-Day invasion was a success, and it provided the Allies a toehold from which to push forward toward Germany.
View the photos above from Library and Archives Canada for a glimpse into the moments before, during, and after the D-Day mission. For more photos from Library and Archives Canada, be sure to check them out on Flickr: flickr.com/photos/lac-bac
Canadian troops were itching for a fight; they got their wish in the most ill-conceived assault of WWII.
by J.L. Granatstein
(This article originally appeared in the August-September 2009 issue of The Beaver.)
The Dieppe raid of August 19, 1942, was a disaster. Within a few hours of landing on the French beach, almost a thousand Canadian soldiers died and twice that many were taken prisoner. Losses of aircraft and naval vessels were very high. It took a long time for the 2nd Canadian Infantry Division, which had provided the foot soldiers for the assault, to recover.
This debacle, spun by those responsible as a glorious failure that paved the way for D-Day two years later, sits like a scar on the Canadian memory of the war, and so it should. Contrary to the public relations experts of 1942, Dieppe was a colossal blunder.
The raid began in optimism out of the Canadians’ desire to see action. By the spring of 1942, Canadian soldiers had been in Britain for more than two years without combat. For the expanding Canadian army in Britain, there was only training and more boring training, while the troops helped defend England against an invasion that was never to come.
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The bodies of Canadian soldiers lie on the beach at Dieppe after the failed assault. / Canadian Press |
The idea of conducting a large raid on the French coast originated in Combined Operations Headquarters, commanded by Vice Admiral Lord Louis Mountbatten. The planners wanted to test the theory and practice of amphibious warfare, and essentially to determine if a defended port could be seized. That was the main tactical reason — but there were political reasons too.
The Americans, in the war only since December 1941, wanted to create a second front on the Continent as soon as possible, a goal that Moscow, bearing the full brunt of the war against Germany on the eastern front, shared. In Canada, politicians wanted their troops to get into action to gain battle experience and to appease a public clamouring for heroes.
Overseas, Lieutenant General Harry Crerar fretted about the “continued lack of participation” in operations and the difficulty of maintaining the “desired keenness and morale.” The Canadian generals knew their restless soldiers needed action, and the troops themselves, tired of being asked by their English girlfriends if they would ever fight, largely shared that opinion. “Like every other soldier,” Corporal Robert Prouse of the Canadian Provost Corps recalled in a published account of his war experiences, “I was bored to tears with the long inaction and was itching for battle.” Everyone wanted and needed a big raid on the Continent.
Thus, in the winter of 1942, when Crerar heard rumours that Mountbatten was planning to attack Dieppe, he demanded that the British chiefs of staff select Canadian troops for the task. Crerar was at that time acting as commander of the Canadian Corps while General Andrew McNaughton was in Canada on sick leave. Crerar told one of his officers “it will be a tragic humiliation if American troops get into action … before Canadians, who have been waiting in England for three years.”
By the time McNaughton returned to England in April 1942, the British had agreed. The 2nd Division was chosen for the job. General Bernard Montgomery, the operational commander under whom the Canadians served, thought it the best-trained Canadian formation. And Montgomery viewed its commanding officer, Major-General J. Hamilton Roberts, as the best of the Canadian division commanders.
As junior allies, the Canadians had not been involved in the original planning for the raid. But now, with 2nd Division selected, they had a large share in determining the details of the operation. Mountbatten’s headquarters continued to be heavily involved, and so too was Montgomery, who had the “go/no go” responsibility. His view of the operation on July 1 was that it had “good prospects of success” if the weather was good, the navy put troops ashore at the right places, and the troops had “average luck.”
Two days later, Crerar wrote that the Canadian commanders of the raid “expressed full confidence in being able to carry out their tasks — given a break in luck.” Senior officers ordinarily put more faith in good planning and in their troops’ ability than in luck.
Operation Rutter, the original raid, was scrubbed by Montgomery in the first week of July 1942 because of bad weather. In the interval between Rutter and the renewed operation, Montgomery left for the Middle East to find his destiny. The 2nd Division’s destiny would prove to be very different.
The decision to let loose Operation Jubilee, as the planners dubbed the August raid, came from Mountbatten, McNaughton, Crerar, and Roberts. The commanders knew that soldiers had talked in the pubs about the cancelled raid on Dieppe in July; they banked on the likelihood that the Germans would not believe that the Allies could be so foolish as to have the same troops attack the same target a month later. Crerar’s comment on the revived plan, offered on August 11, was that “given an even break in luck and good navigation” the raid “should” prove successful. Once more, luck was the key. Unfortunately, there was none in Operation Jubilee.
The plan called for 4,963 officers and men drawn from the infantry battalions of the 2nd Division and an armoured regiment from the 1st Canadian Armoured Brigade to assault Dieppe and surrounding areas from the sea. Covered by seventy-four squadrons of fighters and fighter-bombers overhead and ten small ships offshore, and accompanied by tanks of the Calgary Regiment, infantry from the Essex Scottish from southwestern Ontario and the Royal Hamilton Light Infantry were to land on the beach in front of Dieppe.
Toronto’s Royal Regiment of Canada was to go ashore on a tiny beach under a cliff at Puys to the east. The South Saskatchewan Regiment and Ottawa’s Cameron Highlanders were to disembark at Pourville to the west. The Camerons intended to go almost eight kilometres inland to attack an airfield, a German headquarters, and destroy a coastal battery. The floating reserve was the Fusiliers Mont-Royal. The commandos’ task was to eliminate German batteries east and west of the three main landing areas.
The intention of the raid was to take the town of Dieppe, establish a defensive perimeter, and hold it just long enough to permit the destruction of harbour facilities. The raiders were then to depart by sea. There were no heavy bombers to soften up the defences, and the Royal Navy declined to assign battleships to support the assault — the English Channel was too risky for that with the Luftwaffe nearby. The German defences at Dieppe were in the hands of the 302nd Infantry Division, and ample reserves were close by.
The raiders boarded their landing craft on August 18 and set sail that night. Very quickly, everything unravelled, starting with the flotilla running into a German coastal convoy. The firing alerted the coastal defences, removing the element of surprise on which the entire plan depended. The Royal Navy landed the Canadians on Puys’ Blue Beach thirty-five minutes late at a time when they could easily be seen by two platoons of Germans on the beach and in a pillbox on the cliff overlooking it. Attackers from the Royal Regiment of Canada were cut to pieces by German machine guns and mortars, and only a few made it to the top of the cliff. Those still alive on the beach surrendered at about 8:30 a.m.; those atop the cliff held out until the late afternoon. Only sixty-five Royals out of almost six hundred made it back to England.
At Pourville’s Green Beach, the situation was only marginally better. The South Saskatchewan Regiment landed on time in darkness and achieved an element of surprise, but the Royal Navy landed part of the unit in the wrong place. One company, properly landed, took its objective. The rest, trying to cross the River Scie on a bridge, faced withering fire from the Germans perched on the cliffs on both sides of the landing beach. The South Sasks’ commander, Lieutenant Colonel Cecil Merritt, led his men across by sheer force of will: “Come on over, there’s nothing to it,” he said, standing up and swinging his helmet. Merritt then led attacks up the hill with his troops, joined by part of the Cameron Highlanders (who had landed with their pipers playing).
The remainder of the Camerons moved inland some two thousand metres until they encountered very heavy opposition and withdrew to the beach. The landing craft to pick them up were there, as planned, but very few of the survivors could reach them through the hail of machine-gun fire the Germans laid down. Merritt stayed to organize the defences that let those who made it get away. He was taken prisoner and soon received the Victoria Cross.
The real disaster was in front of Dieppe on the Red and White Beaches. The enemy heard the firing from Puys and Pourville and was at the alert, so there was no surprise, and without surprise there was no chance of good luck. The only advantage had by the attackers was the air attack on the cliffs to the east of the beaches and the strafing of the beach defences by British Hurricane fighter planes. The infantry landed while the Germans tried to collect themselves after the air attack, but the navy deployed the Calgary’s new Churchill tanks late,and the big armoured vehicles managed to do little, many failing to get over the seawall, others unable to move on the baseball-sized stones that made up the beach.
Without immediate fire support, the infantry took heavy casualties from the defenders perched on the cliffs that overlooked the beach and from the fortified casino at the west end of the beach. Some of the Royal Hamilton Light Infantry broke through the Germans’ wire and made it into the town. Like most of the RHLI, the Essex Scottish, raked by fire from the east and west headlands, died or fell wounded where they had landed. The carnage was compounded when garbled messages that suggested success led General Roberts to send in his reserve battalion. Montreal’s Fusiliers Mont- Royal landed at 7 a.m. and met only slaughter.
By the time it was over, 907 Canadian soldiers had died on the beach, 586 had suffered wounds, and 1,946 had fallen into German hands. British Commandos and Royal Marines had forty-five killed and 197 wounded or captured. The Royal Navy lost twenty-eight percent of the vessels used in the raid and 550 officers and ratings. And the Royal and Royal Canadian Air Forces had 106 aircraft shot down, the heaviest single day’s losses since the beginning of the war.
What had gone wrong? Everything is the proper answer, but some points should be stressed. Raiding France was a useful tool for the Allies to force the enemy to keep troops in the West rather than Russia, and yes, it was correct to test invasion theories. But it was a mistake to remount a once-cancelled operation, even if the Germans did not learn that Jubilee was a repeat of Rutter. It was an error not to have heavy bombing precede the assault and a huge blunder to fail to have big naval guns firing offshore.
The operational plan was unrealistic in the extreme — every problem was wished away for fear the raid might be cancelled and the Canadians not get their chance. It made no sense, for example, to expect the Cameron Highlanders to go eight kilometres inland, presumably in contact with the Germans the whole way, and then to return to the coast for embarkation, all in a few hours. It was foolish to depend on surprise above all, and extremely foolish to go on with the attack once surprise was lost. It was hopelessly unrealistic to count on luck to make up for failures in planning.
Those failures in planning were huge, but there were more. It was utmost stupidity to attack a defended port where cliffs and headlands dominated the beaches. Where else would the Germans put their firepower? It was madness to land on a beach in front of Dieppe, where stones impeded the tanks’ progress. Did no one think? Did no one try out the Churchill tanks’ ability to manoeuvre with their treads on stones? It was as if Dieppe was on the far side of the planet where none had ever travelled, rather than being just across the English Channel, a day trip that English visitors had taken for decades. The lack of good sense, and the failure by Mountbatten’s staff, Montgomery, and the Canadian planners to apply simple intelligence to the plan, created the monumental disaster. Dieppe was an object lesson on how not to mount an amphibious assault.
The Germans thought so, too. They had been surprised by the size of the raid, but the critique prepared at the Wehrmacht’s 81st Corps had been very censorious about Jubilee’s planning, which, being done “down to the last detail, limits the independence of action of the subordinate officers and leaves them no opportunity to make independent decisions….” There was some truth in that, and even more in another appraisal by the 302nd Division that suggested the air and naval support provided was “not nearly sufficient.”
The 81st Corps’ report also commented that “the Canadians on the whole fought badly and surrendered afterwards in swarms.” But the Wehrmacht’s Fifteenth Army disagreed: “The enemy, almost entirely Canadian soldiers, fought — so far as he was able to fight at all — well and bravely.”
Back in England, nothing mattered except that reputations be saved. The Dieppe raid became a model of how to spin the facts, as historian Timothy Balzer has conclusively demonstrated. Mountbatten’s expert public relations team turned out to be better at preparing their media lines for failure than his planners had been at drawing up the strategy for operational success. Combined Operations Headquarters instantly claimed that the raid had been a great achievement and learning experience, and they held to that line even after the casualty lists became public.
Two years later, Mountbatten’s boosters maintained that without Jubilee’s invaluable invasion tutorial D-Day could not have succeeded. General Crerar said much the same, and, understandably perhaps, so have most Dieppe survivors, not wanting their comrades to have been thrown away for nothing.
Historians and the Canadian public have largely parroted the same arguments, perhaps because the idea of a Canadian defeat, any Canadian defeat, is just too hard to swallow. On the other hand, some now look on Mountbatten as utterly unqualified for his role, a man protected by his royal connections and public relations minions. The arguments will continue, but all need to remember the comment by Lieutenant Colonel Cecil Merritt, VC. “We were very glad to go, we were delighted. We were up against a very difficult situation and we didn’t win: but to hell with this business of saying the generals did us dirt.”
The key question, however, remains: Did the lessons learned from Operation Jubilee pave the way for D-Day, June 6, 1944? Yes, to some extent. After Dieppe, everyone recognized the need for better planning and a clearer chain of command. Operation Overlord — the name for the invasion of Europe that began with the D-Day landing — satisfied those requirements. There was heavy bombing, though it was not hugely successful in destroying beach defences. There was massive naval gun support, which was successful. There were better landing craft and specialized armoured vehicles, and the assault troops were far better trained. All of those things would likely have happened even without the Dieppe raid.
And instead of landing at a fortified port, the D-Day invasion went in over open beaches, and the Allies brought their artificial port, Mulberry, with them. Some lessons were learned, but most of them were lessons that had been mastered before. Many of them had been taught at staff colleges for decades. Most of them were simple common sense.
The Globe and Mail, a newspaper bitterly opposed to the Liberal government in Ottawa, was one of the few to openly criticize the Dieppe operation. In the spring of 1943, when ministers defended the raid in Parliament, the Globe called the raid “a fiasco of the first order; a tragedy of military blundering without parallel in this war.” The newspaper had it right: The blunders at Dieppe were and remain inexcusable.
Pilot’s memoir offers riveting details of having to bail out over Normandy.
In the early morning hours of June 6, 1944, Flight Lieutenant C.A. “Tony” Selfe and his crew were on their way to the Cherbourg Peninsula of France. Their mission was to bomb German railway yards in order to prevent enemy forces from moving reinforcements to the Normandy region during the Allied D-Day assault.
A short time into their bombing run, disaster struck. The following excerpt from Selfe’s memoir describes the scene:
Operation of June 6, 1944 (D-Day)
This was a night trip, late on D-Day. Half the squadron had gone out the night before the landings took place on the Normandy coast. Our particular aim was to bomb the railway marshalling yards at Coutance on the Cherbourg Peninsula to help prevent the Germans moving men and armament to the western landing area. We were in Halifax III G' George, Serial Number LW377, and this was to be a little trip with a late evening take-off. As I recall, we had about 11,000 lbs of 500- and 1000- pound bombs, set to explode on impact. Possibly there was one or two set for delayed response.
As we were on our way to the target over the English Channel at about 2,000 feet altitude, we were amazed on two counts. First, the Channel was full of shipping going to the landing areas (and some coming back, no doubt), and second, we saw many aircraft, not bombers, coming back. These we mostly C-47 and C-46 transports used for dropping paratroops and equipment.
We made our run-in from the west at 1,800 feet. Other bombers were above and below and to the sides. Just before the time came for my bomb-aimer to release our bombs, there was a stunning impact and a stream of fire from just behind me and to my left. I thought at first we had been hit by anti-aircraft fire (Flak) and fought to control the aircraft. I pushed the appropriate fire extinguisher button (for the port inner engine) and pulled the jettison toggle for back-up bomb release. I got the aircraft on a level-keel, the fire went out and the mid-upper gunner reported that apparently a 500 lb bomb had gone through the wing, leaving a large hole between the P.I. engine and the fuselage, somehow missing the two 500 lbs bombs we carried there. The bomb had hit flat, not exploding) so the aircraft from which it came had been close above.
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A typical crew of a Halifax bomber. |
I checked the damage after turning southward away from the flak guns around the target. I had already found I couldn’t close the bomb doors, so the hydraulics were gone. The port aileron was inoperative, reducing my control over the aircraft. I had feathered (stopped) the P.I. engine as part of the fire extinguished procedure. It had stopped firing. Anyway, so it hadn’t been getting petrol because the fuel line was damaged. I was now down to just over 1,000 feet and could just maintain that altitude on three engines, with the open bomb-bay doors creating much drag. A few minutes later, my port-outer engine quit and I couldn’t maintain control without going into a descending turn to the left. Just as I was about to feather (stop) the port-outer engine (which was windmilling uselessly, causing drag), it fired up again with a roar. Apparently with the wing down it was getting some fuel it couldn’t get with the wings level. I clawed for altitude, got a couple of hundred feet, and asked my navigator for a heading for the nearest point on the English coast. It was Bold Head, between Dartmouth and Plymouth on the Devon Coast. My radio operator (Ross Bielby) got hold of an emergency frequency and told them we were trying to make the coast. The dilemma was that we were losing petrol and I could stop that by having the flight engineer shut off all fuel to the port side. That would mean I would lose the P.O. engine altogether and we would have to ditch somewhere in the English Channel where the water was cold and I would have to do a two-engined ditching. It made more sense to leave the fuel flowing and have partial use of the P.O. engine. We had about 100 miles to go. I did not yet know how quickly we were losing fuel.
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Pilot Tony Selfe flew a Halifax bomber similar to this one. |
A couple of minutes later, the P.O. quit again, down we went and then it fired up again and we struggled for altitude. It was hard work flying a four-engined aircraft (no power controls) under these conditions and the bomb-aimer helped me on the aileron control while I was moving trimming controls back and forth. I had become aware that the dinghy storage area was partially where the bomb went through the wing and so a ditching wouldn’t have worked anyway. With bomb doors open the aircraft probably would have sunk almost immediately.
We proceeded across the Channel in this erratic fashion, falling and pulling up again. An airfield somewhere up ahead was prepared to take us in but everything ahead was blacked out, I couldn’t be sure where it was. It took an hour to cross the 100 miles of water.
Just as we approached the coast (cliffs), my flight engineer told me he figured we had perhaps five minutes’ fuel left. I decided then that once we were over land I would bail everyone out rather than run the risk of running out of fuel and doing a deadstick forced landing on a pitch-black countryside, normally a fatal procedure. As we crossed the coast, the P.O. engine quit again and we went down very steeply toward the rocks below where I could see the white foam. When we were at about 400 feet the P.O. started up belatedly and I regained control. I had had the crew lined up ready to dive out of the escape hatch in the nose. Only a couple (crew members) were plugged into the intercom system. As we were going down toward the surf below, I said to anybody who was listening “Well, I guess we’ve had it.” There was silence and then when the P.O. engine fired up, I started to ease the kite [slang for airplane] up and said, “Maybe we haven’t.” There was a faint cheer from somebody.
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Allied bombers struggle to navigate through heavy flak somewhere over Germany. |
I got the aircraft up to about six hundred feet above the land and about half a mile inland and started bailing every one out. The I let the kite swing around toward the coast, trimmed it up for a gentle glide which I hoped would take it to the sea and climbed from my seat, getting my parachute harness hung up on the big undercarriage control lever which stuck up below the right-hand side of the pilot’s seat. I pulled this loose, and climbed down into the nose. I looked at the black hole of the escape hatch for a second and then dived out. I must have pulled the ripcord a little soon because when I was jolted upright I saw the kite quite close above me.
As we were not very high, there was a strong desire to get the parachute inflated. I had only swung a couple of times and then hit heavily by a stone wall and a gravel pile. I had tried to miss these objects and landed quite hard but apparently was intact. Later I found I had hurt my back but that, as they say, is another story. The aircraft had headed back toward the sea and apparently made a good landing in some medium-depth water just offshore. Some of it has now been salvaged. I rolled up my parachute, left it under a bush and found a lane heading back to the coast and, finally, a coast road. There was no traffic and when I came to a village it was deserted. Very eerie. I walked on and came to other deserted houses where I imagined I could hear faint voices of, I hoped, birds, calling me. I resisted the temptation to go down these dark entry-roads to the sinister houses with their strange noises and walked on finally I came to a barricade and a live village on the other side where a village bobby took me to his house for a cup of tea with his wife. There were searchers out in the countryside and one by one my crew members were picked up and we were taken to a spitfire field near Bolthead.
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Mass bomber raid on Cologne, by official war artist W. Krogman. In the background, the city’s famous cathedral is seen in silhouette as the surrounding city burns. |
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Miraculously, the crew suffered only mild injuries: Selfe had a sore back and leg. His navigator suffered a broken ankle, while his mid-upper gunner hurt his knee, and the flight engineer bit his tongue.
As Selfe later remarked: Compared to the likely alternative, we came out of it quite well. I was impressed during the last crucial hour or so by how coolly everyone appeared to be taking it. I was somewhat terrified myself but fortunately was too busy to do my brooding. During the rest of our tour of operations we had a fair number of emergencies and alarms but this one, on out ninth trip, was one to particularly remember.
— Files courtesy Canadian Letters and Images Project.
Northern Ontario town celebrates 100 years of Winnie the Bear.
Author A.A. Milne’s beloved Winnie-the-Pooh character continues to delight people around the world, a fact not lost on the people of White River, Ontario, where the original Winnie came from. From August 14 to 17, the northern Ontario town will mark the 100th anniversary of the black bear cub’s purchase by a World War I soldier passing through on his way to the battlefields of Europe.
Among those who will attend is Deb Hoffman, who holds the Guiness world record for Pooh memorabilia.
“My current Guinness Record is 10,002 but this year I should top 11,000,” said Hoffman. “Each year I drive thirteen hours from Wisconsin to attend the festival.”
Hoffman, a computer software designer, has spent about $100,000 on acquiring collectables related to Winnie and his friends from the Hundred Acre Wood. Four rooms in her home at Waukesha, Wisconsin, are filled with stuffed toys, figurines, bags, mugs, and clothing related to famous bear. She says she’s been in love with Winnie-the-Pooh since she was two years old.
White River has held a Pooh festival annually since 1989 and has made the bear popularized by Walt Disney a permanent roadside attraction. Visitors can have their photos taken with Winnie at the Honey Tree along the TransCanada Highway and learn more about Winnie’s history at the White River Heritage Musuem.
Lieutenant Harry Colebourn, a veterinarian from Winnipeg bought the orphaned cub from a trapper, and named him Winnipeg — later shortened to Winnie — after his hometown. Colebourn brought him to training camp in England, where he entertained soldiers with his antics. Before leaving for the front, Colebourn donated him to the London Zoo, where he quickly became a star attraction and an inspiration to Milne and his son.
This year’s festival includes numerous events, including a teddy bear picnic at which participants will try to break the world record for “Largest Gathering of Plush Winnie the Pooh and Friends.”
Watch a 10-minute clip of the movie "A Bear Named Winnie" and view the photo gallery below.
— Text by Nelle Oosterom
By Del Muise, professor emeritus of history at Carleton University
Canadians and their Pasts, a Community-University Research Alliance project funded by the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council, surveyed 3,419 Canadians on their engagement with and attitudes toward the past. Conducted as a telephone survey during 2007-08, its more than 70 questions per interview provide the most nuanced understanding of Canadians’ engagement with the past to date.
As with earlier such surveys in Europe, America, and Australia, Canadians place family history at the centre of their historical consciousness. While the level of education achievement was a key indicator of engagement, other factors such as age, sex, and locational factors were also important. Its key findings are discussed in a recently released book: Canadians and their Pasts (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2013).
Among other things, the survey puts paid to commonly held notions that Canadians are uninformed about or uninterested in the past. In fact, considerable interest and activity regarding the broad field of history was reported; Canadians visit museums and historic sites and watch history related movies and television as well as reading history related books and magazines. So much more of Canada’s history is available in so many media that access to the past has flourished in the past few decades.
The survey also accentuates the engagement Canadians have with historical contexts of contemporary issues. Debating history, and not just commemorative military-related practices, pervades public discourse. The vast terrain of evolving communities of practice, such as genealogy and family history and community-based discussion groups on social media such as Facebook, not to mention such popular vehicles as Canada’s History magazine, reflect the dynamism of historical communities in Canada.
The Findings
When we began this project, we understood that Canadians, like their counterparts in Britain, America, and Australia, would rate their family past as their highest priority. We found plenty of evidence of people’s interest in autobiography and family history. It might be expressed as a visit to a cemetery, still using an ancestor’s recipes, or a relative’s genealogical research. We learned that 83 percent of the 3119 people who responded to the national survey had looked at old photographs in the past year, 74 percent were saving something meaningful (heirlooms) to pass on, 57 percent visited a place connected to the family’s past, 56 percent prepared a past-based scrapbook, and just over 20 percent worked on family tree.
These are personal activities, for the most part — aspects of what can be called “autobiographical or communal memory.” But we also found through our extended interviews (which averaged over twenty minutes each) an extraordinary Canadian tapestry, as people spoke of the specific relationships and communities about which they felt keenly. In their explanations of how the past figured in their daily lives, the idea of selfish individualism and the absence of any appreciation of community pasts was not sustained. Rather, interest in family history often provided a point of entry and a means of access rather than a dead end. Many respondents were able both to establish the facts of “history” and to distinguish such public contexts from stories about a personal or autobiographical and family “past.” Of particular significance was the frequent association of family pasts with migration and arrival in Canada.
Respondents to the survey shared with us their interests and abilities, though only about a quarter of them approached the problem of resolving conflicting historical accounts with sophisticated research approaches. As well, significant differences emerged in the kinds of sources most trusted: respondents with less schooling tended to trust family stories more, and museums less, than those who had spent more years in school and university. The presence of artifacts, the availability of multiple sources, and the opportunity to analyze primary sources meant more to the longer-schooled, less to the lesser-schooled. But, in general, museums and historic sites were considered to be far more reliable sources of historical information than teachers or family stories, or the web, which garnered the lowest scores for trustworthiness.
The results of the survey also offer a different, illuminating, and perhaps even a more precise estimate of “how important” an outlook or opinion is, that is, how strongly it is held, or how much it affects one group as opposed to others; second, it reveals unsuspected attitudes or differences in outlook or currents in popular thought. But third, and paradoxically, the results seemed lifeless because they were presented mostly in the form of numbers. We loved the quotations we were able to draw from people’s responses but they were said to be merely illustrative, not representative.
Newcomers' Perspectives
Canadians and Their Pasts’ chapter on immigrants and migrants offers some quite interesting distinctions. We were able to draw comparisons between immigrants who had been in Canada for ten years or less, immigrants of more than ten years’ residence, first generation Canadians, and Canadians whose families had been in the country for two or more generations. As is well known, Canada has experienced in recent decades a significant westward drift of population. British Columbia and Alberta have much higher proportions of arrivals from the rest of Canada. Atlantic Canada and Quebec have the lowest. We looked at “Movers” and “Stayers”: Movers had been born in one province and were now living in another; Stayers were living in the province where they were born. More Movers than Stayers saw the past of Canada as being “very important.” A much higher proportion of Stayers in the provinces east of the Ottawa River, compared to Stayers in Ontario and the western provinces, ranked the history of their province as a “very important” past. Therefore, we suggest that Canada may be perceived as a country divided in two at the Ottawa River. Residents of the provinces with a “long history,” all situated east of the Ottawa, view provincial and national history somewhat differently from those in Ontario and the West.
Cultural Differences
When we embarked on this project, our goal was to place the Canadian survey in an international context. Most directly, the survey enabled us to compare the presence of the past in Canada to the United States and Australia, where comparable research had been undertaken. The similarity of findings is not surprising. These three countries have high levels of economic development and literacy; all have allocated impressive resources to museums, historic sites, and public history; and all have broad historical trajectories as settler countries with Aboriginal populations and continuing immigration. We would not expect similar findings in societies with recent traumatic experiences, such as Bosnia and Somalia, or where the foundations of the present are being revised continuously, as in Palestine, Russia, and South Africa. People with greater levels of awareness of the contested past may express lower levels of trust in formal sources of information such as museums, historic sites, and textbooks. In the survey findings of both the United States and Canada, Aboriginal groups had lower levels of trust in official sources of information about the past and higher levels of trust in family stories or personal accounts.
We can think of many other reasons why the presence of the past may be expressed differently in different cultures and societies. For example, some of the highest participation rates in the United States, Australia, and Canada were related to family reunions, writing diaries and cookbooks, and looking at old photographs. In countries with lower levels of income and literacy, where the extended family lives in one place all the time, and where history is commonly conveyed through oral communication, visual arts, performance, and other mnemonic devices, such activities may not be the most common ways of engaging with the past. Interest in the past may also be defined and expressed differently. In countries with fresh evidence of losses from recent wars, or with large refugee populations, the term “interest,” itself, would seem inappropriate as a way of capturing people’s involvement with the past. Here, the presence of the past often has an immediate and visceral impact on everyday life, creating acute uncertainties about the future.
Conclusions
What can we conclude? Our survey illuminates a number of important themes that have been prominent in media commentary in recent years. Have people lost contact with the past as a result of today’s extraordinary changes in communication? We say, emphatically, no. Do they express any interest in Canada’s history? Yes, quite clearly they do. Are ethnic and religious loyalties evident in the pattern of their responses? Yes, without question, but regional and linguistic differences were not as significant as we had anticipated. Do immigrants differ in some way from the Canadian-born in their relationship to the past? Not nearly as much as has been suggested in public debates in other countries. Do interprovincial migrants have a distinctive view of Canada’s past? Yes, like immigrants, they express greater interest in Canada’s past than many of their fellow citizens. Do Canadians differ from Americans and Australians? In some matters, yes, but the bigger story is the presence of an internationally shared perspective.
Ultimately, we can conclude that history plays a significant role for many people in providing meaning in their fast-changing world. For some it may be a substitute for religion that in an earlier time offered context and comfort, but our survey suggests that many respondents used history to supplement their spiritual beliefs about the place of human beings in the universe.
At the heart of this outlook is awareness of the past: people live with history in the present; the past lives within us all. From this assertion, unremarkable in its wording, but significant in its implications, a myriad of consequences arises for all those – citizens, teachers, curators, policymakers, volunteer associations, private institutions, historians – involved in the production, communication, and contemplation of history. The Canadians and Their Pasts study speaks confidently to those who dedicate themselves to finding ways of informing and entertaining, of combining rigour and fun, in their daily work on historical messages.
The Canadians and their Pasts team included seven co-investigators representing six universities across the country, who are also the co-authors of the book Canadians and their Pasts. As well, a dedicated web page outlines all aspects of the project and includes various scholarly publications by project team members as well as conference papers, etc. A copy of the interview protocol is available there as well.
After more than a decade of planning and construction, the new Canadian Museum for Human Rights opens September 20 in Winnipeg.
The first national museum built outside the National Capital Region, the CMHR is situated near the forks of the Red and Assiniboine rivers, across the railway tracks from the heart of downtown Winnipeg and across the river from the French community of St. Boniface. The site on Treaty One land is believed to have been a First Nations meeting place for thousands of years, and a major archaeological dig uncovered hundreds of thousands of objects indicating centuries of use by Aboriginal peoples.
Visitors enter between the building’s massive “roots,” which were inspired by the exposed tree roots architect Antoine Predock noticed along the nearby riverbank during one of his many site visits. A curving glass “cloud” envelopes the south and west sides of the building, and the distinctive “Tower of Hope” rises one hundred metres.
The museum’s eleven main galleries are housed inside the Manitoba Tyndall stone-clad “mountain” that forms the core of the building. They are linked by a set of overlapping walkways covered in translucent Spanish alabaster and lit from within.
For more on the museum, see the article “Rallying Point” in the August-September 2014 issue of Canada’s History magazine. And for more about the museum’s main galleries, click on the images below (images are courtesy of the Canadian Museum for Human Rights and the Friends of the Canadian Museum for Human Rights).
The social events surrounding the conferences that led to Confederation included many unmarried women who had accompanied their fathers or brothers in hopes of finding a mate. Writer Anne McDonald wrote about one of them — Mercy Coles of P.E.I. — in the August-September 2014 issue of Canada's History magazine. Here is McDonald's article:
From a social standpoint, Canada’s journey to Confederation was quite a whirl. The September 1864 Charlottetown Conference was full of joie de vivre — buckets of champagne, lots of icebreaking, and plenty of making love in the old-fashioned sense. When the talks continued in Quebec that October, the socializing continued. And there were many young women about, because the Fathers of Confederation took along their unmarried daughters and sisters to, well, promote union of a different sort. Luckily for us, one of them kept a diary of her trip.
The Mercy Coles Confederation diary is everything such a document is supposed to be. It is part gossip: “The Misses Steeves [daughters of New Brunswick delegate William Steeves] seem to be the possessors of the parlour downstairs. I think they never leave it. There is a Mr. Carver who seems to be the great attraction. He is a beau of Miss Fisher’s [daughter of New Brunswick delegate Charles Fisher] but they monopolize him.”
It is part travelogue: “Here we are stopt in the road. Something is the matter with the engine. ... Such a thing did not happen before since we left home. The Grand Trunk is the line. I have not much faith in Yankee Railways.”
And it is part social commentary: “The Ball I believe was rather a failure as far as the delegates are concerned. The Quebec people never introduced the ladies nor gentlemen to any partners nor never seen whether they had any supper or not. The Col. Grays [Colonel John Ham- ilton Gray, premier of Prince Edward Island, and Colonel John Hamilton Gray, a lawyer and former premier of New Brunswick — yes, they had exactly the same name!] are both rather indignant at the way their daughters were treated.”
Mercy Coles, the twenty-six-year-old daughter of George Coles, Prince Edward Island’s Father of Confederation, wrote of her travels and of the events, balls, banquets, people, and whirlwind of social happenings and political manoeuvrings as they impacted her and her desires. Coles was the oldest single young woman (aside from Thomas Haviland’s widowed sister, Mrs. Alexander, who was forty) at the conference back when twenty-six was old to be single. Not surprisingly, Coles was very interested in the men, and many of them, including John A. Macdonald, were taken with her.
The diary has never been published, and yet without it Confederation history is incomplete. The Coles diary provides an intimate view of Canada’s movers and shakers of the time. It includes places and events that made up Canada’s social and cultural history.
Image, right: Province House Ball 1864, by contemporary artist Dusan Kadlec. Photo: Dusan Kadlec Fine Art
While politics affected her, Coles was interested in something far different than the resolutions of the British North America Act. This young female traveller was keen on falling in love and finding a mate, and excited by travel and the lure of away.
As it turned out, her stay in Quebec City was a different kind of adventure from the one she had anticipated. Almost immediately after her arrival, she fell sick with diphtheria, a serious bacterial infection of the upper respiratory tract. In the nineteenth century, the disease was often fatal. Her sickness forced her to miss most of the balls, banquets, parties, and outings where she might have been wooed. However, her illness didn’t stop her from writing about the social side of the conference and recording the gossip; nor did it stop her from receiving lots of visitors — their ignorance of how the disease spread serving in this case to benefit history.
The Quebec Conference began on Monday, October 10, 1864. Coles and her parents arrived the Saturday before and remained in Quebec until October 26. Afterwards, they travelled with the other delegates and their families to Montreal, Ottawa, Toronto, and Niagara Falls to promote Confederation. There was ample opportunity for the women to court and be courted.
The first big evening in Quebec was an event known as the “drawing room,” hosted by Governor General Lord Monck in the Parliament Buildings on Tuesday, October 11. Coles attended, though she found it to be a long, drawn-out, and boring affair. On the upside, Coles happily wrote, “Mr. Tilley took charge of me and walked about with me the whole evening.” Samuel Leonard Tilley, the premier of New Brunswick, was a forty-six- year-old widower with seven children. Coles had met him during the train journey to Quebec and remarked earlier that he had helped her admire the scenery. But clearly she wasn’t his only object of attention: “It is rather a joke, he is the only beau of the party and with 5 single ladies he has something to do to keep them all in good humour,” Coles wrote. Nothing came of the mild flirtation, however; three years later, Tilley married Alice Starr Chipman, the daughter of a close friend.
The next big party was the governor’s ball on Friday, October 14. It was as she was getting ready for the ball that Coles fell sick: On Monday, October 17, she wrote: “Home all alone. I have not been able to leave my bedroom since Friday. ... I went to comb Mamma’s hair and nearly fainted. She made me lie down. I got so nervous and excited that I commenced crying. Papa went off for Dr. Tupper [Nova Scotia Premier Charles Tupper, who reportedly carried his doctor’s bag everywhere and at the conference did double duty as a physician].”
Coles’ illness brought her extra attention, though, and she received special condolences from many of the men, including John A. Macdonald, who at the time had been widowed for seven years. “Mr. Crowther [secretary to Province of Canada delegate Alexander Galt] has just called and left a comic newspaper for me with his compliments. He, Mr. Drinkwater [Macdonald’s secretary], and Mr. Bernard [Hewitt Bernard, secretary of the whole conference] call every day to enquire for me.”
Not only did the delegates ask after her, they sent her their new “cartes de visite” — copies of studio portraits of themselves. “[Tilley] gave me such a nice carte of himself, all the gentlemen have been having their likenesses taken. Papa’s is only tolerable.” On October 25 she was confined to her room when Bernard came to dinner. “I was so disappointed when Ma told me. [Bernard] sent me his carte this morning. ... I shall have quite a collection for every one of the gentle- men have had theirs taken.”
From a social history perspective, Coles’ most interesting comments are about the men who were single — the three secretaries, Tilley, and Macdonald. Although she did not comment directly on the talks, she would have known that the politics that affected her father affected her in terms of possible courtship.
For their parts, the delegates knew it was important to treat the women of the conference well. Prince Edward Island delegate Edward Whelan wrote in his newspaper, the Examiner: “The Cabinet ministers — the leading ones especially — are the most inveterate dancers I have ever seen, they do not seem to miss a dance the live-long night. They are cunning fellows; and there is no doubt it is all done for a political purpose; they know if they can dance themselves into the affections of the wives and daughters of the country, the men will certainly become an easy conquest.”
Indeed, Mercy Coles’ own father was very energetic when it came to dancing his way to influence. She wrote: “They had a great Ball last night at Mde. Tessier’s [wife of Ulric Joseph Tessier, the Speaker of the legislative assembly of the Province of Canada]. Papa came home with every stitch of clothes wringing wet with perspiration. He says he never had such a time, the French ladies are the very mischief for flying round. John A. [Macdonald] and he saw Mde. Duval [wife of Justice Jean-Francois-Joseph Duval, Court of Queen’s Bench, Canada East] and her daughter home.” That George Coles should receive Macdonald’s attention isn’t surprising. P.E.I. was not sold on Confederation. On the day of the party at the Tessiers, the island’s delegates had repeatedly voted against the resolutions put forward.
P.E.I. was often the only province to vote no. By the eve of October 19, the island delegates were split on the question of representation by population. George Coles was on the side that believed rep by pop had been agreed upon in Charlottetown as the only way to proceed forward with Confederation. P.E.I. Premier John Hamilton Gray was clear on that, too, but his Attorney General, Ed- ward Palmer, disagreed, as did Thomas Haviland, another island delegate. William Pope, a strong supporter of Confederation, wasn’t there that evening. The P.E.I. delegates left to discuss matters amongst themselves and would vote in the morning. Thus, George Coles was in a position to sway the other P.E.I. delegates to vote in favour of the Canadians’ proposals — in this case, the highly contentious question of the number of representatives each province would have in the House of Commons.
And so we have John A. and George Coles at the Tessierparty together and returning together. And we have John A. over the next week taking care to be there in Mercy Coles’ thoughts and writings. Indeed it is in this week that we hear more from Coles about Macdonald than we hear about him at any other time:
Saturday, October 22: “John A was making very kind enquiries about me last night, he told Ma he could not express how sorry he felt at my being ill.”
Monday October 24: “Mr. J.A. Macdonald dined with us last night. After dinner he entertained me with any amount of small talk, when I came to bed at 9 o’clock he said he was just going to a party at Mde. Duval’s.”
Wednesday October 26: “I went to dinner in the evening. John A. sat alongside of me. What an old Humbug he is. He brought me my dessert into the Drawing Room. The conundrum.”
Coles’ unspecified “conundrum” leaves one wondering just what was happening . George Coles must have been upset — would his daughter have known it, or known why? The week of October 19 to 26 would have been really hard on the P.E.I. delegates. Even so, the speeches that continued on the tour of the Canadas were very pro-Confederation. In Ottawa, George Coles compared it to a “proposed matrimonial union,” though he conceded that it was “in some respects not what some of them might have wished.”
As for Mercy Coles’ description of Macdonald, well, “old Humbug” doesn’t sound that attractive. Did she think Macdonald liked her romantically, while she wasn’t attracted to him in that way? She noted that he brought her dessert to her, which implies that she felt some level of intimacy or connection and that this is what brought up the “conundrum.” Did she feel a degree of obligation to return Macdonald’s feelings in order to help her father’s and P.E.I.’s desires for better terms? Was this a “come hither” by Macdonald that she didn’t quite know how to deal with?
October 26 was the last night of the conference in Quebec. Alexander Galt spent the day and evening presenting the financial resolutions, leaving out a proposal put forward at Charlottetown for money to buy out the island’s absentee landlords. George Coles later said, in the P.E.I. legislature, that he was “struck with amazement” that this was left out of the financial resolutions. This reneging on the money to buy out the landlords was pretty much the nail in the coffin for P.E.I.’s likelihood of going forward with Confederation. The P.E.I. delegates still spoke positively in speeches and clearly hoped things might change, but, in the end, this final action of the Canadians cemented island opinion against Confederation.
In a 1917 Charlottetown Guardian interview with Coles about her diary, fifty years after Confederation and fifty-three years after the Quebec Conference, Coles commented on the special room set aside for her in Montreal as they continued on the conference tour of the Canadas: “On arriving at the hotel [on October 27] I was surprised to find that I was the invalid for whom preparations had been made. Evidently Mr. Macdonald, who had always proved a very kind friend to me, had telegraphed ahead. I found the room, which had been assigned to me equipped with a large fireplace. They must have been somewhat astonished to see the invalid acting in such a sprightly way as I did.”
It’s hard to say whether John A. was simply courting Coles for political expediency or if he was truly interested. The former seems more likely, but Coles to some degree took his intentions seriously. One wonders, too, how and when Macdonald “had always proved a very kind friend.” This same “friend” wrote later to Premier Gray bidding him to say hello to those in P.E.I. Macdonald knew, “always excepting Messrs. Palmer and Coles,” since the latter were by then firmly opposed to Confederation.
By the time the party arrived in Ottawa, the stress of the conference was beginning to take its toll on Macdonald. He was supposed to have given a speech on November 1, but, as Coles wrote, “he was tight or had a palpitation of the heart and could not go on.”
When Macdonald didn’t show up in Toronto on November 4, as the party was leaving for Niagara Falls, Coles wrote: “I have not seen John A. since he came up in the carriage with us at Cobourg [November 2]. He did not appear at all yesterday. Mr. Bernard was at the station this morning to say goodbye. I told him to say everything kind for me to John A.” This seems to have been the end of the flirtation with Macdonald, who would go on to marry Bernard’s sister, Agnes, three years later. Bernard himself remained a lifelong bachelor.
Coles was perhaps naive. If Macdonald’s courting of her was only for political expediency, then she was fooled, or had fooled herself, into believing him. This makes Macdonald appear rather callous.
It’s fair to point out that even though Macdonald did go to Toronto he gave no speeches there. Nor did he go on any of the sightseeing events. He tended, once he started drinking, to continue until he passed out.
And if he hadn’t disappeared into drink, if he had continued his courting, and if Coles hadn’t been away sick, would Canada’s history have turned out differently? That’s difficult to say.
What we do know is that the Quebec Conference may have paved the way to Confederation, but it did nothing for Mercy Coles’ matrimonial prospects. She never did marry. She lived out her life in Charlottetown and died in her eighties.
The things that kept the common fighting man from cracking in the trenches were sometimes very small.
They were new to the soldiers’ life. They did not expect to be digging themselves into the ground, and staying there, in their troglodyte world, where the shovel was more useful than the rifle; to be burrowing like frightened animals to escape the terrible firepower of modern weapons. They were farmers, bankers, clerks, and miners — men of every class and occupation, from every part of Canada — but very few of them were professional soldiers.
How many of them could have imagined the horror of the trenches, where rats and lice plagued them year-round? In summer, they were overwhelmed by sweltering heat and the overpowering stench of bodies both living and dead. In winter they huddled like the homeless people they were, wrapped in layers of wet, mouldering clothes, boots nearly sucked from feet by the clinging mud.
By day, the battlefield was deserted; at night, nocturnal warriors crept into the foreboding no man’s land between the two opposing armies, laid barbed wire, patrolled, and raided the enemy lines. How did these civilian-soldiers from the young Dominion of Canada withstand such ghastly conditions?
The Great War raged for more than four years, killed ten million soldiers, wounded and maimed at least double that many, and forever changed world history. This cataclysm continues to haunt us ninety years after the guns fell silent. Canada paid a heavy price: more than 60,000 dead and 172,000 wounded from a country of not yet eight million.
In the war’s strange, static battlefield, where the front lines rarely shifted, the large battles that signposted the war — Second Ypres (1915), the Somme (1916), Vimy (1917), and Amiens (1918) — were relatively rare, but always the soldiers faced death. And it was random death: death by shell, shrapnel, sniper’s bullet, and all manner of weapons. Lance-Sergeant William Curtis described life in the trenches in a letter to his mother. “Ten days under heavy shell fire all the time, day and night. Our casualties were heavy, mostly wounded. It is nerve shattering to be under shellfire.” Curtis’s candid letter to his mother captured the strain at the front, where men became more and more unsteady over time. The young Curtis, who had grown up in Peterborough, Ontario, did not survive the war.
There was no escape and no rest from the battering, both physical and mental. Standing shoulder to shoulder with comrades helped, but there was no single method of enduring the death and destruction. Many soldiers were deeply religious, and their faith was only strengthened in the wasteland. “I do believe God will preserve me again when I go back to the trenches,” wrote Frank Maheux to his concerned wife. Although wounded, Maheux survived. Other soldiers found the fighting so brutal that their faith in a higher power was shaken. Weariness led to fatalism, which was a form of psychological coping where the soldiers continued to serve until the inevitable claimed them. It was summed up in the phrase, “When your number’s up.”
Even with these fatalistic beliefs, most soldiers tried to load the odds of survival in their favour. They armed themselves with good luck charms, embraced complicated superstitions, and followed patterns of behaviour. In a world of chaos, it was important to cling to something solid, even if it was based on a construction of the mind.
Small rewards also kept soldiers going. Letters from home created a sense of normalcy. A daily ration of rum and ample supplies of cigarettes offered respite from bland, starchy cooking and stale water. Also encouraging were the constellation of good billets (like a dry barn), junior officers who cared for their men, and even the rewards of medals.
While soldiers became hardened to the death and destruction around them, many truly believed in the justness of their fight. George Ormsby, who at age thirty-five left behind his wife and two children, wrote: “If it should happen that I do go under, I trust you will be proud that I have had the courage to get out and fight against such a domineering race. Should Germany win this war then may God help Canada — in fact the whole world.”
Not all men endured. Some broke under the strain, seeking wounds to give them honourable escape, or inflicting their own. Close to 10,000 soldiers were diagnosed with shell shock and another 700 were caught injuring themselves to escape the front. Desperate soldiers ran away from their units. They were almost always caught in the rear areas and many were sentenced to death, with twenty-five sentences carried out — twenty-two for desertion, one for cowardice and two for murder. Behind the multiple factors that kept soldiers in the line was the ultimate threat of a firing squad.
Despite the strain, British and Dominion forces were among the very few armies that went through the meat grinder of the Western Front without succumbing to mass mutiny. The Russian forces broke in 1917; the French and Italians mutinied that same year after spectacularly poor leadership and the accumulation of morale-shaking casualties; even the much-vaunted German army was in ruins by the end of the war — but not the Empire’s forces. While the Canadian, Australian, New Zealand, Newfoundland, and British Tommies paid a terrible price at the sharp end, they did not break. In the end, they fought because they refused to surrender. They were not simply victims in this massive industrialized war. They found ways to cope; they created new survival tools.
The key to victory in the Great War was the endurance of the common fighting man. We can sometimes forget this, ninety years later, as we look back over the wreckage of war that tore apart the twentieth century, the cities of silent white crosses in Europe, and the several thousands of stone memorials in local communities that span this country as mute testimony to a lost generation.
— Text by Tim Cook. This article originally appeared in the October/November 2008 issue of The Beaver.
Richard Kistabish, president of the Legacy of Hope foundation, recently spoke with Jessica Knapp about the significance of the history of residential schools. Listen to the podcast interview.
The 100 Years of Loss exhibition about residential schools has been traveling across Canada since July 2011. The bilingual exhibition originates from a collection of oral histories from residential schools survivors. Organized by the Legacy of Hope Foundation, the Aboriginal Healing Foundation and Library and Archives Canada, the exhibition aims to give Canadians a history of residential schools that has long been absent from curriculum. As Kistabish explains, “this traveling exhibition is only an overview of what happened, it is not the details. This is the beginning of asking people to be aware of these stories that happened in residential schools. The most common comment we have is that it is unbelievable, nobody seems to believe that this kind system existed in Canada. We have to convince people it really happened and that we have witnesses to tell their stories.”
Because it has been difficult for teacehers to provide a comprehensive history of residential schools in Canada, the Legacy of Hope Foundation developed an educational kit to help in the classroom. “The idea of the education kit came from the comments we had from the public viewing the exhibition; they wanted to know more about what happened. The educational kit goes deeper in the way of how we’ve been treated in those schools” says Kistabish. The educational component is directed at youth aged 11-18 and provides the support for educators to effectively and compassionately teach the history of residential schools, as well as the continual influences on current and future generations.
Kistabish explains: “After a couple of years of being told to not use your language, you start to hate your language, you start to hate your culture and you start to hate your parents. We learned how to hate people, we learned how to be abusive, and we learned how to be violent because we seen it everyday. We have to get rid of this by creating awareness to remove the behavior of hate and the behavior of violence.”
Stephanie Johns, a Western University graduate student, was among those who visitied the exhibition at the Canadian Museum of History in June: “The design of the exhibition represents the cyclical nature of abuse, and poor living conditions that occurred in the residential schools and consequently continues to this day in some Aboriginal communities. The circles of the pillars represent the cycle and the wavy wall represents the ups and downs of Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal relationships throughout history.”
— Text by Jessica Knapp
View the virtual 100 Years of Loss exhibition
Learn more about the Education Program
In April of 1639, the sailing vessel St.-Joseph departed from Dieppe, Normandy, and began its journey towards New France. On board were the crew, six Jesuit priests, three Ursuline nuns and three Augustinian nuns. Over the next three months, the travellers slipped past enemy British ships and pirate ships, went through severe storms, grazed an iceberg "as big as a city" and survived infectious diseases. They arrived safely and in good health in Quebec on August 1, 1639, and were given a cheerful welcome. Though small in number, the nuns were bringing much needed help and moral support for the young colony’s development.
The two cloistered communities began their missions without delay, for there was much work to do. The Augustinian nuns founded the first hospital north of Mexico. Soon after its establishment, the ill and wounded — French or Native — arrived in great numbers. Financially sustained by the Duchess of Aiguillon, the nursing nuns had, and still have, an excellent reputation for healing and wound care. The Ursuline nuns, financed by Madame of La Peltrie, began their education and mission work the day after their arrival. The School of the Ursulines became one of the most prestigious girls' schools on the continent, and today is the oldest school for girls still running in North America.
The religious orders occasionally combined their resources. On two occasions, the Ursulines monastery was destroyed by fire. Both times, the Ursulines found refuge within the Augustinian convent. The Augustinians also welcomed the Ursulines when their convent was threatened by bombardments from the British army during the Seven Years War.
To celebrate the 375th anniversary of the Ursuline and Augustinian nuns arrival in New France, the two orders are once again collaborating to present a wide range of commemorative activities. A historical reenactment of their arrival at Quebec City takes place August 2, 2014. For more information about upcoming activities, please visit Le375e.com (in French only).
Clearing the Plains: Disease, Politics of Starvation, and the Loss of Aboriginal Life, is a scathing indictment of the Canadian government’s treatment of First Nations people in the late 1800s. The nonfiction book claimed top prize at the 2014 Canadian Historical Association Awards. Canada’s History spoke recently with its author, James Dashuk, a historian and an assistant professor in the Faculty of Kinesiology and Health Studies at the University of Regina.
Read on for an excerpt, or listen to the full interview here:
Canada’s History: What inspired you to write your book?
James Dashuk: What I was looking for was the origin of the gap between the population of First Nations communities and that of mainstream Canadians. As I looked back, almost as soon as the treaties were signed — they were completed in the 1870s — First Nations people not only lost their health, they had their health taken away from them through federal government policies.
CH: What surprised you the most?
James Dashuk: The vast majority of the Canadian plains — this is the Saskatchewan plains — along the railroad were actually ethnically cleansed of First Nations people in preparation for the arrival of European Canadian settlement. I live in Saskatchewan and that's part of our myth — we are the breadbasket of the world. What I was shocked to find, over the years, is that the breadbasket of the world — the foundation of that society — is based on a famine.
CH: Was the famine inflicted on purpose?
James Dashuk: It was done to be as close to actual starvation — those were Sir John A’s words to Parliament. It wasn’t an accident. This was part of government policy, to essentially displace First Nations people from their territory, from their niche in the environment, and to open up to settlement. By the time mainstream Canadians did set up the breadbasket, they had no idea First Nations people had been occupying that territory, because they had been displaced for a generation or two.
CH: What lesson, if any, does your research offer us?
James Dashuk: With mainstream Canadians, a lot of us just don't know history. It may be a bit presumptuous but maybe (my goal was to stage) a little historical intervention on our view of ourselves as a benign people and a benign state — because an awful lot of First Nations people don't see it that way.
For more about Clearing the Plains, read the review by Niigaanwewidam James Sinclair.
— Text by Mark Reid
Eyewitness accounts from the frontlines of history.
What’s it like to walk in another person’s historical shoes? Canada’s History Editor in Chief Mark Reid asked that question as he wrote “What It’s Like” in the August-September issue of Canada’s History magazine.
The article points out that technology and social media allow us to know more about more people in more places than at any other point in human history. And we can find ourselves easily immersed in and moved by news events affecting people we don’t know on the other side of the world.
But when it comes to historical events that happened in our own country, it’s more difficult for us to make a connection. Fortunately, before the time of electronic messaging, people wrote letters and journals. By reading their own words, we can get a feel for the time they lived in.
In “What It’s Like,” Reid explores a series of first-hand accounts from the front lines of history.
For instance, what was it like for William Lyon Mackenzie King to meet German Chancellor Adolf Hitler in 1937? As it turns out, King’s diaries show he was quite charmed by the Nazi dictator. Like many politicians of his time, King did not realize Hitler’s actions would eventually lead to a devastating world war and the slaughter of millions of people.
For a perspective on King’s diary entries from his pre-war visit to Berlin, see this item at Library and Archives Canada.
The Château Ramezay museum and historic site in Montreal commemorates the War of 1812 with items from its collection. Produced as three "time capsules" for the web, each video provides a different perspective: Canadian, British and First Nations.
Visit their website for more information about this exhibit or others.
Capsule 1: The Canadians
The first capsule centres on the hero of Châteauguay, Charles-Michel d’Irumberry de Salaberry, marking his rise and that of his venerable family through objects once in their possession. Artifacts related to Salaberry's close friend, the Duke of Kent, and the works of painter and miniaturist Anson Dickinson are also shown.
Capsule 2: The British
The second capsule shines a spotlight on the Governor-in-Chief of British North America, Sir George Prevost. The interpretation of the British Colony’s defence in the face of an American invasion is handled with military objects and the artworks of influential painters such as Jean-Baptiste Roy-Audy.
Capsule 3: First Nations
The third capsule focuses on Shawnee chief, Tecumseh. Included among the artifacts is a dagger that belonged to Tecumseh. The War of 1812 as experienced by First Nations’ is shown through the work of artists and illustrators such as Huron painter Zachary Vincent and American artist George Catlin.
As an ocean-going vessel took shape on a Saskatchewan farm during the Great Depression, it was clear that its builder was either a genius or a madman. by Rick Book
There she was, red hull mounted on white keel, rising above the prairie grass of rural Saskatchewan. The thirteen-metre-long Sontiainen never sailed beyond one farmer’s imagination. She was a prairie dust ship, a strange reminder of the madness that ran rampant during the Great Depression.
Pictures of the Sontiainen were in our family photograph albums. Dad had seen the ship, had met the huge Finlander, Tom Sukanen, who’d built her. On a cool fall Sunday in 1938, a bunch of farm kids hopped in a truck and drove to see this fantastic thing growing on the prairie. Dad, just fourteen, the youngest of the group, took photographs of the hull and keel with grandpa’s Kodak box camera.
It was such an unlikely idea, an ocean-going sail and steam ship, built amidst the dust and despair of the dirty thirties, thousands of kilometres from the nearest salt water. The ship took shape near Macrorie, a tiny village located midway between Swift Current and Saskatoon. Dad never tired of telling us the story. He believed in Sukanen’s dream of sailing the ship across the ocean. Dad believed Sukanen might have done it — if only. Hope dies hard in the West.
When Dad visited the boat, the Great Depression was drawing to a close and the Prairie provinces were nearing the end of a ten-year drought that had devastated the land. There had been no decent crops. Even when a little rain fell and wheat came up, grasshoppers quickly devoured it — or the grain was felled by a wheat rust fungus and had to be plowed under. But mostly there was no rain, only wind. The hot, dry wind blew day and night, carrying off great black clouds of topsoil. My aunt Mabel remembers waking up in the morning and finding the patchwork quilt she was sleeping under had turned one uniform colour — grey.
No one had money. Mom tells a story about my Norwegian grandmother who, after turning her house upside down, still couldn’t find three pennies to buy thread from a travelling salesman. Husbands and sons left home to find jobs. My dad’s cousin Pat got hurt felling trees up north. No longer able to work, he hopped a freight train south, avoided the railway bulls — as the rail police were called in those days — and slept under a bridge in Saskatoon. He came home hollow-eyed and hungry, just as broke as when he left. When all hope ran out, some farmers simply walked out to their barns, slung a piece of rope over a beam, and hanged themselves. Wives were afraid to go looking for them.
In the midst of all this misery was Tom Sukanen. That crazy Finn, they called him. He had started to build a boat! It would have been funny if things hadn’t been so desperate. Impoverished farm families were piling everything they owned into wagons and slinking off for greener pastures further west, but this man was spending good money shipping in material from afar for his crazy project — huge flat sheets of steel, stout beams, boxes of nails, bags of bolts. He’s building an ark, they laughed. It’s going to rain forty days and forty nights, they joked. Where’d this Noah get the money? What a damn fool waste.
The fact that he had decided to build the ship twenty-six kilometres from the nearest body of water — the South Saskatchewan River — did not help. The nearest ocean was at least a thousand kilometres away. Yet he held on to his dream — his crazy, impossible, mad, beautiful dream — to build a steamship and sail her home to Finland.
Damianus (Tom) Sukanen was born in 1878 in the village of Kurjenkylä, Finland. He grew to be five feet, ten inches tall. He was barrel-chested, broadshouldered, and possessed immense strength. He trained and worked as a shipwright. In 1906, he married Sanna Liisa Rintala. Soon after, he sailed to America with thousands of other Finns, leaving behind his pregnant wife. Family members say this was to avoid being drafted into the Russian army, as Finland was controlled by Russia at the time. A year later, his wife and baby daughter joined him in America. They went to Biwabik in eastern Minnesota, where it’s believed Sukanen had found work in the area’s rich iron ore mines.
According to family members, Sukanen may have been involved in union organizing at the mine. By 1910, the couple had a boy and three girls, including a new baby girl. One night, their house burned down. They all escaped, but one daughter bore scars from her burns for the rest of her life. Some in the family suspected arson, a result of Tom’s union activities.
On March 31, 1911, an article in the Biwabik Times reported that Sukanen’s wife was sent by court order to Duluth for an assessment of her mental condition. The article was headlined, “Mrs. Sukkanen [sic] Demented. Deserted By Husband, She Is Losing Her Mind,” and stated that “Mrs. Sukkanen has been acting very peculiarly for some time” and had not been taking care of her two-month-old daughter. The same article also said Tom Sukanen had recently spent ninety days in jail for failing to support his wife and children and had told the court at his trial that he would spend the rest of his life in prison before supporting his family. “He is also said to be mentally unbalanced,” stated the newspaper.
Sukanen abruptly left Biwabik that year and headed to Canada, where his brother Svante farmed in Saskatchewan and where the government was still giving away land. Incredibly, he walked all the way — about fourteen hundred kilometres. According to family members, he arrived at his brother’s farm near the villages of Macrorie and Birsay with just twenty-eight cents in his pocket. His feet were a mess.
Meanwhile, Sukanen’s wife, known then as Ida, ended up in a mental hospital at Fergus Falls, Minnesota. Relatives say she suffered from depression, was closed up, and wouldn’t speak to anyone in the asylum. Occasionally she would surprise people by playing the piano. With both parents gone, the children were taken away and put up for adoption; the two oldest girls went to one family while the youngest daughter and son went to another.

After homesteading in Saskatchewan for a while, Sukanen went back to Minnesota for his family. But his wife either refused to come or was too ill. He went to court to get his children back, but the court rejected his request. Sukanen went home alone. A few years later, Sukanen returned to Biwabik and discovered that his wife had died in the mental hospital in 1914. The story goes that he found his son, Taivo, and tried to bring him back but got caught near the Canada-U.S. border. Again Sukanen returned by himself.
Sukanen may have been bereft, but he was not a loner in those days. On the contrary, he was an active member of his new Canadian community. He went to social gatherings and meetings in the Finnish community hall. Before the Depression hit, his farm did well. He had good crops, livestock, and, according to local gossip, as much as nine thousand dollars in the bank — a fortune in those days.
He was renowned for his mechanical ability. “His thumb was not in the middle of his palm” is the droll way Finns describe someone like Sukanen, who apparently had the skill to build anything. But it’s difficult to separate the facts from the myths when it comes to Sukanen’s legendary skills. There still exists a handmade tricycle that he is believed to have built for himself. It’s said he built a small wooden threshing machine, a sewing machine, a wheat-puffing machine, and a violin (that he knew how to play).
But not everyone believed those stories. One summer day, Dad and I went to visit Tom’s nephew Elmer Sukanen and his wife, Helen, on their farm near Lucky Lake, not far from Macrorie. Elmer (now deceased) doubted many of the stories told about his uncle.
More importantly, he didn’t believe that Sukanen was mad, or that the idea of building the boat was crazy or even foolish. It’s the Finns’ way, he said. We might get it into our heads to build something just for the fun of it. The boat was just his uncle’s eccentric, fantastic project. A Finn would understand, Elmer Sukanen insisted.
Local people thought Tom Sukanen was crazy to think he could sail his ship down the South Saskatchewan River. But Sukanen didn’t plan on sailing down the river. That’s why he built his keel and hull in two sections. His plan was to put the deck cabins on a raft, mount his old car engine on the raft with a propeller, and pull the watertight keel and hull on their sides behind him.
The story goes that Sukanen disappeared one summer while planning his ship; he’s said to have travelled by rowboat on the South Saskatchewan to help chart his route to the sea. His plan was to ride the current downstream past Saskatoon, join the North Saskatchewan River at Prince Albert, follow it east into Manitoba to Cedar Lake and across Lake Winnipeg, then travel northeast down the Nelson River to Hudson Bay. There, Sukanen would bolt the keel, hull, and cabins together on their sides, stuff his keel full of rocks for ballast, and right his ship in the salty water.
Both Elmer Sukanen and a neighbour, Victor Markkula, thought Sukanen intended to install a mast and sail as well. So he would either hoist canvas or fire up his boiler, and sail around the northern tip of Quebec — the Ungava Peninsula — pass Baffin Island on his port side, head east to the tip of Greenland, then on toward Iceland and Scotland, the North Sea, and finally home. Sukanen must have imagined the scene during those stormy winter nights on the prairie, seeing himself at the helm of his ship, a Finlander arriving home in the port of Helsinki.
What Sukanen probably didn’t realize — or acknowledge — was that his flotilla would never have made it to Lake Winnipeg; it would have been ripped apart by any number of rapids on the Saskatchewan River, including a 6.4-kilometre stretch of frothing white water at Grand Rapids, Manitoba — now the site of a hydroelectric dam. If Sukanen had traced that route in his rowboat as the story suggests, it’s doubtful he ever would have started building his boat. Unless, of course he was mad. Or if his ship was one big stick in the eye of a Depression-crazed world.
When Sukanen started building his boat, he went from being admired as a good farmer and mechanical genius to being despised, feared and finally, shunned. After he tore apart his barn, his granaries, and then his house for lumber, he moved into the hull of his ship. He installed a small coalwood stove for cooking and heat and transformed from an eccentric into a recluse. He stopped looking after himself; he lived on handfuls of wheat and rotting horsemeat.
One of the photographs Dad took on the day of his visit in 1938 was of a dead horse under a cowhide on the deck of Tom’s ship. You can see two front hooves, leg bones sticking out from under the cowhide. Dad wondered how he’d managed to haul the thing up there. A dead draft horse, starved or not, must have weighed five hundred kilograms or more. I remember the admiration in Dad’s voice.
Sukanen was famous for his strength as well as for his ingenuity. In the early days of his project, when the sheets of flat steel began to arrive at the railway station in Macrorie, Sukanen loaded them onto his horse-drawn wagon by himself, heaving a single sheet that would take two or three ordinary men to move. Later, when Sukanen began working on his boilers, he wielded a sawed-off sledgehammer in each hand and pounded the flat sheets day and night until they succumbed and curled into cylindrical steam boilers. The incessant ringing rolled across the countryside, disturbing the neighbours from early morning till late at night.
It took Sukanen about seven years to build the boat. Eventually he stopped farming, but then so had everyone around him. His tools were rudimentary: Besides the sawed-off sledgehammers, he had an anvil, a forge, a hand drill, a few metal bits, a wood saw, and a hacksaw. With these items, he built a ship. He built the hull and keel separately. The hull was 13.1 metres long and three metres high with a 2.7-metre beam. The keel was 9.1 metres long at the waterline and 2.7 metres deep. He built his own forge. After he fashioned the boiler, Sukanen made steam cylinders and pistons the same way — with brute force.
He used a hand drill and hacksaw blade with a rag for a handle to cut round holes for pipes in the half-inch metal. He cut gears and sharp-toothed sprockets. He cut up steel rods and heated and hammered them into a chain, one link at a time. When his teeth fell out, he made himself another set out of iron, or so they say.
When the ship was almost ready, Sukanen built two small cabins to be mounted on the deck, fore and aft — one was to be the wheelhouse near the bow; the other his sleeping quarters at the stern. They were clad with corrugated metal and were triangular in shape. To protect his ship from battering waves and ice, Sukanen wired tin ceiling plates together, nailed them onto his keel, then painted them in horse blood according to a homeland tradition. He named his boat Sontiainen, a Finnish word that means “dung beetle,” perhaps a wry Sukanen joke.
Around 1938, Sukanen started trying to move the hull and keel to the river. The day Dad and the boys came along, the hull and keel were away from Sukanen’s valley farmstead and sitting on the flat prairie. Sukanen had a set of iron wheels under one end of the hull and a dozen fence posts. But his horses had starved and died one by one during the ship’s building. Eventually, he was down to one horse and made only a few metres or so a day. In the end, he tried to drag his ship by himself using a winch tied to a post in the ground — a doomed captain at his mast.
By this time Sukanen was in bad shape. His famous strength was gone. He was close to starving. He was miserable, sullen, and filthy, too. The myth said there was nothing Sukanen couldn’t do, but he could not ask for help. He was too proud. None came and none was offered. Wilf Markkula, son of Victor Markkula, one of Sukanen’s closest neighbours, says his father could have pulled the boat down to the river in a day with his tractor. But Wilf says his dad, perhaps only half jokingly, said he was afraid people would have thought he was crazy, too, if he’d helped. In the end, the hull and keel travelled only 4.8 kilometres.
Finally, in 1939, after many complaints, the RCMP reluctantly stepped in. Constable Bert Fisk drove out with Sukanen’s brother Svante and nephew Elmer. When they found him, he was so weak that he had to be helped to his feet. With tenderness and respect, the constable put him into the front seat of his car and drove him to the mental hospital in North Battleford, Saskatchewan. Sukanen was then sixty-one years old.
While he was in hospital, someone looted and vandalized his ship, stole his tools, and scattered his gear across the prairie. Victor Markkula tried to hide the fact from Sukanen, but one day another visitor let the truth slip out. That’s when Tom’s dream finally ended. He was a broken man when he died at the hospital in 1943. Both husband and wife ended their lives in asylums, twenty-nine years apart.
The story did not die, however. Far from it. A farmer named Laurence “Moon” Mullin heard about Sukanen and his ship and tracked down the hull and keel. He found them in Markkula’s farmyard, where they had been hauled for safe-keeping — they were being used to store wheat and house chickens. Dad and I went to visit Mullin and his wife, Hazel, at their home in Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan. Mullin, an exuberant storyteller, told us how he’d been caught up in the spirit of Sukanen’s dream. He’d retired, sold his farm, and dedicated the rest of his life to salvaging the boat and turning her into a monument.
Mullin, his wife, and others raised money and hired a moving company to haul the hull and keel, donated by the Markkula family, to a rural museum just outside of Moose Jaw. There, they put them together for the first time. Mullen even had Sukanen’s body exhumed and brought down from North Battleford to be reburied beside his ship. They had a commissioning ceremony with bagpipes and speeches.
Sukanen’s story is well-known across the prairies. It’s been the subject of countless newspaper articles, radio and television reports, a chapter in a book about prairie steamboats, a play, a musical, a novel, a documentary, and a screenplay. In 2009, an art film, Sisu: The Death of Tom Sukanen, written and produced by Chrystene Ells, premiered at the Montreal World Film Festival. And in 2012 a feature film shot in Manitoba, Mad Ship, featured a mad Norwegian farmer and was based loosely on the Sukanen story.
After visiting with the Mullins, Dad and I went to see the Sontiainen at the Sukanen Ship Pioneer Village and Museum not far outside of Moose Jaw. It was a beautiful sunny day. There she was, assembled, hull mounted on keel, bow rising up just the way Sukanen must have dreamed. The triangular cabins Sukanen had built were long gone. But Mullin and his crew had built some rectangular cabins that looked more like chicken coops and had bolted them to the deck with their square corners hanging out over the gunwales. One good wave would have taken care of them, but I suspect they were designed to accommodate tourists rather than a solitary sailor.
The boilers Sukanen so laboriously made are thought to have disappeared long ago beneath the rising waters of Lake Diefenbaker when the South Saskatchewan River was dammed in the 1950s and 1960s. However, the pistons and cylinders Sukanen built were lying in the grass beside the boat, spray-painted silver. One thing struck both Dad and me: They were rough and crude. It seemed unlikely that they would have made even one revolution, never mind a transatlantic crossing. Still, we marvelled at the workmanship. Dad was especially happy to be on board this thing that had been such an iconic part of his childhood.
Inside the ship there was a single photograph of Sukanen looking all square-jawed and handsome, the photographer unknown. There were artifacts Mullin had rounded up, such as handmade metal gears, a chain of rough hand-forged links, and a tricycle Elmer Sukanen remembered riding. Up in the forward cabin, there were the remnants of the chronometer Sukanen is said to have carved. But it, too, seemed an instrument unlikely to keep time accurately enough to chart a position on the tossing North Atlantic.
There remains a gaping hole in the Sukanen legend, a tantalizing, maddening piece of the puzzle that’s missing. No one knows for sure why he felt the need to build a boat to get home to Finland. Instead of spending money on sheets of steel and lumber, he certainly could have bought a train ticket to Montreal or New York and sailed home on a proper ship. Elmer Sukanen’s explanations of his uncle’s reasons changed over the years. He told one writer that Tom Sukanen had promised his mother he would be a success in America and that one day he would build a ship and return to Finland to get her. Some speculate that Sukanen, like so many immigrants, simply wanted to come home in heroic style, proving that he had made it in the New World. But to many people, this dust-covered, flatland Sisyphus had given himself such an impossible task that there can be only one reason for this extraordinary folly — an exquisite madness.
Dad passed away in 2010. I never did ask him if he thought Sukanen was crazy. In those days, in a world half mad with poverty and starvation and gloom, there was a fine line between sanity and the dark side. Besides, Dad often said you had to be crazy to farm in Saskatchewan, anyway.
In the end, it doesn’t matter whether Sukanen was crazy or not. People view his stubbornness, his undisputed ability, and his independence with pride. For Western Canadians in particular, Sukanen’s ship is a totem of sorts, a symbol of the strength, resilience, work ethic, and, sometimes, madness it took to survive and prosper in this often harsh landscape. To others, there was romance in Sukanen’s outlandish dream.
To Finns, the story of Sukanen is simply the embodiment of their national spirit — in a word: sisu. There is no English equivalent, but it speaks of a tenacious inner strength — guts, will, and perseverance, more than fleeting courage — which sustains Finns as they pursue a heartfelt goal in the face of overwhelming adversity. That’s why Chrystene Ells chose the word as the title of her film about Sukanen. “What is defeat?” she asks. “Defeat is not failure; it’s when you don’t follow your heart. Sukanen followed his heart.”
Dad would have agreed with that. He had great respect for people like Sukanen, who travelled to the beat of their own drum. As another of his prairie heroes, Tommy Douglas, once said, “Dream no small dreams.”
Perhaps this is why Sukanen continues to fascinate people some seven decades later, why his story earns pride of place among pioneers — those stoic, skilled, resolute men and women who sailed here first, dreamed crazy dreams, and made everything possible.
This story was published in the June-July 2013 issue of Canada's History magazine. It was nominated for a Western Magazine Award. The article was reformatted for online use.
Photo information:
First photo: Tom Sukanen. Credit: Ted Barris Collection, Courtesy of Sukanen Ship Pioneer Village Museum.
Second photo: The hull of the Sontiainen was used as a granary in the 1940s. Credit: Saskatchewan Archives Board.
Third photo: Children play with remains of the Sontiainen, circa 1940s. Credit: Saskatchewan Archives Board.
Fourth photo: Interior view of the Sontianen at the Sukanen Ship Pioneer Village Museum: Credit: Tom Book.
Fifth photo: A still from Mad Ship, a 2012 feature film loosely based on the Sukanen story. Credit: Andrew J. Schlussel.
A city-bred son-in-law reflects on the passing of a rural way of life. by Matthew Kirby
The auctioneer’s chant rolls across my in-laws’ Saskatchewan farmyard in a steady, unbroken cadence: “What amI bid, what am I bid, what amI bid?”
There are four auctioneers in total, all men. Two take turns with the farm and its equipment; two take care of the household goods. These men are good at what they do. Perched in custom-built boxes atop Ford 350s, they smoothly assess the crowd as the lots come up. The auctioneers’ helpers move amongst the onlookers, scanning for potential buyers. At just the right moment, the chief auctioneer launches into yet another round of encouraging the highest bidder, his voice vibrating into a single stream of consciousness:
“Who wants to join in on the bidding on this International grain truck? Five thousand to bid. Yeoh! Now fifty-five hundred to go. Yeoh! Now six thousand to bid. Yeoh! Sold to buyer one four nine — six thousand dollars straight. He’ll enjoy that one.”
I, the city-bred son-in-law, am still uncertain of rural rhythms after a quarter century of visits to the farm my wife grew up on. The auction is exciting, yet I feel a deep melancholy. Feeling the need to escape the action for awhile, I take refuge in the barn, which sits empty for the first time since it was built in 1917. The barn still smells of cattle, even though the last animal was sold off in 1999. A smattering of ancient feed oats remains in one of the feed troughs. The stale fragrance of saddles and leather accoutrements, including a harness for a horse-drawn wagon, lingers in the air.
I know in my head that my parents-in-law — George and Gladys Brehon — have made the right decision to leave the farm. Both are eighty-six. George has recently had two major surgeries. It’s becoming increasingly difficult to keep the farm up, he tells me. But my heart yearns for them to keep going, for I love the farm with all my heart.
As I stand in the empty barn, perhaps for the last time, I hear the auctioneer make a pitch for a piece of farm equipment — “George is going to run this for us right now … hasn’t used it very much … two hydraulics brand new.” — and I think back on what I have learned about the farm and its history.
George’s father, Alex Brehon, established the farm at the turn of the twentieth century. Alex and two of his brothers had been sent to Canada from Ireland by their family in the hope that they would escape the ravages of tuberculosis, which was then at epidemic levels. In 1902, Alex took out a homestead claim at a location between Saskatoon and North Battleford. On the map, the property is Southwest Section 24 Township 42 Range 12 West of the Third Meridian — SW24-T42-R12-W3 for short — near the village of Maymont. Alex named the homestead the Emerald Farm, to remind him of his Irish birthplace.
In 1911, Alex married local schoolteacher Annie Alicia Arkley. They built a white-and-green clapboard home and settled in to raise five children. George was the youngest. Tragically, the tuberculosis infection to which Alex had been exposed in Ireland became active, and he succumbed to the disease in 1936. George was eleven. The family continued to run the farm. One of Geroge’s older brothers, Colles, eventually left to establish his own farm. A second brother, Dick, followed a few years later to settle in North Battleford. Sisters Lilah and Muriel went on to become teachers, and George became the sole owner of the farm.
Six kilometres down the road from the Emerald Farm, Gladys Parker was following the trajectory of her own life. Also raised on a farm, Gladys had nine siblings and, like George, received most of her formal education at a one-room schoolhouse. Despite their proximity, the Parkers and the Brehons did not know each other well. Six kilometres was a fair distance in the 1930s, and the children attended different schools.
Eventually, George and Gladys got to know each other, and by 1952 they were married. They built their own house on the home quarter, with a split-level addition added in 1963. Together they raised four children. All were encouraged to go to college or university. Perhaps the parents hoped that at least one child would take over the farm. But none did.
My wife, Leslie, the eldest, is a nurse and a teacher. I am also a teacher. Leslie’s brothers, Garth and Kevin, are engineers. It’s true that the “boys” often went to the farm to help with seeding and harvesting. There was even talk of having an extended family farm. But ultimately, Garth tells me, the farm would have to have been much bigger in order to support more than one family. Thus, most of their adult lives, and those of their children, have unfolded in the city.
Of the four siblings, only one is a farmer. Maureen farms with her husband on land only about ten kilometres away from the Brehon farm. But they have their hands full, for their sons, too, are working in the city.
The Emerald Farm, therefore, must go.
On the morning of auction day, a cold, raw, late-October rain swept in and drenched everything in twenty minutes. The family rushed about throwing tarps over sale items. Those included a flatbed piled with mattresses and bed frames, boxes of magazines such as Popular Woodworking and Patchwork Quilts, children’s books, games, and vinyl albums — Tea for the Tillerman, anyone? There are also ranks of pickling bottles that will remain unsold. Is no one pickling anymore? The bottles are ultimately given to a lady for a token fifty cents, for everything must go. This is downsizing at its most elemental.
Some things are inexplicably in demand. The New World Standard Series DLE cream separator, still gleaming, is a coveted prize, going for a hundred and fifty dollars as a lawn ornament. Even the 1970s-era photocopier — which almost broke me when I helped carry it out of the basement room — goes quickly. And an inch-thick steel plate sells surprisingly well. Then the rain vanishes and the sun comes out to stay. There is still a cold wind, though. It cuts into us all. “Case 970 advertised with front-end loader, you betcha, tires on back in almost perfect condition.”
Though the auctioning did not begin till ten o’clock in the morning, the crowd began gathering at half past eight. There are old men present, but it is difficult to tell how old they are. Crow’s feet and a few days growth of beard seem to adorn young and old men alike. The average age looks to be around fifty. Everyone slumps in their jackets, bracing against the wind. The men wear baseball caps emblazoned with farm equipment logos or extolling the virtues of the Saskatchewan Wheat Pool. There is only one cowboy hat in the crowd — the man wearing it is probably visiting from Alberta. Or maybe he is from Sonningdale, a hamlet just across the North Saskatchewan River, yet seemingly a world away. The rest are probably locals from the RM of Mayfield — rural municipality to us city folk.
Most of the men are here for the bigger items — trucks, tractors, and parcels of land. They are clad in green or blue coveralls, tan-coloured jackets, and jeans of every shade. They’re wearing workboots or running shoes; it’s impossible to gauge who’s got money and who doesn’t. Everyone’s money is good for a bidding number. With a small nod, a tiny hand motion, or an upraised finger, they make their intentions known.
I make my way over to the household goods section, where Gladys is chatting with friends and relatives. After months of preparation and hard work, when I asked her how she was feeling, she said, “Relieved — and pleased to let the auctioneers do their job.”
“The kitchen cupboard is gone for fifteen dollars. Forty dollars takes the dresser. Five bucks on that blue table. You bought it, ma’am, for two dollars.”
I can only imagine what thoughts are going through Gladys’s mind. She has said that her fondest memories are of special family meals and events, of Christmas-time, with a big turkey and all the fixins’, and of harvest time, after the field crops and vegetables were safely stored, and the garden-grown pumpkins were distributed amongst the grandkids for carving into jack-o’-lanterns.
Dear Gladys. My thoughts waft to her kitchen, to the memory of her homemade bread and buns baked to perfection in her 1952 Frigidaire oven, an appliance bought new the year of her wedding and still ticking along today. To walk into Gladys’s kitchen at baking time was to walk into the fragrance of home — it enfolds you and holds you. It is in that domain that Gladys has made countless meals, great and small, for family, for hired men, and for crowds of friends and extended family.
The rest of Gladys’s gentle home also takes you into its embrace, with her exquisite needlepoint scenes of birds and flowers, her knitted rugs spread welcomingly in front of the living room rocking chair, couch, and La-Z-Boy, each with their own afghan blanket, and her patchwork quilts on all of the beds. The latter are the work of her hands, done in the company of the Maymont Quilters, a group of dedicated ladies, all now in their eighties and nineties, who have been getting together since the Second World War. When the first war bride arrived in the village in 1946, she received a quilt as a bridal shower gift. Since then, it’s been a tradition for new brides in the community to receive a quilt handmade by the ladies.
Gladys’s beautiful garden, too, is home, with its leafy rows of spuds and raspberry canes. During my visits over the years, I tried to earn my keep by picking endless buckets of berries, then going on cutworm patrol to protect my favourites — the beets — as well as the rhubarb, carrots, peas, and corn. Everything was either eaten fresh, made into heavenly jams and pies, bottled for the winter, or carried six metres down into the root cellar — or, as it was more aptly called, the potato pit.
As accomplished as she is, where Gladys really shines is in her ageless interaction with the young. Not many grandmas I know can chase down their eight-year-old grandson on a gravel road on the fly, in a foot of snow — and in her snowsuit, to boot.
“Fifteen, fifteen, fifteen, fifteen thousand, thank you, now twenty thousand....”
The day before the auction, I had walked around the home and its neat, immaculately mown yard. I had reflected on how the outdoors is always alive, with its own music, never silent, whatever the season. Years ago, I loved reading W.O. Mitchell’s classic novel Who Has Seen The Wind, about life growing up on the Saskatchewan prairie. I might not actually have seen the wind, but I could hear it roaring in my ears, could hear the rustling and sighing of the poplars.
On my walk, I hear the crunch of gravel as a pickup truck flies by on the grid road, throwing up a thin veil of dust. The road reminds me of the Brehon kids. Each of them took the bus to Maymont Central School, which was built in the early 1960s to replace the one-room schoolhouses of their parent’s day. The road also led to Saskatoon, an hour’s drive east, for the wildly anticipated twice-yearly visit to the dentist. And, of course, the same road took them into Maymont, where the family banked, checked in at the grain elevator, picked up groceries, saw the doctor, went to sporting events, and attended Sunday services at Sharon United Church.
The church, built in 1911, was central to life in the community. During the week, young people went to meetings of the church equivalent of Girl Guides — Canadian Girls in Training (CGIT) — and Boy Scouts — Tyros for the younger boys. This same church was where all the Brehons — including my wife and I on one windy, hot July day — were married.
“What do I hear, what do I hear, what do I hear? We have a bid of five dollars….”
I hear the wind chimes in Gladys’s flower garden. I remember how beautifully it bloomed in summer. How did she get the peonies to grow so luxuriantly and get those cheerful orange prairie lilies to bloom along the north wall? I recall that even in midwinter’s darkness, the single string of multi-coloured Christmas lights that adorned the trimmed cotoneaster hedge called out a cheery welcome.
Inside the home are more memories that sing of family fun: of games of kaiser, crazy eights, cribbage, and crokinole, and Scrabble; of supper at six o’clock sharp, dinner at noon, and “lunch” late at night after another round of cards with visitors; of wiener roasts by the brick fire pit; of well water well mineralized; of “outside only” kitty cats crying for leftovers. If you listen carefully, you will hear the barking of the ghosts of farm dogs Pal and Mike and Jack. The latter was a German shepherd who lived to be seventeen years old — three times tumbling from the back of the pickup truck obviously did wonders for Jack’s constitution.
“Lot number thirty six, have a look at it guys, 4.3 litre, V6 engine, boy, would it be good on gas….”
I walk along the windbreak of western maple and poplar that Alex planted long ago and linger awhile at the machinery graveyard. There’s a 1970s Mercury Marquis 500, resting and rusting amidst waist-high wild oats and thistle. There’s a formidable old snow blower that George, the consummate handyman, built by himself. There’s an old tractor, a Massey-Harris, before it was Ferguson. There’s a venerable Co-op International combine. And, my favourite, an ancient wooden grain wagon. Here lies the twentieth century in repose.
“You set the price on it, fellers. Six thousand dollars to go. How ’bout it, eh? How ’bout six thousand six hundred, now seven thousand.”
I pass what remains of an old tree fort built by my son, William, and me. We built snow forts, box forts, hay bale forts, and one fort built from the remnants of a World War II plane. William grew up here on our many visits. I cross the east field, where I can see clearly for five kilometres before the horizon fades. Skeins of Canada geese fly overhead. A muskrat swims across the soon-to-be-frozen dugout — I remember how one Christmas Eve we all played a game of shinny there by the light of the Chevy half ton.
From the distance, to the southeast, I hear the woofing of a coyote, followed by yips and barks, and then the whole family joins in for a mad howl — the coyotes’ requiem for a day well spent as the daylight begins to fade.
I’m now at the grid road, the artery of all farming communities, and am off on a four-miler. We’re not in metric country here; the pattern of roads is etched into the land in mile-long blocks. Each square mile is a section, and each section is 640 acres. The average Saskatchewan farm nowadays is a little over two sections in size — about three and a half times bigger than when George and Gladys were growing up. Bigger farms mean fewer farms and fewer people living on them. And those left on the farm tend not to be young. The average age of a farm operator in Canada 2011 was fifty-four, up five years from the previous decade.
These realities, combined with changes in farming practices and transportation trends, have had a huge impact on villages like Maymont. Maymont was never big. Its population peaked at 239 in 1961. The census of 2006 listed its population as one hundred and thirty. I have witnessed its slow decline.
Maymont once had three grain elevators. Now it has none. I recall watching as the last one was dismantled for its wood. Then the bank went. And the grocery store packed up. Now the gas station is gone. Even the seniors centre is closed. Not everything is gone, though. You can still get coffee at the local hotel. And the school remains open, taking students from other districts where schools have been closed.
As I pass by the entrance to the home yard, I read a simple plaque proclaiming that the farm has been in one family for more than a hundred years. It reads: “The Brehon Family Farm, Established 1904, Saskatchewan Agriculture and Food, Hon. Mark Wartman, Minister.”
Every time I read it, I’m darned proud. And I think, once again, about the farm and my place in the scheme of things. Through the years, Leslie and I had thought, fleetingly, about the possibility of buying the farm, or at least part of it. But what do Leslie and I know about farming?
It would be hard to equal George. He was a great farmer, who grew cash crops of wheat, barley, and canola. In addition, he raised a hundred and fifty head of cattle, plus fields of oats and hay grown to feed them.
And as much as he was good on the land, he was an even better engineer. He could repair anything. He was furnace fixer extraordinaire for the RM and beyond –— a fundamentally important job when a furnace cuts out at minus thirty.
George was endlessly resourceful. Need a shop? No worries. Buy a filling station with its own shop, hydraulic lift included, put up for tender by the Saskatchewan Department of Highways. George got it to the farm himself, and for the next forty years the shop was his second home.
George was also a master of his metal lathes. And he loved to work with wood. He belonged to a highly capable generation who could do seemingly anything. My skills don’t compare.
Still, perhaps we should have bought a section and then rented it. Call it son-in-law’s remorse.
In the distance, I see three whitetail deer, their tails erect, leaping off into a copse of poplar. It brings to mind the time I saw a nine-point buck eying me fearlessly in the centre of the road. At other times I saw a badger bustling along a field of peas, fox kittens peeking out from their roadside den, and skunks galore. Some creatures I have seen in the past are rarely seen now. Hungarian partridges used to burst from the stubble, but they seem to be gone. I haven’t seen prairie chickens in years. Meadowlarks, with their piercing sweet trills, have gone silent.
I’m almost home now, nearing the access road, and the sun is setting in a swirling haze of molten apricot and mauve.
“Very low kilometres on this 1998 Chevy half ton. Eighty-one thousand complete.”
The twentieth century belonged to the Brehon family — former Prime Minister Wilfrid Laurier was right on their count, at least. The family was part of the massive immigration of homesteaders in the first decade of the century. It was part of World War I, where one of George’s uncles died at the front. It was part of the boom times and farm mechanization of the 1920s, when Alex Brehon hung on to his beloved horses for longer than economics would dictate.
Then came the grim years of the 1930s dust bowl — the Great Depression. The families of George and Gladys were luckier than some. Because they had arrived in the early 1900s, the Brehons and the Parkers were more firmly established than many who came later. The families had pigs, beef cattle, and dairy cows to keep them going, as well as enormous vegetable gardens. And, unlike the drought-stricken Palliser’s Triangle in the southwest of the province, the west central region of Saskatchewan received enough rain for crops to grow.
The outbreak of World War II led to dramatic changes. Young men of the area signed up with the navy and the air force. Gladys lost two cousins in Bomber Command. Young women left to earn steady paycheques in cities like Saskatoon, Vancouver, and Toronto. Gladys went to Vancouver in 1947, when she was twenty-one, and found work at Bartram’s Printing Company. The company made printed paper bags, and the women who worked there were known as, you guessed it, “Bartram’s Bags.”
She stayed less than a year. Upon the death of her mother in 1947, Gladys returned to her parents’ farm to help raise her younger sisters. The 1950s and 1960s were times of plenty. Improved farming methods and high grain prices allowed good farmers to thrive in the booming postwar economy. George’s mother, the indomitable Annie, born in 1885, was still on the farm. Widowed after Alex’s death in ‘36, she was a rock, co-managing the farm for many years. Annie lived to be ninety-three.
Through the 1970s and 1980s, the good times continued. The Brehon children were off to receive their post-secondary educations. By the 1980s, they were beginning to marry, and the elder Brehons became empty nesters.
With the 1990s came new challenges. Wheat was selling for not much more per bushel than it had in the twenties. Drought withered the crops. Fortunately, cattle prices kept the cash flowing on the Brehon farm.
The opening of the new millennium saw a reversal — higher prices for grain but uncertain prices for cattle. Mad cow disease and the vagaries of meat-packing plants now called the shots. As they entered their eighties, George and Gladys began to wind down. All around them, their contemporaries were passing away. By the end of 2011, three of George’s siblings — Colles, Dick, and Muriel — were gone. Lilah, however, is still going strong in Saskatoon, where she retired.
“Sixty-five thousand, sixty-five thousand, sixty-five thousand. Yeoh! Seventy thousand, seventy thousand. Yeoh!” It’s noon, and George and Gladys are sitting side by side on lawn chairs. Family members stand beside and behind them as the six parcels of their land, each of them a half square mile — a total of 1,920 acres — are auctioned one by one. Land prices are good, and the owners must okay any final bid. Some international bids come electronically, but the majority of the interest comes from people in the crowd. Within the hour, George and Gladys have agreed to the final bids, and it is done. The Emerald Farm, in all her Brehon family glory, has been sold.
“Does anyone want a stack of tires for a buck?”
The auction is winding down, and I slowly circle the yard. The auctioneers fight a losing battle to sell the leftovers as the four o’clock deadline approaches. The group of men holding bidding numbers dwindles. A last-gasp bidding war breaks out over a wind generator — the farm had electricity a full three decades before the public power grid came to this part of rural Saskatchewan in 1954.
“Time to pack ’er up, boys.”
I’m left standing in the yard, the sun beginning to set. I feel hollow, as I did when my brother and father died. With them went a part of me, and with the Emerald Farm went another part. A few successful bidders are towing away various farm implements. The auctioneers are gone. My wife,
Leslie, is stoic. The farm has always been her touchstone in our nomadic life. Knowing this is the right course of action doesn’t make it easier.
We are not alone. The same scenes play out across Canada — and across the world — as people move away from the land and into the cities. In Canada, Statistics Canada has for decades meticulously tracked the decline of the family-owned farm — the decline appears irreversible.
Most Canadians whose families have been in Canada for two generations or more don’t need to read the statistics. Most of us know of parents, grandparents, or great-grandparents being forced to sell the farm. Is it sad? For awhile, maybe. On the day of the auction, Garth told me it was a tough day for him, especially with those buying not knowing of, or caring about, the history behind their purchases. But he also said it was not nearly as tough as when his dad had been sick the winter before. He was proud of George and Gladys for having the remarkable courage and foresight to make the best decision.
Is it wrong for family farms and the community life of small towns to fade away? No. How can it be wrong when many of the children of farmers are doing so well off the farm and increasingly large farms are needed to produce increasingly large amounts of food? It is simply life moving along.
Gladys and George are now settled in their comfortable condo in Saskatoon, happily learning a new rhythm. They live not far from their sons Garth and Kevin and not much more than an hour away from Maureen. Leslie and I, currently working at an international school in Cairo, are a day’s plane journey away. Within all of us, the Emerald Farm will live on.
To my remarkable parents-in-law, I leave the final word: “Farming as we have known it has been part of a great history in Canada, and we’re proud to have lived it.”
This article ran in the April-May 2013 issue of Canada's History magazine and has been nominated for a 2014 Western Magazine Award.
Thanks to climate change, Canadians are witnessing the last chapter in a centuries-old Artic saga—the opening of the Northwest Passage.
By Ken McGoogan.
One afternoon in August 1850, as Arctic explorer Elisha Kent Kane stood talking with several other naval officers on the icy, snow-covered shores of Beechey Island in Barrow Strait, a sailor came stumbling over a nearby ridge. “Graves!” he hollered. “Graves! Franklin’s winter quarters!”
Searchers for the lost expedition of Sir John Franklin had finally found what has since become the most famous historic site in the Arctic — the graves of the first three sailors to die during Franklin’s final voyage.
At this desolate spot in 1846, while still hoping to discover a Northwest Passage, Franklin had conducted three sonorous funeral services. Four years later, Kane — a surgeon in the American navy and member of two separate missions to find and rescue Franklin — led his colleagues in scrambling over the ice to the makeshift cemetery. “Here, amid the sterile uniformity of snow and slate,” he wrote later, “were the head- boards of three graves, made after the old orthodox fashion of gravestones at home.”
Flash forward 157 years. Late in August 2007, during an expeditionary cruise organized by Adventure
Canada, I visited Beechey Island. With a dozen other people, I stood gazing at the graves of those doomed Franklin expedition crewmen. Nearby, a Scottish bag- piper played Amazing Grace amid a light snowfall. As I stood looking at the wooden headboards — worn facsimiles of the original grave markers — what astonished me was not the site itself, but the surrounding absence of ice.
We had arrived here, high above the Arctic Circle, two weeks later in the season than Elisha Kane did — and yet, where he encountered nothing but ice, both in Lancaster Sound and onshore, we found open water and naked rock. This was stunning confirmation of the widely reported impact global warming is having on the Arc- tic ice cap.
Satellite images had recently revealed that, for the first time, the Northwest Passage lay open to commercial traffic. This constituted a surprise ending to a centuries-old saga, because experts had generally agreed that a passage across the top of North America would never be commercially viable.
Now, however, business interests are eagerly anticipating the opening of that passage — not to carry real gold from Cathay, but to transport black gold from the Alaskan oil fields, and possibly other goods, too. The projected increase in maritime traffic is raising urgent questions — not just for politicians, environmentalists, and military experts, but also for the Inuit who inhabit the Arctic.
Yet, as I stood at the graves on Beechey Island, looking at the contemporary landscape through the eyes of the early explorers, I realized that for history buffs like me, the opening of the Northwest Passage sheds new light on the epic saga of Arctic discovery. The new accessibility shows that history, geography, and climate are forever intertwined, and provides an unprecedented opportunity for visitors to see the passage for themselves.
My own voyage of Arctic discovery began in 1998 in Cambridge, England. Having landed a fellowship to study at one of the world’s great universities, I had spent the past couple of months ransacking the archives at the Scott Polar Research Institute. One rainy night in my room, I sat reading an unusually lucid account of how Sir John Franklin came to be recognized as the discoverer of the Northwest Passage.
The author observed that the final survivors of Franklin’s 1845–1848 expedition had completed the journey during a doomed march from their ships, which had become trapped in the pack ice off King William Island. He quoted Sir John Richardson, the esteemed naval surgeon and former crewmate of Franklin: “They forged the last link with their lives.”

Since leaving Canada, and with the intention of writing a fourth novel, I had internalized the geography of the quest for the Northwest Passage. This enabled me to grasp what Richardson was hiding with his eloquent phrase — that the Franklin expedition had discovered no navigable passage.
In April 1848, with Sir John already dead, probably of a stroke or a heart attack, the desperate survivors of his doomed expedition — half-crazy with scurvy, starvation and lead poisoning — had slogged south over the ice to perish in a region where no nineteenth-century ship could ever hope to pass.
I shook my head at Richardson’s assertion. But then I realized that his falsification of history constituted an injustice against the man who really had dis- covered the final link in a navigable passage — and that was none other than the neglected Scottish explorer I had been researching for use as a minor character in a work of fiction.
It was John Rae, of the Hudson’s Bay Company, who actually discovered that final link in 1854, when he located a north-south channel running between King William Island and Boothia Peninsula. The Norwegian Roald Amundsen would name that waterway Rae Strait when, early in the twentieth century, he became the first to navigate the Northwest Passage.
That night in Cambridge, when I realized that Franklin’s friends had rewritten history, I leapt to my feet and began pacing. I felt driven to set the record straight, even if that meant abandoning my projected novel to write a non-fiction narrative. I did not anticipate that the ensuing book (Fatal Passage) would lead me to write three more works about the Arctic. I did not imagine that my sense of outrage would drive me to travel to Boothia Peninsula to honour John Rae with a plaque. And I did not even dream that I was embarking on an Arctic odyssey that would engage me for the next ten years.

Arctic exploration is the first great adventure of Canadian history, the touchstone epic that — like the Civil War for Americans — every generation is driven to revisit. Until now, most Canadians have had to content ourselves with simply reading about the fabled Northwest Passage.
The opening of that passage makes possible a different kind of adventure. In the future, history buffs will come in droves to visit various sites. They will come to Beechey Island, Nunavut, where John Franklin buried those three men; to De la Guiche Point, Nunavut, where John Rae discovered the final link in the Northwest Passage; and to Coppermine (Kugluktuk), Nunavut, where in the 1770s the English explorer Samuel Hearne marked a first point on the map of the Arctic coast.
In the autumn of 2007, as the MS Explorer sailed south down Peel Sound, I felt excited and awed to think that we were following the route Franklin took to his doom. Instead of continuing to Victory Point on King William Island, however, where the final Franklin survivors began their desperate, over-ice trek, our ship sailed east into Bellot Strait — yet here, too, I heard the siren call of history.
While researching my third book about the north, Lady Franklin’s Revenge, I had paid special attention to the expeditions that Jane Franklin sent in search of her lost husband. In 1851, Lady Franklin sent Captain William Kennedy in the Prince Albert to search for her husband around King William Island. Kennedy sailed south down Prince Regent Inlet and got trapped in the ice. The following spring, along with Joseph René Bellot, his second-in-command, Kennedy travelled through what is today known as Bellot Strait from east to west by dogsled — and then insisted on turning the wrong way, northwest instead of south.
More than a century and a half later, as we passed through the narrow strait, I found myself marvelling that where Kennedy and Bellot had battled pack ice and blizzard conditions, we sailed through open water and saw not so much as an iceberg. The contrast was striking.
In September 2007, nobody aboard the MS Explorer imagined that this would be the ship’s last northern voyage, and that within three months, while sailing in Antarctica; the double- hulled vessel would hit an iceberg and sink. Most people on board — I speak as one of the ship’s dozen resource people — were far too busy to worry.

Every day we went cruising in Zodiacs, sometimes wending through a maze of breathtaking icebergs, other times gliding along a craggy cliff face raucous with birds. We saw walruses, narwhals, and bowhead whales. And twice we saw polar bears at a distance of forty or fifty metres. One of these magnificent creatures, a thousand-pound adult male that stood ten feet tall, gazed back at us, interested but unconcerned, before swinging off to go scavenging along the rocky coast.
On this particular Adventure Canada cruise, we visited a number of Inuit settlements along the north coast of Baffin Island. At Clyde River, population 850, an articulate twenty-year-old, Clark Kalluk, led a few of us around the village. He noted that in this com- munity, husky dogs are not pets but “security guards against the thirty or forty polar bears that will soon come roaming through town.”
Kalluk described how, a few months before, during the long, dark, polar night, he was walking home from a friend’s place when he came face to face with a polar bear. “I turned and ran to the nearest house,” he said, “and the bear followed me to the door.”
This gave me pause, for I had recently read the journals of Elisha Kent Kane, who vividly described how a couple of polar bears ravaged a well-buried cache of provisions, smashing open iron caskets of pemmican and tossing aside boulders that had tested the strength of three men.
I had seen polar bears at a distance in 2001, when I visited Churchill, Manitoba, while working on a book about Samuel Hearne (Ancient Mariner). With a group of Chipewyan-Dene, Hearne had conducted a remarkable overland journey to the mouth of the Coppermine River. But he had never battled polar bears, which did not begin to frequent the Churchill area until much later.
Those explorers who did tangle with those formidable animals usually entered the Arctic by ship and then got stranded, and I imagined the horror some of them must have felt, as, stranded and starving in a frozen wasteland, they suddenly realized they were being stalked by the Arctic’s deadliest predator. It gave me the chills.
Last year, when I sailed with Adventure Canada, I was working on a book about Elisha Kent Kane (Race to the Polar Sea), the final volume in what has turned out to be an Arctic quartet. So I was thinking about Kane as we left Baffin Island and started across Davis Strait.
I stood on the top deck looking north, towards where Kane, in 1853, traversed the treacherous Middle Ice. He was sailing in search of Franklin and believed the Englishman had become trapped in an open polar sea at the top of the world. Kane himself was about to spend two horrific winters battling cold, dark, scurvy, and amputations. He survived only because he managed to forge an alliance with the local Inuit.
In Davis Strait, for the first time on this voyage, we encountered rough weather. As I stood in the wind and rain, I couldn’t help but think what such a journey would have been like for those early explorers.
The MS Explorer, a purpose- built expeditionary vessel, dis- placed 2,400 tons. That made it small in comparison with today’s passenger liners. Yet Franklin’s two vessels, the Erebus and the Terror, were far smaller, at 370 and 326 tons respectively. And Kane’s Advance, at 144 tons, was not even one-tenth the size of the ship on which I stood.
The idea of challenging these choppy waters and worse, far worse, in the Middle Ice, in such a tiny vessel ... well, I could only shake my head. What had Kane been thinking? In general terms, of course, I knew the answer: He was hoping against hope that he would find that open polar sea with some Franklin survivors in it — a discovery that certainly would have etched his name in the annals of exploration. But then, as I hung on against the blowing rain, I asked myself a tougher question: What would Kane and the other explorers think if they could stand here beside me now? Certainly, they would marvel at the size and comfort of this modest ship. Three-course meals, private bathrooms with showers, Zodiacs in which to cruise and go ashore: amazing! And what safety, what security!
For centuries, explorers had sailed into a vast blank space, braving the white, booming emptiness with nothing resembling a Global Positioning System, and with no hope of communicating with the world, knowing they would remain isolated and alone, reliant solely on themselves, for months and even years at a time.
Now, to see the Passage conquered so completely, with tourists laughing and chatting as they walk across the tundra in regions where the great Arctic explorers endured starvation, scurvy, and the amputations of toes and fingers — the mind boggles.
With the storm-tossed Explorer bucking and heaving, and my cosy cabin below decks becoming ever more alluring, I thought of the sites we had visited and would yet visit on this voyage — accessible locations that were once almost unreachable, where explorers had frequently suffered and died — and I felt that, as their beneficiaries, we have not done nearly enough to mark those spots.
The opening of the Passage gives us another chance. We have a new opportunity to commemorate the explorers who pursued the dream of conquering the Northwest Passage — the dream that has only now, after so many centuries, become a reality. Surely the time has come?
Photo Captions in order of appearance: Sir John Franklin hoped to find a Northwest Passage to Asia, but instead met his death near King William Island, Nunavut in 1847. Engraving by D. J. Pound, 1870. (Vancouver Maritime Museum) ; Ken McGoogan, the author of a quartet of books on Artic explorers, writes in his journal during a visit to Beecey Island, where, in 1850, explorer Elisha Kent Kane first discovered the graves of three Franklin crew members.; This note was found in 1859 in a cairn on King William Island. Written by a crew member, it describes the fate of the Franklin expedition. (Hudson Bay Company Archives);The remains of John Torrington, 20, the first man to die on Franklin's last expedition. The body was unearthed by scientists who were exploring whether lead poisoning had played a role in the tragedy. (Owen Beattie);
Starvation Cove, an 1897 painting by Julius Payer, depicts the artist's vision of the final moments of the last survivors of the Franklin Expedition. (Courtesy of the National Gallery in Prague.); Passengers aboard the MS
Explorer prepare to head out on Zodiacs to explore the Arctic waters of the NortWest Passage. Voyagers to the Artic can see plently of wildlife, including walrus, narwhals and polar bears.(Sheena Fraser McGoogan.)
Ken McGoogan has won several awards with his books about Arctic exploration, including the Pierre Berton Award for History. This autumn, he will publish Race to the Polar Sea; BBC and History Channel will broadcast a docudrama based on his book Fatal Passage; and, with Adventure Canada, he will sail to Kane Basin in the High Arctic.
The discovery of one of Franklin’s lost ships has big implications for Canada’s efforts to establish its sovereignty over the Northwest Passage.
By Ken McGoogan
What does it mean? Why does it matter? Couldn’t that search money have been better spent in some other fashion? These are some of the questions turning up as a result of the discovery of one of the long-lost Franklin ships.
Those two vessels, the Erebus and the Terror, disappeared into the Arctic in 1845, under the captaincy of Sir John Franklin, never to be seen again. The search for
Franklin and his missing ships, most intensive in the 1850s, opened up the complex archipelago that is the Canadian Arctic.
In a surprising announcement on Tuesday, Prime Minister Stephen Harper declared that one of the ships has been found south of King William Island. The discovery prompted international headlines and has sent many experts reeling.
There are three main reasons why the news has had such a big impact. First, this discovery vindicates Inuit oral history. Second, it advances Canada’s claim, challenged by many countries, including the United States, for control of the Northwest Passage. Third, and most surprisingly, it suggests an amendment to, if not a whole new interpretation of, the fate of the Franklin expedition.
The Inuit testimony can be found in Dorothy Harley Eber’s book Encounters on the Passage: Inuit Meet the Explorers. The author writes of contemporary Inuit who relayed traditional stories of a ship that sank off one of several Royal Geographical Society Islands — indeed, off Hat Island, which appears to be where the vessel was found. An Inuk woman told Eber that some of her relatives found pieces of a ship’s wreckage buried in the sand of that island.
The issue of ownership of the Northwest Passage has become increasingly important as a result of climate change. The imminent opening of the Passage to large ships, especially oil tankers, raises the question: who makes and enforces laws regarding environmental protection? The U.S. and other countries claim the Northwest Passage is an international strait.
This discovery enhances Canada’s contrary assertion, at least symbolically. We have demonstrated that we have enough control over these waters that we can locate a ship missing for almost 170 years. UNESCO is expected to declare the ship a World Heritage Site, which will strengthen Canada’s legal case for enforcing protection.
Finally, the location of the discovery — to the southwest of King William Island — suggests a possible amendment to the “standard version” of what happened to the Franklin expedition. According to the only written record ever found, Franklin died aboard ship, and then his men abandoned their vessel and fled south. Searchers and historians have long been troubled by the fact that a lifeboat discovered on the west coast of King William Island in 1859 was facing north.
This discovery suggests one possible explanation. The two ships got separated. If some men were aboard this newly found vessel when it started to go down, they might have abandoned it and dragged a lifeboat north to join their comrades, not realizing that the other ship had already been abandoned.
The discovered ship is located in relatively shallow waters. That means it is accessible to further exploration. Because the boilers on the Erebus and Terror were different in design, searchers will be able to identify which ship they have found. It is doubtful that any records will have survived. But the artifacts may tell a story. Already, as a symbol of Canada’s supremacy in the Northwest Passage, this discovery is proving invaluable.
Ken McGoogan, whose books include Fatal Passage and Lady Franklin’s Revenge, has contracted with Patrick Crean Editions/ Harper Collins Canada to write another book about polar exploration.
Learn More
Read another article by Ken McGoogan from a past issue of Canada's History, formerly known as the Beaver, called Tragic Passage.
Introduction by Nelle Oosterom
Who is Canada’s greatest explorer?
When we at Canada’s History decided to devote a good portion of the December 2013-January 2014 issue of the magazine to highlighting Canada’s greatest explorers, we realized we had set ourselves up for a daunting mission.
The field of exploration is a vast one, filled with many great men and women. It begins with the people we don't know. Who was the first to cross the Bering Strait from Asia into North America? The earliest explorers, the indigenous people, left no written records for us to draw from. So we are left with those explorers who took notes, or those who were mentioned by others.
We asked five historians to come up with who they thought was Canada’s greatest explorer. Some of their picks were expected, some were not.
On this list you will read about the man who was the first to travel deep into North America, created numerous maps and wrote voluminously about his travels. You’ll read about the first person to cross North America — and no he wasn’t part of the Lewis and Clark expedition. You’ll learn about a great mapmaker and surveyeor, an Arctic explorer who was “one of the worst self-promoters in the annals of discovery,” and one woman who set out to do what a nation wouldn’t.
Here are the Canada’s History top five explorers, as chosen by our panel of experts, beautifully illustrated by Robert Carter: Alexander Mackenzie, David Thompson, Lady Jane Franklin, Robert Bylot and Samuel de Champlain.
Alexander Mackenzie
A hardy Scot who boldly crossed an unmapped continent.
by Victor Suthren
If there is one brawny, clear-eyed lad amongst the shuffling ranks of those who would claim recognition as explorers of Canada, then in my opinion it is the tousled red hair of Alexander Mackenzie that should be visible above their heads. Mackenzie should be recognized as the greatest of Canadian explorers on the basis of his sheer nerve and courage. Ahead of anyone else in North America, he completed the great push westward and northward from the bases of European arrival in eastern North America to reach both the Arctic and Pacific oceans. And he completed the latter a good ten years before the much more trumpeted but arguably less courageous or daring Lewis and Clark expedition to the south.
Mackenzie was born a hardy Scot — aren’t they all? — in 1764 on the Isle of Lewis. He survived the dreadful infant mortality of the age, but the death of his mother when he was ten had him sent off perilously across the North Atlantic to New York, where his father had gone to attempt business. At the age of fourteen, with the American Revolution making things increasingly difficult and dangerous for Loyalists — his father and brother had enlisted in the King’s Royal Regiment of New York — young Alexander was packed off to Montreal in 1778, where in the next year he became a junior clerk in the fur-trading company of Finlay, Gregory and Company. Applying himself to his work, he rose in both competence and the company’s esteem, and when in 1787 it merged with the North West Company Alexander remained with the firm.
Then began his great period of westward and northward travel that would bring him to the Pacific coast and the Arctic Ocean. In 1788 he became one of the founders of Fort Chipewyan in present-day northern Alberta when he travelled to Lake Athabasca to replace a noted colleague, Peter Pond. On arriving in the area, Mackenzie heard from the Dene and other peoples that the great river affecting the lake flowed northward. Wondering if this might reveal a freshwater Northwest Passage, Mackenzie set out by canoe to follow the river northward to its mouth, and on July 14, 1789, he reached the Arctic Ocean.
Mackenzie determined to do what no European north of Mexico had done, which was to cross the continent to get to the Pacific Ocean.
Mackenzie had hoped it would end at Cook Inlet on the Alaskan coast and admitted to disappointment that it did not; that he had carried out a monumental river descent to the northern seacoast was less on his mind. It would not be so with those who learned of his feat, for the great river would eventually become known as the Mackenzie River.
Mackenzie had demonstrated both a remarkable boldness and courage in deep exploration but was aware that, when compared with others such as David Thompson, he lacked the scientific preparation necessary for recording and accurately depicting his discoveries. Accordingly, he returned to Britain. In 1791 and 1792 he familiarized himself with navigational skills, particularly the newly developed methods of determining longtitude using timed chronometers, which had made possible the exactitude of Captain James Cook’s Pacific explorations. He completed this study and returned to North America even as the long, grim struggle with republican and then Napoleonic France was beginning in Europe in earnest.
At this point Mackenzie had determined to do what no European north of Mexico had done — at least, had been recorded as doing — which was to cross the continent to get to the Pacific Ocean. It was a bold and risky plan, for no way seemed possible through the glistening icy ramparts of the mountain ranges that divided the Great Plains from the Pacific coast that Cook had charted a decade earlier. With the permission of the North West Company, Mackenzie assembled a sturdy team of First Nation and voyageur canoeists, added a dog (known only throughout the expedition as “Our Dog”) at Fort Chipewyan, and set off westward.
Working up the Peace River, they came to the Great Divide and worked their way southward in a struggling portage pattern until they reached the headwaters of the Fraser River, which offered the prospect of a noisy, rushing descent to the far-off sea. A short way down the Fraser they met tribes who managed to communicate to them that dangerous peoples lived downriver, making any attempt to reach the sea impossible. Heeding their advice, Mackenzie’s party turned westward again and struck out until they found the waters of the Bella Coola River. This they descended until they joyfully encountered salt water in what would later be known as Bentinck Arm of the Dean Channel. Unknown to them, Royal Navy Captain George Vancouver’s ship and exploring longboats had passed by that point only forty-eight days earlier.
Mackenzie was determined to press on down the arm until he could see the open sea, but the expedition now encountered a flotilla of canoes bearing hostile warriors of the Heitsulk nation, who, possibly because of previous negative experiences with European visitors, would allow Mackenzie to descend no further. Faced with their menacing lances and drawn bows, Mackenzie landed to inscribe on a large rock with vermilion paint (a favourite trading commodity) the following inscription:
Alex Mackenzie from Canada by land
22nd July 1793
A full ten years would elapse before the American Lewis and Clark expedition reached the Pacific farther south. The honour of first crossing the continent, in a voyage as bold as it was imaginative, would rest with Alexander Mackenzie, and he would be knighted for it in 1802, following the publication of his journals in 1801 that documented his extraordinary exploratory achievements.
Honoured and respected by colleagues and the public alike, Mackenzie’s later years were happy ones. From 1804 to 1808 he served in the Lower Canada legislature, but he finally determined to return to Britain, where in 1812 he married a beautiful and wealthy young heiress, Geddes Mackenzie. With a secure financial situation, the couple entered into a pleasant way of life that saw their time divided between homes in Scotland and London.
Mackenzie was taken by Bright’s disease (chronic kidney malfunction) in 1820, when he was fifty-six. It had been not been a long life, but it was an adventurous one full of rewards. In the achievements of reaching both the Arctic and the Pacific oceans in such a singular manner, it is my opinion that this red-haired Scot of pluck — and luck — deserves the title of Canada’s greatest explorer.
VICTOR SUTHREN is a writer, seaman, and historian who specializes in North American colonial history. A former Canadian Parks Service historian, Suthren joined the Canadian War Museum in 1975 and served as its director general from 1986 to 1997. He has written thirteen books, including, most recently, The Island of Canada, a study of Canada's relationship with the sea. An experienced “tall ship” sailor, Suthren is presently a town councillor for the municipality of Merrickville-Wolford, Ontario, where he and his wife, Lindsay, are residents. His hobbies include sailing, kayaking, cross-country skiing, and amateur theatrical performance.
David Thompson
The fur trader who mapped most of Canada.
by Bill Moreau
To champion David Thompson as Canada’s greatest explorer appears an uphill climb. It was primarily as a fur trader that Thompson passed his long career in western Canada, from his arrival as a fourteen-year-old Hudson’s Bay Company apprentice to his retirement to Montreal in 1812. The demands of business afforded him little time for journeys of discovery. But explore he did, most notably between 1807 and 1812, while, as a wintering partner of the North West Company, he extended the trade across the Continental Divide.
Knitting together a network of routes through the Columbia Plateau, Thompson linked posts on the Upper Saskatchewan River with the Pacific Ocean by way of the Howse and Athabasca passes, determined the course of the entire Columbia River, and, in 1811, made a dash to Astoria, at the mouth of that great waterway. Thompson’s realization of the dream of a transcontinental passage for commerce is a fine achievement; as for exploration, though, his every step (or dip of the paddle) traced a well-travelled Aboriginal route, and he did not so much forge a path through the land as proceed where tribal people permitted him to go.
Perhaps his one truly original piece of exploration was a harrowing 1796 journey for the Hudson’s Bay Company, in which he traced the length of the Fond du Lac River, from Wollaston Lake to the east end of Lake Athabasca (in present-day northeast Saskatchewan), attempting to open a route to the fur riches of the subarctic; yet this was an utterly fruitless venture, the way so impractical that it would not be travelled again until almost a century had passed.
Is Thompson’s modest claim enough to place him in the company of Samuel de Champlain, Samuel Hearne, Alexander Mackenzie, or John Franklin, who daringly ventured forth into lands utterly unknown to Europeans? Perhaps not on these terms. And yet, this model of exploration may be too narrow; greatness as an explorer can be achieved on a more ample stage, when we remember that to explore means not only to traverse a place in order to make discoveries but also to inquire, investigate and examine. In this broader sense, Thompson’s pre-eminence is clear. No other Canadian explorer travelled with the same spirit of inquiry and sense of wonder, or, crucially, combined these qualities with the ability to communicate his vision to others.
He used his surveys to create the finest Canadian maps of his generation, ones that would be in use for decades.
Thompson didn’t merely travel; he also surveyed, measuring the land as he proceeded through it and staying up deep into the night to observe the heavens (his slumbering companions often suspected him of divination). He then used these surveys to create the finest Canadian maps of his generation, ones that would be in use for decades. His greatest achievement in cartography, his “great map” of 1815, provides an expansive view of the lands from Hudson Bay to the Pacific Ocean and from the Missouri River basin to the Athabasca region. In central and eastern Canada, his surveys and map-making extended to the Great Lakes, Muskoka, and the Eastern Townships. He knew our nation deeply, because he spent years literally plotting it out.
Even greater and more lasting achievements, and the fitting companions to his maps, are the volumes of writings he left behind, most notably the Travels narrative he completed in his late seventies. In prose that balances scientific precision and a poetic imagination, Thompson explored an encyclopedic range of topics, from the formation of basalt and the habits of the Northern Pacific rattlesnake to the vocabulary of the Salish language and the voracious appetite of the French-Canadian voyageur. These writings reveal Thompson’s profound understanding of the geography, natural history, and people of this land to an extent unmatched by his peers.
Gathering thousands of discrete observations, he wrote an appreciation of the great regions of the West: the Great Plains, the Canadian Shield, the Hudson Bay Lowlands, and the Cordillera, each seen as a providential system of landforms. His investigation of the natural world operated on the microscopic scale, too — he observed a mosquito biting his arm with enough care to discern that its proboscis is “composed of two distinct pieces; the upper is three sided, of a black color, and sharp pointed, under which is a round white tube, like clear glass, the mouth inverted inwards.” A lesser explorer would have slapped.
Thompson was an explorer of First Nations traditions, and he regarded the Native peoples among whom he travelled and worked as members of distinct and rich cultures. With the help of his wife, Charlotte Small, herself born of a Cree mother, Thompson came to know and value Algonquian cosmology. He wrote with sympathy of Native ways of understanding the world, acknowledging that the Cree concept of the manito (Great Spirit) explains goose migration at least as well as the learned European’s “instinct,” and he was humble enough to fall silent before the reproach of a tribal companion: “You white people, you look like wise men and talk like fools.”
Even the mysteries of his own psyche provided a field for Thompson’s exploration. He famously, he described his passage to adulthood and its responsibilities as a game of draughts with the Devil, in which he repeatedly bested Satan on the checkerboard. “My eyes were open,” he wrote, “it was broad day light, I looked around all was silence and solitude: Was it a dream, or was it a reality? I could not decide.” This explorer had the courage to journey inward, even as he journeyed forth.
Thompson’s greatness is not to be measured in miles alone, though these are many. Rather, he is great because he explored as much with his mind and pen as with his feet. And he still has something to say to us today, for his readings of our country and its people are as fresh and topical now as when they were made. While his tracks are no more, he continues to guide us through this land.
BILL MOREAU is the editor of the three-volume Writings of David Thompson (The Champlain Society and McGill Queen's University Press). The first volume was published in 2009 and the second will appear next year. Moreau teaches Grade 5 at Dunlace Public School in North York, Ontario, and has worked as a sessional lecturer at the University of Toronto Scarborough. In 2011 he was a contestant on Jeopardy, amassing a total of one dollar. He lives in Woodbridge, Ontario, with his wife, Daiana, and their children.
Jane Franklin
The travel-hungry woman who orchestrated the exploration of the Arctic.
by Ken McGoogan
“It is a commonplace in the history of polar exploration,” the explorer Vilhjalmur Stefansson wrote, “that the greatest advance in our knowledge of the region to the north of Canada resulted not from the life work of Sir John Franklin, but from his mysterious disappearance and the long series of expeditions that went out in search of him.”
Few contemporary experts would challenge that assessment, which Stefansson offered in 1921 in The Friendly Arctic: The Story of Five Years in Polar Regions. But what exploration aficionados fail to appreciate, even today, is how completely that search depended on Franklin’s widow.
Jane, Lady Franklin, as she is properly called, never set foot in the Canadian Arctic. But by orchestrating an unprecedented, twelve-year search for her husband, she contributed more to the discovery and mapping of northern North America than any male explorer.
In the beginning, I found this hard to accept. In Fatal Passage: The Untold Story of John Rae, the Arctic Explorer Who Discovered the Fate of Franklin, I depicted Jane Franklin as a devious, dislikeable woman who destroyed the reputation of the explorer I most admired. Yet, even as I wrote, I found myself wanting to know more about this Victorian who, having seemingly stepped out of a Jane Austen novel, could enlist the aid of Charles Dickens, lay waste to the careers of extraordinary men, and create a mythical hero out of a mediocrity.
With more research, and as I began to understand the barriers women faced in nineteenth-century England, I found my attitude changing. A woman’s place was in the home. Men could attend Oxford or Cambridge and go on to build careers and reputations, but the respectable options for women, even wealthy ones, were limited to marriage and motherhood.
Born in 1791, the spirited, travel-hungry Jane Griffin refused to marry until, in Sir John Franklin, she discerned a figure whose title would open doors for her in the great wide world. In the early 1830s, when Franklin took charge of a naval ship in the Mediterranean, she went briefly to visit him ... and then, as Lady Franklin, kept travelling.
Everywhere a woman could possibly go, there Jane Franklin went. The Nile River, Egyptian pyramids, the Greek ruins of Delphi, the sacred rivers of India, the recently ravaged Crimea, the Hawaiian harbour in which James Cook met his end — no Victorian, male or female, and precious few people of any time or place, had ever visited so many sites of historical significance.
Lady Franklin rode a donkey into Nazareth. She climbed mountains in Europe, North America, Africa, and Australia. She became the first European woman to journey overland from Melbourne to Sydney and the first to beat her way through the Tasmanian bush to Macquarie Harbour. She rode elephants in Rajasthan, scrambled up volcanoes in Hawaii, and, at age seventy, circumnavigated the globe in steamers and rough sailing ships. Acutely aware that her travelling challenged Victorian notions of respectability, Jane Frankin kept it quiet. But mile for mile, country for country, she was certainly one of the greatest woman travellers of the nineteenth century.
She contributed more to the discovery of northern North America than any celebrated explorer.
She was a woman of influence. In 1837, Jane Franklin pulled strings to get her husband appointed lieutenant-governor of Van Diemen’s Land (now Tasmania), the penal colony south of the Australian mainland. He failed to cope effectively and got recalled. In a bid to redeem their joint reputation, Lady Franklin secured for Sir John the opportunity of a lifetime — leadership of a Royal Navy expedition destined, supposedly, to solve the centuries-old riddle of the Northwest Passage.
In 1845, with two state-of-the-art ships and 128 men, John Franklin disappeared into the frozen North. Now Lady Franklin showed what she was made of. Driven by guilt and ambition, she badgered the Admiralty into dispatching ships to locate him. She financed voyages through public subscription and paid for others out of her own pocket. She convinced American shipping magnates to sponsor expeditions.
In Lady Franklin’s Revenge, I tell the story of how, denied a role in a sexist society, Jane Franklin took revenge by seizing control of that most masculine of enterprises, Arctic exploration, and shaping it to her own ends. Over the course of a dozen years, thirty-five expeditions sailed in search of Franklin, most of them British, a few American.
While exerting an indirect influence on all, Jane Franklin personally originated eleven expeditions. And of the eleven she organized, financed, or instigated, five made singular contributions to the charting of the Canadian Arctic: one each led by John Rae, William Kennedy, Edward Inglefield, Elisha Kent Kane, and Leopolod McClintock.
• John Rae: Overland and small boats expedition (August 2, 1850, to September 26, 1851). Having failed in a first attempt to reach Victoria Island in an Admiralty-sponsored search (1847–49), Rae was on the Mackenzie River heading for London when the Hudson’s Bay Company ordered him to turn around and resume searching. This order came as a direct result of pressure from Lady Franklin, who also sent a flattering letter of advice and encouragement to the explorer himself. Rae charted the southern and eastern coasts of Victoria Island, then unknown to map-makers, trekking 1,740 kilometres on snowshoes and sailing 2,220 kilometres in small boats.
• William Kennedy: Prince Albert (May 22, 1851, to October 7, 1852). Kennedy’s expedition was organized by Jane Franklin and financed through public subscription. Kennedy disobeyed Lady Franklin’s instructions to search the area where Franklin perished. But with Joseph René Bellot, he did discover Bellot Strait, which runs between Boothia and Somerset Island and marks the northernmost extremity of continental North America.
• Edward Inglefield: Isabel (July 10 to November 4, 1852). Inglefield’s effort was also organized by Jane Franklin and financed through public subscription. Inglefield sailed farther up Smith Sound than any previous explorer. He charted over 1,600 kilometres of coastline and opened up a new area for exploration.
• Elisha Kent Kane: Advance (May 30, 1853, to October 1855). This American expedition was financed by Henry Grinnell as a result of lobbying by Lady Franklin. Kane sailed into Smith Sound beyond Inglefield’s farthest point and visited “the northernmost land ever trodden by a white man.” He mapped Kane Basin, discovered Kennedy Channel, and pointed the way for the subsequent race to the North Pole.
• Leopold Francis McClintock: Fox (July 2, 1857, to September 21, 1859). Organized by Jane Franklin and financed through public subscription. McClintock confirmed the news John Rae had brought of the fate of the lost Franklin expedition and also Rae’s 1854 discovery of what is now called Rae Strait. He charted over thirteen hundred kilometres of coastline and so completed the mapping of the northern coast of North America.
Because she was a woman, Jane Franklin never set foot in the Canadian Arctic. Compelled to act by proxy, and through surrogate males, she contributed more to the discovery of northern North America than any celebrated explorer. Of all individual contributions to Arctic exploration, the greatest was that of Lady Jane Franklin.
KEN MCGOOGAN crossed Canada by VIA Rail while promoting his eleventh book, 50 Canadians Who Changed the World. His previous works include four about Arctic exploration, among them Fatal Passage and Lady Franklin’s Revenge. In 2013, to mark the bicentenary of explorer John Rae, Ken gave presentations in Calgary, Hamilton, Edinburgh, and Stromness, Orkney, where he served as writer-in-residence. McGoogan teaches creative nonfiction at the University of Toronto (online) and also at the University of King's College, Halifax.
Robert Bylot
An early explorer of the Northwest Passage, Bylot received little credit for his achievements.
by Douglas Hunter
Explorers often became famous by carefully grooming their own celebrity. In contrast, my contender for Canada’s greatest explorer, Robert Bylot, was one of the worst self-promoters in the annals of discovery. Where other adventurers published weighty, self-congratulatory accounts of their exploits, we know virtually nothing about Bylot’s life and the barest details of his voyages. His voice endures only through the dubious distinction of his having been interrogated about (and tried for) the Henry Hudson mutiny of 1611, in which his complicity has never been clear.
What little we do know about Bylot’s explorations of the Canadian Arctic and subarctic in the early seventeenth century makes him almost peerless in the sheer expanse of territory he covered. And, unlike numerous, more celebrated explorers, Bylot wasn’t led around by indigenous guides. He sailed from Davis Strait along Hudson Strait, west to Foxe Inlet, into Hudson and James bays, south to Rupert’s Bay at 52° north latitude. He surveyed the circumference of Baffin Bay, north to Smith’s Sound above 77° north latitude.
While nineteenth-century explorers like Edward William Parry also saw a considerable amount of the Arctic Archipelago, Bylot did so over the course of five often-harrowing voyages in just seven years between 1610 and 1616. Moreover, scientific navigation was in its infancy and the chances of perishing were much higher.
Bylot’s background is a mystery. We first meet him as a crew member on Hudson’s fateful Discovery voyage of 1610–11, which was commissioned by England’s East India Company. Hudson thought enough of Bylot’s skills to send him ashore at East Digges Island at the northern end of Hudson Bay to observe tidal currents, which were thought to be an important clue to the direction of the Northwest Passage. After the Discovery endured a winter in southern James Bay, the increasingly erratic and secretive Hudson chose Bylot as his new master’s mate, only to replace him with an illiterate crew member as Hudson began a promised return to England. A few weeks later, mutiny erupted. While Bylot seems not to have been a ringleader, he certainly went along with it and shared a fractious command in getting the Discovery home.
Bylot and other survivors probably avoided trial because they were considered invaluable to the continued search for the passage. Bylot and two other members of Hudson’s voyage joined the 1612 journey of Sir Thomas Button. The Discovery and another ship, the Resolution, spent a miserable winter at the mouth of the Nelson River on the western shore of Hudson Bay. The Resolution was destroyed by ice, and an untold number of men perished. Button would recall that he had only eight able men to bring the Discovery home; Bylot was one of them.
The Discovery was back seeking the passage in 1614 under the command of Button’s cousin, William Gibbons. Little is known about this voyage, but Bylot apparently participated. The Gibbons expedition was a failure; the Discovery limped home after being trapped in Labrador Sea ice for several weeks.
Bylot's exploration career ended just as it was on the brink of a major breakthrough.
In 1615, Bylot was promoted to master of the Discovery and commander of the passage search. He formed a working partnership with his mate and pilot, William Baffin, a former chief pilot in the English whale fishery around Svalbard (a high-Arctic archipelago also known as Spitzbergen) who also had experience in Greenland. They made a careful survey of Hudson Strait along the south coast of Baffin Island and probed the waters to the west that would be known as Foxe Strait and Foxe Inlet. Baffin correctly concluded that there was no way through to Asia by that route.
In 1616, Bylot and Baffin were sent out again. This time, they were to sail up Davis Strait and then turn west, a strategy that was supposed to take them to Japan. No such passage awaited them, but in carrying out their orders they circumnavigated Baffin Bay. Their northernmost progress, into Smith’s Sound between Ellesmere Island and Greenland, reached around 77°5' north latitude, a feat that would not be repeated until 1852.
The only surviving records from the 1615 and 1616 voyages involve Baffin, and the ample evidence of his exceptional navigational skills earned him the admiration of nineteenth-century passage-seekers. Not surprisingly, Baffin’s name, not Bylot’s, would resonate from those voyages. Baffin got his name on two major features, Baffin Island and Baffin Bay, whereas Bylot was memorialized only by a small island on the northeast side of Baffin Island, at the entrance to Lancaster Sound, and by Cape Bylot, a headland on Southampton Island named in his honour byWilliam Parry in 1821. When the British Admiralty launched a fresh passage search in 1818, it was Baffin’s observations and reputation that were foremost in consideration. Bylot was all but forgotten.
Bylot’s exploration career ended just as it was on the brink of a major breakthrough. He and Baffin skirted the mouth of Lancaster Sound in 1616, but Baffin concluded that it was another dead end. For all we know, Bylot agreed, and they declined to probe it. Baffin was terribly wrong: Lancaster Sound would prove to be the elusive eastern passage entrance.
Back home, Baffin pronounced the passage search hopeless. The investors concurred, and Bylot evidently lost the protection he had enjoyed from prosecution for the Hudson mutiny. Interrogated in 1617, Bylot hotly denied (among other things) that shots had been fired at Hudson and his fellow castaways to keep them from following the Discovery, or that “he took any ring out of Hudson’s pocket, neither ever saw it except on his finger, nor knows what became of it.” In 1618, Bylot and three other survivors stood trial for murder, as mutiny at the time was a crime limited to naval vessels (the Discovery was owned by the East India Company). All four were found not guilty and walked free, never to be heard from again.
Bylot’s achievements extend beyond the extraordinary amount of territory he explored. He never lost a single man on his two voyages with Baffin, which was an exceptional performance. In his 1615 journal, Baffin praised Bylot “as a man well experienced” in Arctic navigation, and he deferred to Bylot on assessing ice hazards.
Bylot also demonstrated an uncharacteristically benign attitude towards the Inuit, seeking contact with them and treating them well. Despite fatal clashes with the Inuit at East Digges Island during the 1610–11 Hudson and 1612 Button voyages, Bylot (who was along on both) apparently never faulted the Inuit for the losses of English lives. Nor was Bylot a colonizer or a merchant’s employee determined to extend a commercial empire. Bylot had no interest in subjugating the people he met or the lands they occupied: His goal was a sea route to Asia’s riches. In a history of exploration rife with the exploitation of indigenous people, that should count for something.
DOUGLAS HUNTER has written three books about North American exploration. God’s Mercies revealed the traumatic intersection of the careers of Henry Hudson and Samuel de Champlain and was a finalist for the Writers’ Trust Non-Fiction Prize and the Governor-General’s Award for Literary Non-Fiction. In Half Moon, Hunter wrote about Henry Hudson’s 1609 voyage. And The Race to the New World looks at the parallel lives of Christopher Columbus and John Cabot. Hunter is a doctoral candidate in history at York University, a Vanier Scholar, and Canada’s 2012 William E. Taylor fellow.
Samuel de Champlain
This early French explorer made a huge impact in shaping Canada.
by Jacques Lacoursière
Samuel de Champlain — the Father of New France — explored a vast portion of eastern North America. He sailed part of the Atlantic seaboard, travelled up the Richelieu River, and discovered the lake that now bears his name. He also navigated the Ottawa River, reaching the Great Lakes region, and the country then known as Huronia.
Champlain first sailed to New France in 1603 as a geographer and cartographer. He chronicled this initial voyage in the first of his writings, On Savages, or the Voyage of Samuel Champlain, of Brouage.
After a brief stay near Tadoussac (at the confluence of the Saint Lawrence and Saguenay rivers) Champlain made his first major exploration inland, travelling some distance up the Saguenay, a river Jacques Cartier had seen in 1535 but had not tried to navigate.
Owing to information provided by the Aboriginals, Champlain had an idea of the vastness of the Saguenay before he set out. Indeed, like explorers who came before and after him, Champlain relied heavily on Native knowledge. During his first voyage, he learned to appreciate the advantages of the birchbark canoe. When faced with negotiating the Lachine Rapids (also called the Saint-Louis Rapids), Champlain wrote, in On Savages: “To imagine that any boat can traverse these rapids is in vain. But whosoever might wish to pass them should be equipped with the canoes of the savages, which one man can easily carry….”
In the first volume of his Histoire de la Nouvelle-France, historian Marcel Trudel sums up the 1603 voyage as follows: “The entire upper St. Lawrence waterway was mapped, with measurements quite closely approximating actual distances.”
Champlain would not return to the St. Lawrence Valley for several years. In the meantime, his services were retained in Acadia by Pierre Dugua de Mons’ company. A new settlement was established at Saint Croix Island, now part of the state of Maine. From there, Champlain felt compelled to explore the Atlantic coast. He wrote: “I set out from Saint Croix on September 2 with a patache [sailing vessel] of seventeen or eighteen tons, twelve sailors, and two savages, to serve us as guides to the places with which they were acquainted.” The group sailed partway up what their guides called the “river of Pentegoüet” (the current day Penobscot River).
While Champlain was keen to convert aboriginal people, he was also interested in learning from them.
Champlain’s party returned to Saint Croix to spend a harsh winter. Many lives were lost to scurvy. A decision was made to relocate the small colony to somewhere more habitable. The site chosen was Port Royal, now Annapolis Royal, in Nova Scotia. De Mons eventually returned to France, while Champlain remained in the new settlement.
In 1608 Champlain set off to found a new trading post at present-day Quebec City — thus making his mark as the founder of New France. From Quebec City, he went on several expeditions. In 1609, he travelled south to help New France’s Native allies in their war against the Iroquois. He travelled up the Iroquois River (which was renamed the Richelieu River shortly after the death of Cardinal Richelieu in 1642) and discovered a lake in present-day New York state that was later named in his honour. The expedition against the Iroquois marked the beginning of a war that would ravage the St. Lawrence colony for several decades.
In 1613, Champlain set out to find the “northern sea” — the hoped-for Northwest Passage that was to provide a quick route to the riches of the Orient. His journey up the Ottawa River was based on accounts he had heard from Nicolas de Vignau, who had spent time with the Algonquin to learn their language and customs. De Vignau told Champlain that the sea was located at the upper end of the Ottawa River. However, when the party met up with Tessouat, an Algonquin chief, the chief challenged Vignau’s story. Champlain called Vignau a liar, and that was the end of Champlain’s journey to the northern sea. (However, historian Marcel Trudel believes Vignau’s story of reaching present-day Hudson Bay is not only plausible but highly likely.)
Champlain’s final major journey was to Huronia in 1615. He travelled up the St. Lawrence to Quebec City, then took the Rivière des Prairies and continued up the Ottawa River, which he called the “River of the Algonquins.” From there, he entered Lake Nipissing and the French River, and finally he reached Lake Huron, which was then called “Lake of the Attigouautans.”
In his writings, he described what drove him to make his journeys of exploration: “The extreme affection in which I have always held the discoveries in New France made me increasingly keen to traverse the lands to finally acquire a complete knowledge of the country, by means of the rivers and lakes that abound in great numbers, and also to become familiar with the tribes who live on these lands, for the purpose of bringing to them knowledge of God.”
Champlain named present-day Lake Huron “Mer douce,” or Freshwater Sea, and he was surprised to find that there were many people living along its shores. He visited five of the more important villages, which were each enclosed with palisades of wood. “The small tract of country which I visited is thickly settled with a countless number of human beings, not to speak of the other districts where I did not go, and which, according to general report, are as thickly settled or more so than those mentioned above.”
While Champlain was keen to convert the Native people, he was also interested in learning from them. He spent the winter of 1615–1616 among the Hurons, observing and recording the details of their everyday lives. Champlain’s attitude towards Aboriginal people was relatively enlightened for his time — he proposed French-Native intermarriage so that the two races could become “one people.” Young French men were sent to live among the Natives — the result was the beginning of a Métis population.
Champlain was a prolific writer and cartographer — a map completed just before his death in 1635 gives a detailed picture of North America from the northern regions south to Virginia and from Newfoundland as far west as Lake Superior. The records he left behind hold a wealth of information and are relevant to this day.
He was also a tireless transoceanic traveller at a time when sea voyages were perilous. In addition to the extensive journeying he did in the West Indies and South America as a young man, Champlain completed a dozen round-trip voyages between France and the New World. While in France, he lobbied incessantly for the cause of New France. And in founding a distinct French nation that held out against English domination for more than two centuries, Champlain helped ensure that Canada remained distinct from its American neighbour to the south.
There is no doubt that Champlain was an explorer of great significance, certainly the most important explorer in the history of Canada.
JACQUES LACOURSIERE is recognized as Canada's best popularizer of Quebec history He is a recipient of the Pierre Berton Award, has consulted on history education and curriculum reform in Quebec, and is co-author of Boreal Express, a journal of the history of Canada and Canada-Quebec. But he is perhaps best known for his many contributions to radio and television as well as his remarkable series A Popular History of Quebec. He was made a Knight of the National Order of Quebec in 2002 and in 2006 he became a Member of the Order of Canada.
This article appeared in Canada's History magazine in December 2013-January 2014 and was nominated for a Western Magazine Award.
Aboriginal Arts & Stories competition celebrates decade of excellence
It began modestly ten years ago as a way to promote young Aboriginal writers. Today it’s a showcase event that celebrates outstanding new indigenous writing and art.
Earlier this year, the Aboriginal Arts & Stories competition marked its tenth anniversary with a gala celebration at the Canadian Museum of History in Ottawa.
Capturing top prize in the junior writing category this year was Andrea Lanouette, a sixteen-year-old from Surrey, British Columbia. Her story, “Tears,” tells of an Aboriginal girl who in 1969 is murdered while hitchhiking along the infamous Highway of Tears in northern British Columbia.
The winner of the senior category was Aviaq Johnston of Iqaluit, Nunavut. The twenty-year-old’s story, “Tarnikuluk,” draws on traditional Inuit tales to explore the impacts of youth suicide and colonialism.
The winners of the art competition were Mercedes Sandy, of Christian Island, Ontario (junior category), and Nicole Paul, of Prince Albert, Saskatchewan, (senior category).
The competition is run by Historica Canada. Canada’s History Society is a key sponsor, as is Enbridge.
Here are the winning entries in the story competition:

Andrea Lanouette
Age 16, Haisla
Surrey, British Columbia
Tears
Sitting here in this worn-out, faux-velvet recliner when I’ve got my cigarette in hand, I always find myself feeling a bit nostalgic. I end the day here every night, and as soon as I sit down it seems my Caroline is always the first thing that comes to mind. It’s almost become a ritual, reliving every moment I spent with her, searching for some kind of closure.
I met her back in high school. She was sixteen at the time. I was the new kid in town; my dad scored a better job in forestry there, and so we dropped everything in Vancouver and headed north into the damp, foggy mass that was Prince Rupert. By then it was just the two of us. My mother died in a hit-and-run when I was just a baby. She had my older brother in the back seat — Dad said his name was James.
At eighteen I was tall and fragile-boned. Standing next to my father, I more closely resembled a pipe cleaner than a human. Worse still, I was a white pipe cleaner with a crimson Afro. Think Napoleon Dynamite, minus the glasses. Orange freckles dotted my face and shoulders, my eyebrows were transparent, my pants were about four inches too short, and overall it was just a catastrophic combination of features for a boy.
Caroline was born and raised on the coast, and she was just as wild and unpredictable as the ocean that surrounded her. She was well-known around town for being the sweetest thing you ever saw. The men called her Bambi, for her soft brown eyes and smooth copper skin. Females spat her name in hushed voices when she walked by, unaware that their animosity only made her even more appealing. Her hair was always tossed effortlessly around her shoulder in loose chestnut waves down to her waist, though I think the thing I remember mostly clearly is the cigarette that hung loosely between her fingertips. It seemed she couldn’t exist without it.
Her parents were both alcoholics. I used to take her on long drives when she was upset and her parents were drinking. I’d park the car off the side of the road somewhere on Highway 16, and she’d tell me awful stories about when she was little and both of her parents would leave her alone for days when the welfare cheque came around. She would be spewing tears of rage one minute, and then a moment later she’d be a silent. She held a blank, desolate look on her face when she told me about having to go to the neighbours’ houses for food and having to make up excuses for her parents when they were away. Then she’d blow me away by flashing a huge, sudden smile. She’d tell me how the neighbours knew she was lying the whole time. They kept her secret because native communities were “pretty much just like big families.”
“My secrets were theirs too,” she’d say. She couldn’t decide whether the closeness was the best or the worst part of living in a town filled with people who look, speak, and dress exactly the same. “Sometimes it’s great, but when it comes to meeting cute boys it’s a little ridiculous,” she said once. “You can’t focus on flirting when the thought of one day finding out he’s your cousin keeps floating in and out of your mind.” I’d try to smile then, sort of. I found it hard to wrap my head around the speed and ease at which she slid from one emotion to the next. Neither my head nor my heart could catch up to her.
One night she’d already smoked about a half a pack of smokes, and my car was filled with smog to the point that I could barely make out her silhouette huddled in the passenger’s seat. I wasn’t a smoker then. I knew all too well what it would do to my lungs, and so I opted to crack the window a bit.
Without warning she leaned over me, reaching behind my back for the window dial so she could roll the window back up. She said she was cold, so I didn’t argue. She stayed there for a moment, a little too close for me to keep my cool. I really wish I could crack open a window, I thought. “You smoke?” she asked — her face only inches from mine. “Nope. Never have, never will.” I said, trying to sound confident. She looked down at me with her big doe eyes then, taking a nice long drag before resting her delicate little hands on my chest. I parted my lips as she exhaled slowly. The smoke burned my throat, but I inhaled anyway because I could almost taste her watermelon lip gloss. Then suddenly I could taste her watermelon lip gloss. Shocked, I gasped quietly, and to my mild embarrassment I could feel her smirking more than I could see it. I was hooked on nicotine the minute it hit my lungs, but it was nothing in comparison to my addiction to her.
After an immeasurable amount of time, we decided we’d go lay down in the back seat. That was probably the most memorable part of the night, for me. It was nice just laying next to her and talking about nothing. I kept a blanket and some pillows back there most of the time, so it was pretty comfortable. I held her while she rested her head against my chest, and she told me she liked the sound of my heartbeat.
She seemed to be calmed down by this point, so I sat up. I figured I should be getting her home before her dad came after me with his hunting rifle. Everything seemed fine, when out of nowhere she suggested “running away together.” I laughed at first; I figured she was joking. One look at her face told me otherwise. Tried to explain to her that it was better we didn’t, that we’d never graduate, we’d end up dirt poor in a homeless shelter in Terrace or someplace, but she wouldn’t accept it.
She decided if I wouldn’t come with her she’d go alone. No way was I letting her out of this car by herself in the middle of the night on an empty highway, so I just kept driving towards home. That is, until she started screaming and grabbing for the steering wheel.
“Are you crazy?” I screamed. What on earth was she doing, trying to get us killed? I pulled over to talk to her, but she just turned and got out of the car. She shut the door with a slam and started walking in the opposite direction from where I was driving. Just a stunt for attention, I thought. Nobody’s that stupid. So I didn’t chase after her. I didn’t even get out of the car. I just sat there behind the steering wheel for I don’t know how long before I somehow fell asleep.
When I woke up the next morning the sky was bright grey, which I had to admit was pretty darn good for Prince Rupert. That was when I realized that she never showed up last night. A sickening feeling took root in my gut and stayed there for the entire ride back into town. Please, please, please let her be at home.
The more I thought it through, the easier it was to convince myself she was safe and sound, probably asleep at home. After all, it was just like her to be too proud to ask for a ride home. She’s the type of person that was more likely to do things the hard way. By the time I finally got to her house, it must’ve been about 7:30 in the morning. I walked up the three creaky wooden steps and knocked loudly on the door for a bit longer than I usually did. No answer. So I went around the back of the shabby one-storey house, into the backyard, which was bigger than you expected it to be and peered through the back door; nothing, other than the faint sound of the TV in the background.
By the end of the day I had the whole town mad at me, but at least we were working together to try to find her. We had people calling relatives all over B.C. to keep an eye out for her. It wasn’t until three days later that her parents received a call from the police saying they found her body in the woods about ten kilometres east of Highway 16. Not far from where I’d spent the night. They got a tip from an anonymous source, who said they’d seen her trying to hitch a ride south. It was 1969 that year, and she was the first victim in a series of murders that happened on Highway 16.
Something inside me changed that day. I didn’t feel like a naive teenager anymore. It seemed I aged a lifetime in just one day. People tend to say that I was just a kid when it happened — “Eighteen is so young, you can’t blame yourself forever” — but they forget that she was only sixteen. Sixteen. That was when I decided I wanted to be a police officer. I couldn’t live with myself if I wasn’t able to help solve what happened to Caroline.
It took a lot of hard work, but I made it. After a lot of gruelling training from the experts and an unimaginable amount of protein shakes, I bulked up quite a bit in that first year. I finished high school a semester early and went straight into training with the RCMP.
It’s fourteen years and nine victims later, and we still haven’t found the killer. It’s getting harder and harder to drag myself out of bed every morning, but I always manage after what seems like a hundred cigarettes and a hundred cups of coffee. A lot of times I look at the empty side of my bed and try to imagine what it would be like waking up next to her. Most days I just smile to myself because I know that there would be no getting out of bed. Everything I’d need would be in that bed right next to me. Then I need just one more cigarette to clear my head, and, as I take that first drag, I think I can almost taste watermelon.

Aviaq Johnston
Age 21, Inuit
Iqaluit, Nunavut
Tarnikuluk
Tulugak stood on the sturdy telephone pole in front of a church in the community. To the people gathering at the small building, he only appeared as a raven observing the view. It seemed as if the whole community had come to the church today; people were overflowing out of the structure, spilling onto the street. There was a mess of vehicles parked: pickup trucks, small SUVs, and dozens of snowmobiles. Weepy singing lilted out of the church as the people sang their sorrows. A death had come to the community again, and this was the funeral for yet another young soul that tripped into the idea that dying by one’s own hand might make their sadness end.
Another soul joined Tulugak on the telephone pole in the form of a smaller, less majestic raven. She was shy and hesitant, confused at why there were so many people below them. Tulugak waited for her to gain enough courage to speak. Several moments later, in a squawk, she asked, “Is that my funeral?”
He nodded his head in assent and looked at Little Soul, so crumpled and quiet. In her life, she did not often know happiness. Her spirit was a mixture of bland colours that did not even begin to convey how beautiful and inspirational she had the potential to be. She had let these colours overbear her, hiding the true magenta, turquoise, cobalt, and gold of her essence. She stared at the crowd for a long time, eventually asking, “Why are there so many?”
“Your death created quite a morose atmosphere in the community,” Tulugak narrated, “as all deaths do. However, the death of a soul so young and vulnerable creates such a tear in the fabric of the town. They can’t understand why you did something so drastic as to end your own life.”
A silence followed as Little Soul contemplated the meaning of what Tulugak had detailed. As the mournful sounds below them grew louder, more frightened and upset, they bore witness as a closed, non-stately wooden casket was carried out by six uniformed cadets. Little Soul remembered that she had been one of them and had had the chance to go on trips to Whitehorse for Cadet Camp in the summers, but had never gone because she would instead go camping on the land with her grandparents. Her fellow cadets carried the wooden box and gently placed it in the bed of a pickup truck. She could see their glistened cheeks from the top of the telephone pole.
Alive, she hadn’t been very close to any of them. In fact, in her final months of life, she hadn’t been close to anyone. Her abusive mother had been unbearably nasty; she’d never known her father very well. She wasn’t close to her siblings. Little Soul had found refuge in her cousins, but, after a while, even spending time with them could not overshadow how dejected she always felt. Most of her friendships had fallen apart, which didn’t surprise her. Growing up in poverty and a poor home environment led Little Soul to tarnish all her other relationships. She’d stolen money and little trinkets from the families of her friends and had alienated herself by saying things behind their backs, knowing that someone would overhear her. It wasn’t something she could control; Little Soul had to lash out, ending up with ruined friendships with people who seemed to care about her. She’d wanted to hurt them before she could be hurt.
Little Soul sat on the telephone pole, watching the whole community file out of the building. First, community members, peers from school, teachers, and childhood friends came out with all their sorrowful eyes. Then her relatives from out of town, her cousins, aunts, uncles, siblings, and, lastly, her mother. All their grief-stricken faces stung Little Soul, but it was the vacant look in her mother’s face that haunted her the most.
Tulugak noticed Little Soul’s trembling at the sight of her family, the denial in her eyes. At first, he assumed she was denying that she was dead. Then, in an unhappy squawk, Little Soul cried, “My mother still doesn’t care! Still! How can she be so cruel to me, even now? She always hated me!”
Throughout his immortal life — as punishment for tricking Nuliajuk into marrying him and terrifying her father into drowning her — Tulugak had guided innumerable souls from their suicides to their next spiritual forms. He’d encountered an infinity of lonely and anxious souls. They were all insecure, hurt, victimized, and accusatory of someone in their human life, vulnerable to that one person. It did not surprise him that Little Soul reacted this way to her mother’s seemingly emotionless appearance.
“She is mourning her youngest daughter, Little Soul,” Tulugak cooed. “Everyone processes their grief differently.”
“She never loved me!” Little Soul repeated skeptically, ignoring him. Tulugak patiently waited for her anger to pass. For several moments, she mourned her life for all its difficulty, all the cruelty she had suffered. An abusive mother, one older brother that was adopted to their grandparents, a half-sister that lived with her father — none of them could relate to her or make Little Soul feel loved. Only in her cousins did she actually find some form of kinship. Then, her closest cousin had been flown to Ottawa by medivac for surgery from a snowmobiling accident. She’d been alone for weeks, alone with her awful mother. “She hit me and yelled at me, embarrassed me. She was evil! And now, she acts like she didn’t do anything! She acts like she didn’t force me to … to ….”
Though Little Soul drifted off mid-speech, Tulugak knew exactly what she was thinking: “To kill myself.”
Every time he heard the stories, Tulugak shrank. His life’s purpose had been about mischief, making himself happy, playing jokes on people, and getting whatever he wanted. He used to shift his skin into a variety of forms, from giants to insects. He would use people’s secrets that he overheard as leverage, use his various shapes to steal whatever he pleased, from beautifully crafted ivory snow knives to gorgeous women. He’d misjudged the situation with Nuliajuk. Ever after she had become a sea goddess through his malice, Tulugak couldn’t stop thinking about how petty he had once been. He’d started out as a vibrant celestial being. Now, he couldn’t grow any larger than the raven form he took.
Each time the souls came, Tulugak dimmed. He fell. He hurt.
Their lives carried such darkness and apathy. To live life on a constant edge, inching closer each and every moment that someone sneered at them, raised a hand to them, every time they felt lonely or foolish. Until one day someone just says one word, any single word, and suddenly it all tumbles down on top of them. They lose their footing on that cliff’s edge and they can’t remember the things that had kept them together for so long. Tulugak swallowed their painful lives in order to bring them to their next spiritual life in a way that would rid them of their terrible sadness, but doing this led him to soak it all up. He became more and more tired, more and more remorseful. Tulugak was falling into an abyss of absolute depression. Year after year, the number of souls multiplied as the standard of living became ever more dismal. Tulugak had absorbed hundreds of thousands of these suicidal souls seeking escape.
Still, Tulugak had to help Little Soul see that she must move on. “Take me away,” Little Soul sobbed. “Please, just take me somewhere so I don’t feel like this anymore. I need to … I need to feel something different. I need to feel better.”
“Little one,” Tulugak spoke, his eons of life resounding through his voice, “oh, little one, you must see. You will never be truly happy, in no matter which form of life, whether human, or spiritual, or as a god, you will never be fully satisfied. You have closed yourself off from that possibility.”
“You don’t know!” Little Soul wept. “You don’t understand what it was like! You don’t know how I lived!”
Yes, Little Soul, I do, he thought quietly to himself. I know how the forty-year-old man felt when he killed himself last week, after his wife of twenty years left him. I know how the sixteen-year-old teenage girl felt when she decided to hang herself a month ago. I know how the thirteen-year-old boy felt when he did the same thing four years ago. I know how the fifty-year-old women felt when she decided to drive into nothingness. I know how the eleven-year-old felt. I know how you, the fifteen-year-old, felt.
“I do, little one.” He inclined his head toward her, brushing away his heavy thoughts: “You have let your sadness and your obstacles become you. Until you break free from those, I cannot help.”
Little Soul whimpered softly to herself. Below, the crowd had dispersed. The family had gone with her body, off to the cemetery at the edge of town, whilst her old friends and other members of the community made their ways home. Stores, office buildings, and the schools were temporarily closed for the service. Her old classmates and teachers would all be returning to classes tomorrow. Men and women would return to their jobs until five.
Tulugak could feel her vulnerability, her undiluted despondency. She was sinking lower, but he was used to this. Tulugak hopped closer to her and listened while she breathed heavily between her sobs. Why, she wondered, why was everyone around her so much stronger while she was too weak even to hold herself up?
“I am here,” Tulugak began to explain, “so that I may help you move on, to carry onward and learn to accept yourself for who you are, that life isn’t meant to be perfect, that there will always be better days and better people in your life. I am here to help you see that there are better ways to overcome your obstacles. When you accept yourself and the world, you accept life and all its harshness, but also its joys. When you accept these things, you may move on, and this will bring you a happiness that cannot be shaken, no matter which form you are given after this. You could move on to be human again, or take the form of a creature, or you may become celestial, like myself. You can dance in the stars or swim in the ocean. Your acceptance of yourself is what will free you. Your acceptance of your circumstances is your deliverance. This will be very hard, indeed. It will also be truly rewarding.”
“But I don’t care about me,” Little Soul murmured, “I mean, yes I do … but I could accept myself and everything just fine. I just can’t … I can’t accept them. My mother, my father, the bullies. I can’t do that. They hurt me too much.”
“Ah, hatred,” Tulugak responded, “such an awful thing. Hatred holds people back. It victimizes them, accuses them of terrible things, and leads them down a dark, dark path. Hatred is your excuse for not living. There is far too much hatred in the world, I think. Too much hatred and not enough love. Not enough forgiveness.”
“Forgiveness?” she echoed.
“Forgiveness,” Tulugak looked at her pointedly. “I’ve done wrong, little one. I’ve done such terrible wrong unto others, none of whom have forgiven me. For millennia, those I hurt have punished me, making me pay my due for the pain I’ve caused them. Though they feel that they are in the right, they are causing me such suffering. And I forgive them, though they had sought revenge rather than forgiveness. I forgive them for inflicting their hatred upon me, because I deserved it once, and they do not feel that I have redeemed myself.”
“You think I should forgive my mother?” Little Soul scorned. “My father? My bullies and the others who were mean to me? You think they deserve it? Just like you think you deserve the ones you’ve hurt to forgive you?”
“I think everyone deserves redemption and forgiveness. It heals those who are unhealthy, mends those who are broken. You know … some of those people that went to your funeral are angry at you. They think you are selfish and cowardly. They think you left them behind, that you took yourself from being important in anybody else’s life, from their life and the future generation’s lives. Yet, they forgive you, because they cared for you. I think you deserve forgiveness. I think your mother deserves forgiveness, and all the others in your life. People aren’t born evil, they are moulded. Your mother suffered long and hard as a child; she doesn’t know how else to live.”
Silence bore the air between them. It wore on for a string of time that none could measure, lasting both a minute and a century. They sat comfortably, even with the thick tension between their hunched shoulders.
Finally, Little Soul spoke, her voice carrying beautiful strength: “Okay.”
“You forgive?” he prompted.
“I forgive them,” she spoke gently into the wind. “I forgive them all: those that you have wronged, you for hurting them, my family, my mother, my friends.” She looked over the town, cloaked in white snow, puffs of smoke wafting from chimneys, growling engines of snowmobiles riling in the distance. Little Soul took a deep breath, saying, “I forgive myself.”
As she flew away, light bearing upon her soul, taking her to new places, new life, Tulugak remembered that at least one of those he had wronged had forgiven him. Nuliajuk may have given him this job as punishment, but she also knew how rewarding and uplifting it felt to send a passing soul soaring into the sunlight.
Manitoban Glenn Sigurdson brings the history of New Iceland to life in his memoir about growing up along Lake Winnipeg.
As mediator, I work in the space where big problems meet big organizations with many diverse players, all of them connected in one way or another to a problem. Interests, values, and power collide, often in the vortex where the economy, the environment, and society intersect. I am the man in the middle helping to resolve deeply embedded differences. So why would a guy like me start writing about a group of Icelandic immigrants living along a prairie lake?
My writing was born out of nostalgia. Often, after a particularly stressful day at work, my mind would drift back to my time growing up in a fishing family on Lake Winnipeg. The rich memories were like comfort food, often eliciting laughter or tears. Over time, I began to write down the stories of the people and places I had known as a boy.
I didn’t know it then, but, like Bilbo in The Hobbit, I was beginning a great journey that would, over the course of several years, culminate in my recently published memoir, Vikings on a Prairie Ocean: The Saga of a Lake, a People, a Family and a Man.
The story of Icelandic settlement along Lake Winnipeg began in the 1870s, when the government of Sir John A. Macdonald was trying to solidify Canada’s hold over the newly acquired North-West Territory, which included most of the land north and west of current-day Ontario. Sturdy settlers were needed to fill this territory.
Lord Dufferin, Canada’s third post-Confederation Governor General, believed Icelanders would fit the bill. Dufferin had visited the island in 1855. In his 1856 Letters from the High Latitudes he described the islanders as a hardy people with “an almost miraculous exuberance of mental powers.” Dufferin urged Macdonald to invite the Icelanders to settle in the West. A plan was devised to create an “Icelandic Reserve” along nearly 130 kilometres of the western shore of Lake Winnipeg. This area was at that time part of the District of Keewatin that extended north of Manitoba — then just a postage-stamp-shaped province extending only fifty-eight kilometres north of Winnipeg.
The first Icelanders arrived in 1875. My family arrived the following year. These first immigrants were impoverished sheep farmers whose grazing lands in Iceland had been destroyed by volcanic eruptions. Buoyed by the promise of a new life in New Iceland, they were greeted upon their arrival by intolerable cold and snow, deadly smallpox, tormenting mosquitoes, and near starvation. Many settlers left after just a few years.
Thank God for the fish. A few fish pulled through a hole in the ice of Lake Winnipeg staved off starvation during my family’s first winter, spent in a shack on Hecla Island, about three hours drive north of modern-day Winnipeg. By 1882, my great-grandfather and his brother had hauled in the first commercial catches of fish near Hecla. Soon, this colony of sheep farmers turned fishermen was selling its catches in Chicago and New York. News of Lake Winnipeg’s v bounty lured more Icelanders to Manitoba. My ancestors emerged as leaders in the blossoming community.
In writing my memoir, I came to realize just how much I had been shaped by my heritage. The Icelanders understood that to make a life in this rugged land they would need to resolve their differences and work together. They would need to forge relationships with the First Nations as well as with the merchants and businesspeople to the south. Gradually, they established local governance, launched a newspaper, organized churches, and set up schools.
As someone who worked for years as a lawyer representing First Nations impacted by Manitoba’s hydro developments and also by mercury contamination of rivers flowing into and out of the lake, the story of New Iceland’s cooperation with local First Nations was inspiring. These early settlers were the epitome of what it takes to build a sustainable future. Their story gave me new insights into connecting the past, the present, and the future.
The Icelandic diaspora has spread across North America since those early days along Lake Winnipeg. However, all of its members still find their place and identity lodged in that “prairie ocean.” And, each year, many return home to celebrate Islendingadagurinn — an annual Icelandic festival held in Gimi, Manitoba, each August — where they rekindle friendships and refresh their roots.
Glenn Sigurdson, a native of Riverton, Manitoba, who now lives in Vancouver, is a mediator, teacher, writer, and former lawyer (VikingsOnaPrairieOcean.com).
This article appeared as a Your Story in the October-November 2014 issue of Canada’s History magazine.
The gullible and the greedy have a long history of falling for inheritance hoaxes, says Paul Jones.
In May 1928, newspapers across Canada reported that a consortium from York County, New Brunswick, had funded one of its number to sail to London to pursue its claim to the estate of Sir Francis Drake. You might think this odd, because Drake had been dead for 332 years, but to the claimants the huge elapsed interval was a positive boon in that it had allowed compound interest to work its magic. Notwithstanding the British Foreign Office’s flat denial of the existence of an unclaimed Drake estate, rumours persisted that its contemporary value exceeded $100 billion, a patently impossible sum many times greater than the United Kingdom’s GDP.
Such practical thoughts hardly quelled the ardour of prospective inheritors, which also included other New Brunswickers from Saint John. As with conspiracy theories today, official denials and procedural dead ends were interpreted — to the degree they were heeded at all — not at face value but as evidence of bureaucratic incompetence or cover-up.
The Canadian experience was but a small annex to a much grander edifice of greed, deceit, and self-deception that would only be dismantled after the United States Postal Service prosecuted organizers for mail fraud. The essence of such scams is that the bad guys falsified or misrepresented historical records with a view to soliciting — and pocketing — funds from prospective heirs: the sale of shares in the estate, ongoing legal and research fees, and genealogical services, all handsomely priced.
Oscar Hartzell, the propagator though not the creator of the Drake scheme, was convicted in 1934 in Iowa, the birthplace and epicentre of the enterprise. Despite being sentenced to ten years in Leavenworth Prison, Hartzell was defended to the end of his days by tens of thousands of his dupes who were convinced that he was the real victim — a truth seeker unfairly hounded by misguided or nefarious authorities.
The Drake hoax was just one of dozens of estate claims that occupied the North American popular imagination, the courts, and the newspapers from the late eighteenth century through the first decades of the twentieth century, even inspiring an 1892 satirical novel by Mark Twain, The American Claimant.
Not all of these cases were frauds.
Entirely on the up and up was the successful 1858 acquisition of the Shard estate in Britain by the meticulously well-prepared Vermont genealogist, Columbus Smith. With a value of a mere $300,000, this claim fell several digits short of scamworthiness, but it inspired would-be heirs and scheming con men to pursue other estates for decades to come.
As François Weil has pointed out in his magnificent Family Trees: A History of Genealogy in America, hoaxes were easily propagated because there was a triple level of uncertainty about any claim: the existence of riches, the legal basis for a suit, and the determination of rightful heirs. Successfully fudge just one of these three links, and the rest of the chain could appear compellingly strong. In the Drake case, as an example, an invented American heir was all that was needed to sustain a decades-long delusion.
Why is this on my mind today? Well, I’ve recently received an email inquiring whether I might be a beneficiary of the late South African H.S. Jones. My correspondent, a Gavin Davis, reports that Jones died five years ago a wealthy man with no known next of kin. Davis, who uses a Hotmail address and purports to represent a major but unnamed financial institution, is charged with finding the rightful heir and suggests I get back to him as soon as possible. With a name like Jones, how could I not be related?
Of course there will be unavoidable costs to document my claim and make necessary legal filings. I accept that. But these will be but a tiny investment in comparison with the vast estate that will soon be mine. And maybe for a small finder’s fee — nothing extravagant, you understand — I might be able to get you in on the action.
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A postscript to my June-July 2014 Roots column, “Name games”: In my last column I scolded Ancestry.ca for the misleading depiction of family history research presented in its TV advertising. Well, fair’s fair. The most recent wave of Ancestry commercials, focussing on researchers and their enthusiasms, is tone perfect and lovingly crafted. Bravo!
By Ken McGoogan.
Last June, during a voyage around Scotland, a history-buff friend told me about attending a talk by an academic historian who had written a book featuring a section on the 1758 siege of the Fortress of Louisbourg. My friend noted, with some dismay, that the professional seemed to take pride in the fact that he had never visited the fortress, though he could have gotten there by undertaking a two-day drive.
Appalled but unsurprised, I could only shake my head. During a previous historical adventure — when we had flown north out of Winnipeg in small planes — I had told my fellow voyager that, in my opinion, nobody should write history or biography without visiting relevant locations.
Why so? Well, for example, when I was researching Race to the Polar Sea, about Philadelphia-born explorer Elisha Kent Kane, I visited the well-preserved home of his grandfather, a local celebrity. There, where Kane had spent many summers, I gleaned volumes about his youth and early manhood. I also learned from a local historian that I was the first biographer ever to visit the place.
Three years earlier, when I was working on Lady Franklin’s Revenge, I sojourned in the upscale London residence that had once been home to Lady Franklin and is today a Quaker retreat. I also travelled to Lincoln- shire to see where, in an apartment above a shop (now a bakery), John Franklin had grown up. For me, this double immersion in place revealed the dynamics of their marriage: The “good Sir John” never felt quite good enough for Jane Franklin, and never ceased struggling to impress her.
Now, to my history-buff friend, who is some years younger than me, I reiterated my belief in going to the actual site. It increases understanding, adds colour, and generates emotion and energy. I invoked our experience of the preceding few days. We were three-quarters of the way through a Celtic Quest voyage with Adventure Canada, sailing on a ship with about one hundred passengers, and we had piled into inflatable Zodiacs to venture ashore on several islands.
On the island of Islay, best known for its whisky distilleries — think Lagavulin, Laphroig, Bowmore — we made our way to Lake, or Loch, Finlaggan, once the centre of the Lordship of the Isles. From this location, the earliest Macdonalds had ruled a Gaelic-Norse sea kingdom that, for three centuries, remained essentially independent of both Scotland and Norway.
Exploring the stone ruins on a tiny island in the middle of the lake, a visitor comes face-to-face with the parliamentary practices of the Lords of the Isles. The Macdonald chiefs and their thanes or sub-lords would arrive from islands north and south, pulling their craft ashore on the sandy beaches of Islay. Then, they would conduct meetings on tiny Council Island while the less powerful stood gathered on a larger island nearby, permitted only to watch and listen. Both groups included the ancestors of tens of thousands of contemporary Canadians, people with surnames like MacNicol, MacEachern,MacKay,MacGillevray,MacMillan — you get the idea. Not only that, but, for this voyager at least, seeing the island arrangement drove home the extent of Norse influence on both Scottish and Canadian traditions: This business of meeting on Council Island derived from the Vikings.
After visiting Islay, we sailed to Barra, where, among other things, we rambled around Kisimul Castle, ancient stronghold of the Clan MacNeill. It stands offshore on a tiny islet — a location that made it hard to attack. On an upper floor of the castle, some of us stuck our heads out the window through which, each evening, a minion would appear and holler: “MacNeill of Barra has dined and now the world may dine!”
That detail: Where else could one hope to pick it up? And later, while gazing at Kisimul Castle from the water, this voyager could not help thinking of the 370 locals (seventy-five families) who, in 1802, sailed from here for Pictou, Nova Scotia. They were driven by hardship, and their view of the castle and environs from the water was the last view they had of the only home they had ever known.
And what of our visit to Orkney, in the northern reaches of Scotland? Most literate Canadians are aware that in the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries the islands of Orkney provided most of the workers for the Hudson’s Bay Company (HBC), which played a central role in developing Canada. On the outskirts of Stromness, we visited the boyhood home of HBC explorer John Rae, a once-grand mansion now in rough condition. I had visited for the first time in 1998, while researching Rae for Fatal Passage, so for me this viewing packed a wallop.
In Kirkwall, fourteen miles away, nobody who enters St. Magnus Cathedral, as we did, can fail to appreciate the sophistication of the Scandinavian society that built this edifice in the 1100s — almost one thousand years ago. Yet in Orkney, which has the greatest concentration of prehistoric sites in Europe, even the Viking era begins to feel like it was only yesterday.
We visited the four-thousand-year-old Ring of Brodgar, a circle of Neolithic standing stones that many people find more magical than Stonehenge. Through a tunnel, we entered Maes Howe, a massive chambered cairn, replete with etched communications, built around 2700 BC. And at Skara Brae we explored the ruins of a Neolithic village comprised of ten homes in which people lived more than five thousand years ago.
That evening, before the ship sailed, we got a taste of contemporary Orkney. Tom Muir, an archivist and historian who travels internationally as a storyteller, brought some of his pals on board to entertain — these included two acclaimed bands: Hullion and the Wrigley Sisters. Surrounded by ancient history, today’s Orcadians assert their vitality by telling stories and making music.
Experiencing that — ancient context, contemporary response — enhances our sense of the human condition. So I said, or perhaps just meant to say, as we sailed north towards Shetland. To the original question, I did return: Can people write history or biography without visiting relevant locations? Sure, I said: They can write books. But if they were to undertake some focused visitation, they could write better ones. They might even write books that others want to read.
Ken McGoogan, author of four bestsellers about Arctic exploration, sails as a resource historian with Adventure Canada. His latest book is How the Scots Invented Canada.
This article orginally appeared in the 2011 October/November issue of Canada's History Magazine.
by Phil Koch
The Canadian Museum for Human Rights is a soaring and dramatic addition to Winnipeg’s skyline. In fact, its architect, Antoine Predock, says the building’s silhouette — which is unique, even in an era of numerous major buildings with curving and experimental designs — is one of his favourite things about the now-completed structure. His other favourite element is what he calls the “alabaster labyrinth,” a set of overlapping walkways covered in translucent Spanish alabaster and lit from within. These spectacular “ribbons of light” offer moments of beauty and respite as visitors move between eleven main galleries housed inside the Manitoba Tyndall stone-clad “mountain” that forms the core of the building.
Albuquerque, New Mexico-based Predock was in Winnipeg this spring to receive an honorary fellowship from the Royal Architectural Institute of Canada and to inspect his creation as it readied for opening. Occupied by administrative and curatorial staff since January, the building welcomes the public beginning September 20. Predock says he almost never enters open competitions, but the proposal for Canada’s new human rights museum was a powerful attraction. “In my dreams, through my career, I never imagined this kind of opportunity arising — to make a design response, an artistic response, to something as profound as human rights.”
The architectural committee that chose Predock’s design saw it as “an inspirational building that achieves a complexity relating to the diversity of human experience.” While its shape is certainly distinct and highly recognizable, the building’s unusual characteristics are multiplied within. Materials range from tinted concrete to hexagonal basalt columns, from 5,400 tonnes of sometimes imposing steel infrastructure to 1,669 custom glass panes on the hundred-metre-tall illuminated tower and massive curving cloud of windows. In the main public spaces, next to no walls or ceilings meet at right angles. Predock wants visitors to be affected by the experience of being inside the museum: “I hope it’s a transformational experience, not only in terms of the message that the building will deliver,” he said, “but also the sense that I’ve been in a very unusual space, and there’s something about that that has changed me, too.”
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The idea of changing people’s sense of their place in the world was always central to the endeavour. The museum’s story starts with Winnipeg’s Asper family, in particular lawyer and entrepreneur Israel “Izzy” Asper (who died in 2003) and his daughter, Gail, also a lawyer but now perhaps best-known as the driving force behind the museum project and its fundraising arm, the Friends of the Canadian Museum for Human Rights. The two, along with Moe Levy, executive director of the family’s charitable Asper Foundation, kick-started a project that at first wasn’t intended to involve a new museum.
As Gail Asper explains it, she was accompanying a group of Canadian students in May 2000 on a foundation-supported trip to Washington, D.C., where they visited the U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum and other sites, when she discovered that the students seemed to know more about American than Canadian human rights history. “They all knew the words to the [U.S.] Declaration of Independence, but they didn’t really know anything about the Charter [the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms],” she said. It reminded Asper of her own experience after she moved from Manitoba to Nova Scotia at the age of twenty-four to work as a lawyer. It was only then that she learned about the eighteenth-century expulsion of the Acadians from what is now Canada’s east coast, about black slavery in Canada, and about the black Halifax-area community of Africville, which was demolished in the 1960s.
Asper also mentions the Persons Case, which only came to her attention in 1982, the year the Charter was passed into law. “I did not know that there was actually a court case that said women were not persons, and we had to go all the way to the Privy Council. So I was just generally quite upset that so much of these pivotal parts of Canadian history, that happened to be human rights history, but just general history, I had not learned, I did not know,” she said. “And it was very clear that most of these kids, even twenty years later, in 1999 or 2000, still didn’t know this stuff.”
The first idea was to set up a Canadian trip to Ottawa, along the lines of the Washington trip. But she soon learned that there was no place to see and learn about the Charter — or a range of other Canadian human rights incidents and accomplishments. “The Charter is not on display anywhere; there is no institution that chronicles our democracy, how we came to be as a democracy, and what the Charter means,” Asper said. So her father, who had brought a small-town North Dakota TV station to Winnipeg and developed it into an international media conglomerate, said they needed to create a uniquely Canadian museum. “It would be the place that you would go to to learn Canada’s history of human rights — as he always said, warts and all — and understand how the freedoms that we all enjoy, these beautiful freedoms that we all enjoy, how they came to be, and how they can be lost if we are not vigilant.” And what better place than Winnipeg, a city with plenty of its own human rights history, located in the centre of the country.
The museum is situated near the forks of the Red and Assiniboine rivers, across the railway tracks from the heart of Winnipeg’s downtown. Asper calls it “a perfect setting for an experience rich in diversity,” noting that the site on Treaty One land is believed to have been a First Nations meeting place for thousands of years. It’s across the river from the French community of St. Boniface and the grave of Louis Riel, around the corner from the locations of some of the major events of the 1919 Winnipeg General Strike, and down the street from the provincial legislature where, thanks to Nellie McClung, Manitoba women became the first in Canada to gain the vote.
Because human rights are universal, there is a sense in which the museum could have been anywhere, says Asper, whose direct role with the museum is as a member of its board of directors. But she also believes Canada has its own take on human rights. “There’s a Canadian way of looking at things that has made this country a respected leader around the world, and we as Canadians need to know it and we need to be proud to tell it to others,” she said. “I think we’ve got a belief that you can be different from one another but equal to one another, and it’s okay to be different. ... We embrace difference but we demand equality and equal treatment before the law. I think that’s a uniquely Canadian way of looking at things.”
Asper believes Canadians need to understand their past, including the Persons Case, the fact that First Nations did not have the right to vote in federal elections until 1960, and the wartime internment of Japanese Canadians — “that you could be a Canadian citizen and have all your rights taken away.” But she feels, as did her father, that Canadians also need to know about their own human rights heroes. For instance, she says, we should all know about Viola Desmond, the black Nova Scotia businesswoman who in 1946 was arrested after she refused to sit in the balcony of a movie theatre. “The message dad wanted to convey from this museum was that human rights are often achieved by very ordinary people … because they actually took the time to stop being bystanders and became defenders and champions and heroes.”
For the Asper family, who are Jewish, Holocaust education has also been important — first to make young people aware of what happened, and second, says Gail Asper, so that they “understand that the reason holocausts happen is when good people do nothing, say nothing, because they’re complacent and they don’t understand how fragile their freedoms are.” She emphasizes that the Holocaust began in Germany, a modern democratic country, and says, “The Holocaust was a very pivotal part of our education program because it really jolted you. My dad wanted kids to be jolted out of their complacency.” One of the museum’s galleries will be devoted to examining the Holocaust and anti-Semitism in relation to the methods used in other genocides and the need to actively defend human rights.
With the museum set to open in September, Asper is focused on the development of the museum’s national student program. The Washington trip is about to become a (much larger) Winnipeg trip, with thousands of students expected to visit each year.
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Stuart Murray became the president and CEO of the museum in 2009, the year after it was proclaimed the first national museum outside of the National Capital Region. The former business executive and politician is pleased to have a key role with an institution he sees as unique in the world. “To our knowledge there is no other museum that is open or being built in the world today that deals with the broad issue of human rights, particularly from an educational perspective,” he said.
The Canadian Museum for Human Rights is often described as an “ideas museum,” and for Murray this means that its main purpose is to look at issues from multiple perspectives while creating a conversation. The museum will attempt to walk a fine line between encouraging debate and dialogue, on one hand, and maintaining a non-partisan position in the thick of fundamental, passionately argued political issues. He admits that there will be challenges and says one of the biggest will be “trying to let people feel comfortable to look at the other side of an issue.”
Murray also emphasizes that this is intended to be neither a memorial nor a genocide museum: “It’s about an education of human rights,” he said. “We are looking at a broad spectrum of human rights … with Canadian history as a grounding for the journey as visitors go through the building.”
People who undertake that journey will gradually be enveloped by the building’s four massive “roots” as they descend towards the entrance. For architect Antoine Predock, this element — inspired by exposed riverbank tree roots — symbolizes humanity’s connection to the earth. Inside the museum, lower-level concrete walls are tinted and the floors cracked to resemble dried Red River clay. Before construction began, a massive archaeological dig, conducted in consultation with Aboriginal elders, uncovered hundreds of thousands of objects indicating centuries of habitation by Aboriginal peoples. Predock also consulted with First Nations elders regarding his design, which began with a series of small clay models and was developed during a number of site visits.
The building’s overarching theme is that of “a journey from darkness to light.” Visitors will ascend as they follow a circuitous path through the various galleries and ultimately towards the “Tower of Hope.” There is a “Garden of Contemplation” for quiet reflection amid greenery and pools of water, and the curving glass “Cloud” that wraps around the south and west sides of the building also resembles the wings of a dove.
Murray says the architectural committee chose Predock’s design “because this building, in its own iconic fashion, is a statement about human rights.” The committee wanted a building that would be a visible destination within the landscape.
“The whole building is more of a ziggurat, a tower, and you follow the tower as part of the tour of the installations,” said former Canadian Museum of Civilization CEO Victor Rabinovitch, who served on the committee. He said the design succeeds “both by its verticality … and by the organic inclusion of a visible notion of hope and aspiration.”
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The museum’s staff is anticipating both its opening and the changes that will come as it moves towards the next stages of its development. Angela Cassie, the director of communications and external relations, explains that the content and exhibit design went through a multi-stage, multi-year consultation process involving a content advisory committee; a research team; historians, lawyers, and other outside experts; a range of interested groups and communities; the federal Department of Canadian Heritage; public consultations held in every province and territory; and designer Ralph Appelbaum Associates.
Over the course of several years, research moved from broader themes to more specific stories — such as with the Ukrainian forced famine known as the Holodomor, for which a European scholar was eventually asked to help develop specific content. The Holodomor and other genocides that have been recognized by Canada are examined in the Breaking the Silence gallery. Cassie says the museum cannot be comprehensive but is designed to help people feel engaged with the content.
Each of the eleven galleries is developed around a specific theme, with three focusing on Canadian human rights history and issues. Following the introductory What are Human Rights? section, visitors enter the Indigenous Perspectives gallery — which explores Canadian Aboriginal traditions, including concepts of humanity and responsibility — and then the Canadian Journeys gallery, the museum’s largest and the one most shaped by public input. It examines French language rights, the Chinese head tax, and numerous other stories before the Protecting Rights in Canada section offers an interactive encounter with legal aspects of human rights.
Director of exhibitions and digital media Corey Timpson, who recommends lengthy or multiple visits, says the experience will be different for each visitor depending on their interests and the extent to which they engage with the content. He notes that the content is driven by media and digital collections, rather than a collection of objects; the modular design will allow for cost-effective responses to the changing landscape of human rights.
June Creelman, the director of learning and programming, says she has “the best job at the museum.” Along with public programs, she’s working on the school tours and national student program that will be begin in 2015. She says it’s unlike any other national museum in terms of its involvement with education departments and with teachers — who have said “loud and clear” that “concepts of human rights start when you start school … with notions of respect for each other, co-operation, and fairness.”
The museum has already had an impact on academic inquiry in Winnipeg and beyond, with a new Centre for Human Rights Research at the University of Manitoba, lectures, books, an academic journal, and many research projects. For Jodi Giesbrecht, a history Ph.D. who is originally from Manitoba and now manages research and curation at the museum, seeing everything come together is exciting. She mentions the Canadian Journeys gallery in particular, which includes some seventy stories, such as key episodes in the evolution of women’s rights. Exhibits are arranged as a “patchwork quilt,” and not chronologically, Giesbrecht explains, saying this is intended “to suggest that there is no single story of human rights in Canada — there is no one journey; there are multiple journeys.”
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In advance of its opening, the Canadian Museum for Human Rights has faced questions about its financial model, possible government influence regarding its content, which stories it will tell, and whether the kind of neutrality expected of a national museum is compatible with its mission of supporting human rights. One could also ask where the relatively new concept of human rights is going and whether it — and the museum’s vision of a cosmopolitan culture that accepts and promotes difference — has staying power in a complex and ever-changing world. No single part of the museum will address everyone’s concerns or expectations. But perhaps as a whole it will go some ways towards its objectives of overcoming fears of “the other” and promoting acceptance of people who may be very different from ourselves.
One of the museum’s many approaches to storytelling is to display works of contemporary art, including Trace, a piece conceived by award-winning artist Rebecca Belmore for the museum’s Indigenous Perspectives gallery. Belmore, who is from Upsala, Ontario, but now resides in Winnipeg, has created performances and other powerful works that evoke both the history and the present-day challenges of First Nations people in Canadian society.
While many of her creations have examined difficult topics such as pressures on land and resources, or missing and murdered Aboriginal women, Trace involves a delicate balancing of past, present, and future that seems less “pessimistic” (a word she has used to describe herself) than some of her other projects. Belmore was moved by the number of artifacts found in the museum site’s archaeological dig and was inspired by Winnipeg’s clay gumbo soil, from which schoolchildren and other community members were invited to help fashion thousands of handmade “beads” that form a massive “blanket” hanging on a seventy-four-square-metre wall of the gallery.
“That human trace of the younger generations is really an inherent part of the artwork,” said curator Lee-Ann Martin, who has worked with Belmore on this project and many others. The blanket is a motif Belmore has used before, both because of the sense of comfort and shelter it implies and because of its troubling resonances with First Nations’ pasts and present, such as the eighteenth-century smallpox epidemic, or a homeless woman who froze to death in the 1990s.
Like the museum itself, Trace is about not looking away from what has happened. Says Martin: “It’s about looking back, but it’s also looking at now and into the future.” Both the artwork and the museum are in large measure about bonds that are also responsibilities — bonds with the earth, with the “depth of history” (to use Belmore’s words), and with our communities and fellow residents of this shared world.
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For an overview of the museum’s main galleries, visit CanadasHistory.ca/CMHRgalleries.
To see more images of the construction of the Canadian Museum for Human Rights, click here.

At the Canadian Museum for Human Rights, visitors will ascend through the museum while engaging in a series of galleries that showcase the many turning point moments in the development of modern human rights.

Gallery 1 - An Introduction to Human Rights
Throughout history, people have grappled with ideas about human dignity, respect and responsibility. Today the term "human rights" generally refers to the rights and freedoms we have simply because we are human. It’s an idea thousands of years in the making.
In this gallery, we are immersed in a multi-sensory experience featuring a remarkable "object" theatre and a timeline that presents 100 important moments in human rights history throughout the ages and around the world.

Gallery 2- Listening to Indigenous Voices
First Nations, Métis and Inuit peoples have concepts of rights and responsibilities based on worldviews in which everyone and everything is interrelated.
In one of the most dramatic spaces of the Museum, the focus is a circular theatre of curved wooden slats representing the multitude of Canadian Aboriginal traditions. The theatre will play a 360-degree film and serve as a space for storytelling, performance and discussion.

Gallery 3 - One Nation, Countless Journeys
There have been steps and missteps on the road to greater rights for everyone in Canada. This panorama of experience reflects continuing efforts to achieve human rights for all.
This gallery, the largest of the Museum, explores dozens of Canadian stories from French-language rights to the Chinese head tax, from voting rights to cultural dispossession in the North. A digital canvas relays stories across a 96-foot screen, while others are told in floor stations and story niches.

Gallery 4 - Our Evolving Legal Framework
Canada’s unique legal system has evolved to protect human rights. It has been likened to a living tree for its ability to grow and adapt to new realities. A digital “living tree” projection evokes the constant evolution of laws, while a debate table enables us to explore pivotal cases from different perspectives.

Gallery 5 - Human Rights in Darkness
When the Nazi government used laws and violence to deprive people of their rights as citizens and humans, and the majority went along, genocide was the horrific result. We examine the Holocaust to learn to recognize genocide and try to prevent it.
The “broken-glass” theatre examines Canada’s own experiences with anti-Semitism. Touch-screen monitors allow us to analyze Nazi techniques of genocide and compare them to methods used in other genocides around the world.
Gallery 6 - The Universal Declaration of Human Rights
The idea that rights belong to us just because we are human—no matter who we are or where we live—was adopted in 1948 in the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. People continue to work tirelessly to make this great hope a reality. Large monitors relay the power of activism and the role of social movements in motivating change.
Gallery 7 - Speaking Out on Human Rights Violations
Words are powerful. When people dare to break the silence about mass atrocities, they promote the human rights of everyone.
This gallery explores the role of secrecy and denial in many atrocities around the world. It includes a focused examination of the Ukrainian Holodomor, the Armenian Genocide, the Holocaust, the Rwandan Genocide and the Srebrenica Genocide in Bosnia.
Gallery 8 - Canadians Who Are Making a Difference
Be inspired by Canadians taking action on human rights at school, in communities and around the world. The individual choices we make every day can make a difference. This gallery includes an interactive table about human rights challenges faced by youth and inspiring stories of Canadians who work to make a difference.
Gallery 9 - Human Rights, the Media and the Modern World
Human rights are ever-changing in our interconnected world. How should we respond? Awareness, critical thinking and deep understanding help us determine effective action. Bringing us face-to-face with contemporary human rights struggles and action, this gallery features an interactive wall map, a tapestry of human rights defenders and a small theatre to make us think critically about what we watch and read.
Gallery 10 - Expressions
A changeable gallery that will feature a diverse range of temporary exhibits focused on many aspects of human rights.

Gallery 11 - The Sights and Sounds of Positive Change
What do human rights mean to you? Respect for others? Dignity for all? Equality and freedom? Ideals become real through action, imagination and commitment. Intended to spark a personal commitment to positive social change, this gallery incorporates objects and images from events that have promoted human rights, and asks us to contemplate our own role in building a better world for all people.
— Images and text courtesy of Canadian Museum for Human Rights
To view the evolution of the Canadian Museum for Human Rights click the play button.
To view photo captions display slideshow in full screen and at the top right select “show info.”
Read more about the construction of the Canadian Museum for Human Rights.
As Scotland ponders independence, some thoughts on how the Scots made Canada what it is.
by Ken McGoogan
As a seventh-generation Canadian of complex heritage — Scottish, French, Irish, German, and, farther back, Danish-Viking — I have zero tolerance for notions of racial or ethnic purity. I revel in Canada’s diversity: cultural, racial, linguistic — the more you show me, the better I like it.
That explains why I was interested to learn that in the 1930s, when John Buchan was Governor General of Canada, he told a gathering of Manitoba farmers: “You will all be better Canadians for being also good Ukrainians.” Scottish-born and raised, Buchan added: “Every Briton, and especially every Scotsman, must believe that the strongest nations are those made up of different racial elements.”
Buchan showed a prescient grasp of Canadian diversity. Contemporary Canada enjoys a coherent mainstream culture — one that rejects cockfighting, for example, or Islamic shariah law — while remaining both multicultural and multiracial. And for that we have the Scots to thank.
Buchan wasn’t the only Scot of that period to champion Canadian pluralism. In 1935, for instance, Watson Kirkconnell — a third-generation Scottish immigrant — published Canadian Overtones, an anthology of poems translated from Icelandic, Norwegian, Hungarian, Italian, Greek, and Ukrainian. Three years later, John Murray Gibbon, born in Ceylon of Scottish parents and educated in Scotland, published Canadian Mosaic, whose title and thesis would resonate for decades.
Were the 1930s exceptional? Consider John George Diefenbaker, a hybrid Scot who served as prime minister in the 1960s. His father was of German ancestry, but his mother was descended from a Selkirk settler, George Bannerman, who emigrated from Scotland in the early 1800s. Diefenbaker himself was known to sport a kilt.
History buffs will recall that “Dief” came out of retirement to oppose his own party’s two nations policy. This fierce Scottish-Canadian objected to the idea that two founding peoples had been joined by people from many lands. He felt this gave special status to British or French Canadians while relegating others to a secondary position. And he insisted that Canadian citizenship should not depend on race, colour, or origin.
He and Buchan were preaching from the same unwritten Scottish-Canadian guidebook to pluralism introduced to Canada in the 1700s. Check out the classic Many Tender Ties: Women in Fur-Trade Society, 1670–1870 by historian Sylvia Van Kirk. She writes of numerous “country marriages” between Scottish fur-traders and Native women. Some were exploitive, but others produced spectacular results.
Look at Cuthbert Grant. Born in 1793 in a fur-trade post between Winnipeg and Saskatoon, he was the son of a Scottish fur trader and a mother of Cree and French heritage. Young Cuthbert was taken east, baptized into the Scottish Presbyterian Church, and then sent to Scotland for schooling.
Back in Canada, Grant worked for the North West Company and became a controversial figure when a struggle in Red River (Winnipeg) pitted Scottish fur traders against Scottish settlers. At that point, the Métis did not think of themselves as a distinct and separate people, but simply as fur traders. The multilingual Grant, born a half-century before Louis Riel, made the Métis aware of themselves as a people when he recruited them to fight for the North West Company. In a sense, this hybrid Scot was the father of the Métis nation.
Now, you might argue that the key cultural influences on Grant were French and Cree. Perhaps. But ponder then the similar example of another paragon of Scots pluralism: James Douglas. Born in 1803 in British Guiana (now Guyana), Douglas was the son of a wealthy Glasgow merchant and a Creole woman. As a boy, he attended school in Lanark, Scotland, and then studied French with a tutor in England. At sixteen, he joined the North West Company as an apprentice. After marrying the half-Native daughter of a leading trader, he made the 1820s transition to the Hudson’s Bay Company and became known as “the Scotch West Indian.”
Transferred to the West Coast, Douglas became a chief factor in 1839. While based in what is now the United States, he denounced slavery, championed Native rights, and established Fort Victoria on Vancouver Island. As governor of that island and of mainland British Columbia, he battled American incursions and retained the Pacific seaboard for the British Crown. In 1871, already famous as the “Father of British Columbia,” this Scotch West Indian orchestrated the entry of B.C. into Confederation.
Like Grant, Douglas emerged from the fur trade. But if anyone suggests that Scottish-Canadian pluralism was confined to that enterprise, ask them to explain Major John Norton. He was a Scottish Cherokee who became a hero during the War of 1812. Norton was born near Dunfermline, north of Edinburgh, in the late 1760s. His father was a pure-blood Cherokee and his mother was the daughter of a Scottish farmer named John Anderson.
In 1785, Norton arrived in Quebec as a British army private. He became an interpreter in the Indian Department of Upper Canada (Ontario) and then a protégé of Mohawk Captain Joseph Brant, who made him a powerful chief among the Six Nations of the Iroquois. In 1804, while visiting England to negotiate treaties for the Iroquois, Norton became friends with British evangelicals working to abolish the slave trade and translated the biblical gospels into the Mohawk language.
When Americans invaded Canada in 1812, Norton commanded fighters from the Six Nations and played a crucial role in the British victory at Queenston Heights.
I could go on and on. It’s clear that as Canada took shape, the Scots both preached diversity and practised it. But to make it an official model for the nation, the country required a legislator. And surprise, in Prime Minister Pierre Elliott Trudeau, the Scots provided one. Trudeau’s father was a French-Canadian businessman, but his Scottish-heritage mother, Grace Elliott, grew up speaking little French, while shining as a Highland dancer. Was it his mother’s influence that prompted Trudeau in 1971 to set up a Royal Commission to examine “the whole question of cultural and ethnic pluralism in this country?”
Certainly, he took great pride in both the French and Scottish sides of his family tree. In Just Watch Me, biographer John English devotes several pages to Trudeau’s shining moment during the 1980 Quebec referendum battle, when the prime minister responded to a taunt about his mixed, half-Scottish heritage: “Of course my name is Pierre Elliott Trudeau,” he said. “Yes, Elliott was my mother’s name. It was the name borne by the Elliotts who came to Canada more than two hundred years ago.... My name is a Quebec name, but my name is a Canadian name....”
Two years later, in 1982, this Scottish-French-Canadian gave Canada its own Constitution with a charter of individual rights and freedoms.
So there you have it. The Scots and their descendants preached Canadian diversity. They practised it, and eventually they legislated it into existence. Where I come from, that means they invented it.
Photo information:
John Diefenbaker and his dog McAndy at the Cambridge-Waterloo Highland Games, 1978.
Cuthbert Grant, a leader of Scottish, Cree and French heritage.
Governor James Douglas, of mixed Scottish and West Indian heritage.
James Norton, a Scottish-Cherokee military leader.
Justin Trudeau with his wife Sophie Gregoire in 2008. Trudeu's paternal grandmother was Scottish. His mother was also of Scottish descent.
This article was originally published in the June-July 2010 issue of Canada's History magazine.
by Nelle Oosterom
Nellie McClung is well known as one of the Famous Five who fought for Canadian women to be recognized as “persons” under the Constitution.
Along with Emily Murphy, Irene Parlby, Louise McKinney and Henrietta Muir Edwards, McClung succeeded in 1929 in having women become eligible for appointment to the Senate. October 18, 2014, marked the 85th anniversary of that milestone.
Like many feminists of her time, McClung was a pacifist. But her views were challenged when her oldest son Jack enlisted during the First World War.
In a diary entry made December 4, 1915, McClung wrote: “This morning we said good-bye to our dear son Jack at the C.N.R. station where new snow lay fresh and white on the roofs and on the streets, white, and soft, and pure as a young heart. When we came home I felt strangely tired and old though I am only forty-two. But I know that my youth has departed from me. It has gone with Jack, our beloved, our first born, the pride of our hearts. Strange fate surely for a boy who never has had a gun in his hands, whose ways are gentle, and full of peace; who loves his fellow men, pities their sorrows, and would gladly help them to solve their problems. What have I done to you, in letting you go into this inferno of war? And how could I hold you back without breaking your heart?”
With her own son in the trenches, Nellie McClung’s pacificist stance gave way to supporting the war effort, especially the work of the Red Cross.
“I would like to be an out-and-out pacifist,” she wrote decades later, when another world war had erupted. “I envy the Quakers who go about doing good, in and out of belligerent countries, welcome everywhere with their quiet faces, compassionate eyes, hands of healing and words of hope. But the Quakers, I am afraid, even if their numbers were multiplied a hundredfold, could not bring peace to troubled Europe. Not now. It’s too late…Fire has to be fought with fire, force with force. It is a hard remedy, involving unspeakable horror and waste. No one likes it, but what else can we do?”
Jack McClung survived the Great War and returned to a joyous reception at the McClung house in Edmonton.
“We felt that life had dealt bountifully with us, in letting us have our boy back from the inferno of war,” wrote McClung in her published memoir This Stream Runs Fast. “From December 1915 to March 1919 he had been away from us, spending three birthdays in the trenches, and now he was back and had come through without a day's illness or even a scratch.
“He had changed, of course, grown taller and filled out, and in many ways he seemed older than either of us.”
Jack McClung never spoke of his war experiences. He also had periods of depression and could be irritable. His mother described his behaviour at a public event not long after the war ended.
“One day, when Jack had come with me to a Board of Trade luncheon, the speaker, a typical solid business man, full of bubbling optimism, greeted Jack with a resounding slap on the back and asked: ‘Well, young fellow, how does it feel to win a war?’
“‘I did not know that wars were ever won,’” Jack said quietly. ‘Certainly not by the people who do the fighting.’ His voice cut like a sharp paper edge and his face had gone suddenly old. Word had come that day of the death of one of his friends in an English hospital.
“Looking back now I can see our whole way of life bothered him. We were too complacent, too much concerned with trifles. He had seen the negation of everything he had been taught, and now here we were going ahead, almost as if nothing had happened.”
Nellie McClung added: “Jack tried hard to adapt himself. He worked long hours and made a name for himself as a student. There were times when he wanted to leave the University and get a job, but we coaxed him to stay and get his degree in Law, and this he did with distinction. He was honoured by his fellow students in many ways, and won a scholarship which took him to Oxford.
Caption: McClung flanked by sons Horace (left) and Mark, both in uniform, and her husband Wes, circa 1940.
“But I knew there was a wound in his heart — a sore place. That hurt look in his clear blue eyes tore at my heart strings and I did not know what to do. When a boy who has never had a gun in his hands, never desired anything but the good of his fellow men, is sent out to kill other boys like himself, even at the call of his country, something snaps in him, something which may not mend.
“A wound in a young heart is like a wound in a young tree. It does not grow out. It grows in.”
Jack McClung would graduate and become a successful prosecutor in Alberta. But his life ended tragically in 1944, when, he shot himself. It was terrible shock.
“For forty-six years we had an unbroken family circle,” wrote Nellie McClung. “Then came the reeling blow and our eldest son, our beloved Jack, was gone — gone like a great tree from the mountain top, leaving a lonesome place against the sky.”
Alcohol and a minor fraud scandal were factors in McClung’s death, but his mother believed his troubles were rooted in the trauma he experienced during the Great War. She ended her book philosophically: “Do not look for safety in this world. There is no safety here. There is only balance.”
by Nelle Oosterom
Trains and railways have been part of Canada for more than a hundred and seventy-five years, with their continuing presence serving as an enduring reminder of the past. Whether it’s the sound of a distant train horn in the night, the picture-postcard sight of a locomotive pulling a string of cars over a long trestle in the mountains, or the experience of being lulled to sleep by the rhythmic motion of steel wheels rolling over track, contact with trains has a way of evoking times past.
The story of Canada is inextricably bound up with trains. Railway development drove Confederation; a promise to build a transcontinental railway brought British Columbia into Canada in 1871; and Prince Edward Island’s rail-building debt pushed it into becoming a province in 1873.
For some, the coming of the railway meant the end of a way of life. First Nations lost their traditional territories, being forced onto reserves to make room for newly arriving settlers. The Métis lost their rights as government troops moved speedily by rail to quash the 1885 uprising.
For others, the railway delivered promise and wealth. Many of us are descended from immigrants whose first memories of Canada are of crossing the country by rail in a no-frills colonist car. Train travel made the breathtaking scenery of the mountains accessible to anyone who could afford a ticket. Rail lines became, in effect, the new Northwest Passage, efficiently bringing goods from west coast ports to the east, and vice versa.
The great age of passenger train travel ended after the Second World War, when automobiles took over. Yet trains continue to hold a fascination for many people today, from hobbyists who set up elaborate train tracks in their basements to volunteers who run the many train museums across the country.
Trains and railways are embedded in our identity as Canadians. In this article we explore just a few of the countless stories that inform our rail history.
From first railway to last spike
The driving of the last spike of Canada’s transcontinental railway can be seen as the completion of a very long journey that began in Lower Canada several decades earlier.
Canada’s first railway — the Champlain and St. Lawrence — opened in 1836 outside of Montreal as a tiny seasonal route — effectively a portage — to connect river traffic. Its first run was completed with help from a team of horses, since it was still early days in the development of engines. Initially the wood-burning locomotive ran only at night, so as not to scare people.
From this small beginning came a frenzy of railway building. The St. Lawrence and Atlantic connected Montreal with Portland, Maine, in 1853; the Great Western linked Niagara Falls to Windsor in Canada West in 1854; the Grand Trunk tied Montreal to the United States at Sarnia in 1860; Prince Edward Island’s costly and meandering rail line reached into every corner of the island by the mid-1880s.
Nervousness about possible American aggression during and after the American Civil War led the Fathers of Confederation to write the publicly owned Intercolonial Railway of Canada — linking linked Nova Scotia, New Brunswick, and Quebec — into the British North America Act in 1867. And, after promising British Columbia a transportation link to eastern Canada within ten years of that province joining Confederation, Prime Minister John A. Macdonald pushed ahead with building a railway over some of the roughest terrain in the world.
The line was built at great cost. Seventeen thousand labourers came in from China to work at back-breaking labour in dangerous conditions for low pay; about seven hundred died. The material costs were also huge. The federal government gave its private partner, the Canadian Pacific Railway (CPR), $25 million in cash, ten million hectares of prime land, and an exemption from taxes. Even so, Ottawa had to bail out the near-bankrupt CPR more than once and the railway came close to not being finished.
By the time the last spike was driven on November 7, 1885, the sense of exhaustion was evident, and no one seemed in the mood to celebrate. A small party of railroad officials and labourers gathered on a grey drizzly morning at a forlorn spot in the Monashee Mountains of B.C. called Craigellachie. They silently watched CPR director Sir Donald Smith drive a plain iron spike into a regular railway tie — no golden spikes and breaking open champagne bottles, as was the tradition across the border. After railway superintendent Cornelius Van Horne made the briefest of pronouncements — “the work has been done well in every way” — everyone drifted away.
Yet this moment marked the beginning of a new era. Canada was now united from coast to coast.
Moving the troops
By the spring of 1885, the Métis living in present-day Saskatchewan had had enough of the federal government’s refusal to address their grievances over their rights to their land, their language, and their culture. As they had done sixteen years earlier in the Red River Settlement under Louis Riel, they rose up in resistance.
In both cases, Ottawa sent in troops. The big difference was that in 1885 there was a railway to transport the army. A journey that took three months in 1870 was completed in less than ten days in 1885. This had huge implications.
Riel had apparently not taken the railway into consideration when he came out of exile in Montana to lead the second uprising. Perhaps he was hoping for a similar outcome as with the earlier event — a settlement negotiated before troops arrived. Those negotiations eventually led to Manitoba’s entry into Confederation, and, while Riel was compelled to flee, no shots were fired after the arrival of Colonel Garnet Wolseley’s army.
The second Riel uprising unfolded very differently. A confrontation led by Métis military leader Gabriel Dumont at Duck Lake left a dozen North-West Mounted Police dead. When word reached Ottawa, Prime Minister John A. Macdonald’s Conservative government turned to the CPR for help. This came at just the right time for the CPR, since it was nearly bankrupt.
In return for its help, Parliament authorized a quick loan to the railway of $500,000, with more to follow. CPR superintendent Cornelius Van Horne would later say that the CPR should dedicate a monument to Riel for saving the railway.
But Riel would not be saved. By mid-April the resistance was over. Riel surrendered and was found guilty of treason. He was hanged on November 16, 1885 — nine days after the completion of the CPR.
A thrilling ride
In the days before strict rail safety rules, a daring pastime for some was to ride on a locomotive’s cowcatcher — a triangular metal frame designed to sweep obstacles out of a train’s path. Lady Agnes Macdonald, wife of Canada’s first prime minister, famously documented her wild ride over the Rocky Mountains during the couple’s cross-country journey over Canada’s newly completed Canadian Pacific Railway in 1886. Despite concerns expressed by railway superintendent John Egan, Lady Agnes — who was weeks away from her fiftieth birthday — had train staff fasten a seat to the front of the locomotive.
Later, in her diary, she described her feelings as the train pulled away at Lake Louise: “I feel a thrill that is very like fear; but it is gone at once, and I can think of nothing but the novelty, the excitement, and the fun of this mad ride in glorious sunshine and intoxicating air, with magnificent mountains before and around me, their lofty peaks smiling down on us, and never a frown on their grand faces!” She rode the cowcatcher quite happily for a thousand kilometres from “summit to sea” while her husband John A. Macdonald remained comfortably seated in their private train car with a rug over his knees and reading material in hand.
It was evidently a welcome break for a woman who was by nature bold and curious about the world but constrained by her role as the “Chief’s” wife. “She was ill at ease as a hostess, and such social duties as became a prime minister’s wife did not come easily to her,” said historian P.B. Waite in the Dictionary of Canadian Biography.
If photos were taken of her exploit, they are no longer in circulation. But it seems others were similarly moved to take a front seat. During a tour of Canada by the Duke and Duchess of Cornwall and York in 1901, members of the royal party posed for a picture on the royal train’s cowcatcher at Glacier, British Columbia.
The gentleman train robber
Train robberies are a big part of the folklore of the American Wild West. Jesse James, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, and other outlaws gained notoriety for their audacious holdups. In Canada, the railways were generally more secure, but at least one famous American train robber made a big splash when he tried his luck in British Columbia.
The facts of Bill Miner’s life are not certain, but he had a reputation for unfailing politeness; hence his nickname, the “Gentleman Bandit.” After a robbery, he is said to have always wished his victims a “good day” and is credited with being the first to use the phrase “hands up!” A handsome man, he dressed well and spent lavishly, but he also got caught sometimes and spent much of his adult life in prison.
In 1904, a few years after his release from a California penitentiary, Miner stepped across the border into British Columbia. By then he was about fifty-seven, and, lacking a retirement plan, he continued with his unlawful livelihood. Along with two accomplices, Miner boarded a CPR train near Mission and forced the engineer at gunpoint to halt the train and unhook the baggage and express cars. They took off with at least seven thousand dollars.
Miner lived quietly in B.C. for a couple of years before striking the CPR again, near Kamloops on May 8, 1906. This time things did not go smoothly — Miner’s mask was accidently knocked off, and he and his gang overlooked several packets of banknotes and got away with just fifteen dollars and some liver pills. The North West Mounted Police caught up with them a few days later as they were calmly eating lunch. Miner received a twenty-five-year sentence.
By this time, the British Columbia public was quite taken with Miner’s charm and his boldness in taking on the CPR, an unpopular monopoly at the time. A famous picture taken by Mary Spencer, a photographer on contract with the Vancouver Daily Province, was widely circulated. The Province reported that throngs of admirers were on hand to greet him when he arrived to serve his sentence at New Westminster Penitentiary.
Miner didn’t stay in the B.C. prison long. By 1907, he managed to tunnel his way out and fled to the United States. Once across the border, he continued his life of crime and died in a Georgia jail in 1913.
A circus train tragedy
Back in the day, when the circus came to town, it came by rail. Circus trains were a welcome sight as they travelled from town to town, but mishaps occasionally happened. One of the saddest accidents took place on September 15, 1885. On that date, Jumbo, billed by P.T. Barnum as the world’s most famous elephant, performed at a show in St. Thomas, Ontario. As usual, Jumbo was the star attraction, drawing large crowds because of his reputation as an intelligent but gentle animal and his unusually big size.
When the show was over, Jumbo and a tiny elephant, named Tom Thumb, were led along the train tracks on their way to being boarded onto the circus train. At the same time, a freight train came barrelling towards them in the dark. The freight train conductor noticed the animals too late. Seeing the danger, Jumbo reportedly reared up on his hind legs and struck at the locomotive with great force, knocking off the smoke stack and derailing the train. Both elephants were hit. Tom Thumb survived. According to folklore, in his final moments Jumbo reached over to his long-time trainer, Matthew Scott, and drew him in with his trunk.
The accident made headlines around the world. Jumbo had been widely known and loved. He was captured as an orphaned infant in Africa in the early 1860s and was eventually housed in London’s zoological gardens. He gave rides to children, including a young Winston Churchill and the offspring of various European royal families. The London zoo sold him to the Barnum and Bailey Circus but tried unsuccessfully to back out of the deal after vigorous public protests. Jumbo arrived in North America in 1882 and quickly gained a following.
After his death, Jumbo’s legacy lived on. His hide was mounted and toured with the circus for two years. Jumbo has lived on in folklore and was the inspiration for a Walt Disney cartoon. In 1985, the city of St. Thomas erected a life-size statue of Jumbo, which was later include in the city’s North American Railway Hall of Fame.
Canada’s silk road
The completion of Canada’s transcontinental railway in 1885 did more than unite the country; it made the search for the Northwest Passage irrelevant. For centuries, merchants hoped that a navigable Arctic sea-trade route would be found to connect with the wealth of the Orient, but this never panned out. Now, with the port of Vancouver connected to the rest of Canada by rail, a lucrative trade route had opened up. Enter the silk train.
Silk trains ruled the rails between 1887 to the early 1930s. The speedy airtight trains carried bales of raw silk from Japan and had priority over all other rail traffic. The valuable cargo was loaded in Vancouver and rushed to Toronto and then on to the silk mills of the eastern United States. Since raw silk could deteriorate quickly if exposed to heat or moisture, speed was of the essence. The trains travelled at about a mile a minute, which was very fast at the time. The boxcars were shorter than average, the better to take sharp curves at high speed. According to a Vancouver Daily Province report from January 10, 1903, the silk train “makes the regular express time appear as but a snail’s pace.”
Considering all the rush, there were few accidents. The only one on record took place September 21, 1927; a train derailed as it rounded a bend near Hope, British Columbia. No one died, but a number of silk bales tumbled into the fast-flowing Fraser River. According to an article by CN Rail employee Jean-G. Coté in the August 1976 issue of Canadian Rail, bales that had floated downstream continued to be found months afterwards. “Local Indians were paid ten dollars per bale for each one found and turned in, though the value of the contents was by this time questionable.”
Coté also noted that watching a silk train speed by was a thrilling event. He recalled seeing one approach the Edmonton rail yard in 1927: “In two minutes the headlight of the locomotive had expanded from pinpoint size to a solar dimension and the engine blew up a cloud of steam in the wintry twilight, as it roared by … soon only the twin red eyes of its last car marker lights were visible.”
The Depression, the Panama Canal, air travel, and the development of synthetic fibres all contributed to the end of the line for the silk trains. By 1933 these special trains were gone.
Taking in the view
To travel by train through the Canadian Rockies remains one of life’s sublime pleasures. The CPR early on tried various ways of treating its passengers to a full viewing experience while travelling through one of the world’s most majestic mountain ranges. Some early railway observation cars were simply roofless, open-air cars tacked on to the rear of the train — fine for viewing but not so great in rain and cold. Also, cinders from the steam locomotives tended to sting the observers’ eyes.
Near the turn of the century, the railway introduced enclosed observation cars with enlarged windows and cupolas. These provided better visibility but it was still hard to view the tops of the mountains. Next came cars with glass panels in the roof, but these proved extremely hot in summer, while in winter the glass tended to steam over with condensation.
Improvements were gradually made. Rupert Brooke, an English poet who toured the Rocky Mountains by train in 1913 while recovering from a messy romantic breakup, had nothing but praise for the observation car. He wrote: “The Observation-Car is a great invention of the new world. At the end of the train is a compartment with large windows, and a little platform behind it, roofed over, but exposed otherwise to the air. On this platform are sixteen little perches, for which you fight with Americans. Victorious, you crouch on one, and watch the ever-receding panorama behind the train.
“It is an admirable way of viewing scenery. But a day of being perpetually drawn backwards at a great pace through some of the grandest mountains in the world has a queer effect. Like life, it leaves you with a dizzy irritation. For, as in life, you never see the glories till they are past, and then they vanish with incredible rapidity. And if you crane to see the dwindling further peaks, you miss the new splendours.”
Today, the air-conditioned dome cars of Via Rail’s passenger service remain a favourite for rail travellers.
No-frills travel
For most new immigrants who arrived in Canada prior to the 1960s, a long train ride to their eventual destination was among the most vivid of their early experiences. Their first impressions were often of days of travel through a seemingly endless expanses of forest and prairie.
At no time was immigration more brisk than it was during the first decade of the twentieth century, when Canada’s population increased by one third, from 5.3 million to 7.2 million. To handle these massive numbers, CP Rail built more than a thousand colonist cars. The cars, in use from 1886 to the 1940s, offered cheap fares without the frills.
An immigrant interviewed by Barry Broadfoot in The Pioneer Years, 1895-1914, described travelling in the colonist car as a hellish experience: “At night was the worst. The cars were full and babies were crying and I can’t remember any blankets. It seems nobody told anybody to bring bedding, and all our bedding was in our trunks.… I could never stand the sight of a train again. Never.”
Other newcomers didn’t seem to mind. Writing in his diary in 1887, Joseph Eckersley seemed quite happy with the arrangements: “The arrangements for sleeping are contrived by sliding seats. There is a water closet & Stove at each end of the car together with washing stand & bowl. The stove is useful for cooking your food as well as for heating the place.”
The Canadian National Railway and its predecessor, Canadian Northern Railway (1899–1923), also transported large numbers of immigrants. In Canadian Northern Railway and the Men Who Made it Work (1980), author Jack Bradford writes: “Whole families would be confined to one end of a boxcar with their livestock partitioned off with their personal effects in the rest of the car. The noise of these trains and the livestock as they passed through the town and through the necessary switching moves was terrific.”
Secret war train
Among the clandestine operations carried out by Canada during the First World War, the transport of more than eighty-four thousand Chinese labourers to the front via sealed trains travelling across Canada ranks as one of the most hush-hush. The Canadian Department of Defence file on the Chinese Labour Corps (CLC) was not declassified until 1985.
The scenario was this: The Allies needed more fighting men at the front. This necessitated freeing regular soldiers from non-combat duties. The solution was to use Chinese labour. Britain and France signed a contract with China in January of 1917 to supply men to work behind the lines in France and Belgium. Canada’s role was to hire the workers and transport them across the Pacific by steamship, overland from Vancouver to Halifax by rail, and then on to Europe by ship.
While travelling across Canada on the CPR — a railway their predecessors from China had helped to build — the labourers were under close guard, and the windows of the train cars were blocked with heavy screens. During stops, the Chinese were not allowed to leave the train, for fear they would escape. Anti-Asian sentiment in Canada was high at the time. In an October-November 1991 article in The Beaver magazine, former guard Donald McKechnie described the precautions as superfluous. “The men gave no indication of being interested in venturing into what would probably have been a hostile environment; and, besides, they were having a good time aboard, and especially enjoyed being fed,” said the article.
Once in Belgium and France, the workers were placed in special camps and performed a variety of duties, such as bricklaying, carpentry, shoemaking, tailoring, and plumbing. Although they were behind the lines, they sustained some casualties from aerial bombing and long-range artillery. And, after the war ended, they were engaged in dangerous cleanup duties that involved handling unexploded ordnance and removing battlefield corpses. At least ten were shot by firing squad, likely for mutiny. In total, about two thousand members of the CLC died in Europe, according to the Commonwealth War Graves Commission.
The labourers returned to China by the same way they left. Again, sealed CPR trains took them across the continent. On one occasion in March 1919, a riot broke out at the overcrowded William Head quarantine station near Victoria, and two thousand men escaped. Most were apprehended, but an unknown number melted away into Victoria’s Chinatown. By April 1920, the last steamship carrying the CLC had left Canada for China. But it would be at least seven decades before this unusual chapter of Canadian history became public.
Happy holidays
There was a time when rail travel was the fastest, most convenient mode of travel available, a time when trains went almost everywhere, including resorts, beaches, and ski hills. In fact, many of today’s most popular vacation destinations owe their existence to the railways.
Banff, Alberta, is a prime example. Its tourism potential was immediately recognized when three railroad workers stumbled across a series of hot springs in 1883. The springs, combined with the magnificent scenery, inspired the CPR to erect the elegant Banff Springs Hotel in 1888. The Banff Springs was just one of many grand hotels built by the railways.
Some fared better than others when passenger rail use declined. Minaki Lodge, a luxury resort in northwestern Ontario that was completed by the CNR in 1927, was a popular destination until after the Second World War. After that, it fell into steady decline, despite many ownership changes and millions of government dollars spent on renovations, eventually burning to the ground in a spectacular fire in 2003.
For those without the means to stay at a luxury resort, the railways provided affordable day excursions to the beach. Lake Winnipeg, north of the city of Winnipeg, was a particularly popular destination. It all came about when CPR president Willian Whyte, who liked to boat on the lake, decided that a sandy strip of shore on the west side would make a good amusement zone. In 1901, he purchased a thirteen-hectare farm along the shore and extended a rail line to the property. Soon, there was a rail station, amusement rides, a dance hall, concession stands, and other amenities. It cost fifty cents to take train to Winnipeg Beach — a distance of about eighty kilometres — and by 1914 as many as forty thousand people a day were travelling the route in the summer.
Not to be outdone, the rival Canadian Northern Railway (later known as the Canadian National Railway) built a line to the beaches on the east side of Winnipeg, attracting similar numbers of people. As many as fifteen trains a day travelled up and down the Lake Winnipeg shoreline in the 1920s.
Riding the rails
During the dirty thirties, sneaking onto a boxcar was a cheap, fast way for unemployed people to move across the country in search of work — or to stage a demonstration. In June of 1935, during the height of the Great Depression, more than eight hundred relief camp workers in Vancouver clambered up iron ladders along the sides of an eastbound CPR freight train for the first leg of planned journey to Ottawa. The On-to-Ottawa Trek was set up to protest what organizers called “slave labour” conditions at the relief camps, where indigent men laboured on public works projects for twenty cents a day.
James Kingsbury of the Toronto Daily Star, rode along with the protesters as they clung to the tops of boxcars. He reported that their faces were soon blackened by coal dust and their eyes became red and watery from flying cinders. At the mercy of the elements, they were often soaking wet and shivering from cold. But the highly disciplined group caused no trouble and received a great deal of support, even from police, who initially looked the other way. Kingsbury reported that twenty-four British Columbia provincial police officers “gave the boys a big cheer and a wave of their hands as the train passed the boundary” into Alberta. Many people provided food, shelter, or transportation as the trekkers rolled through their communities.
By the time the hobo army reached Regina, the rail-riding crowd had grown to two thousand. Determined to stop the protest, Prime Minister R.B. Bennett’s government ordered the CPR and the CNR to regard the trekkers as trespassers and to ban them from their trains. Meanwhile, a delegation of trek leaders was allowed to carry on to Ottawa as regular train passengers. But their meeting with Bennett did not go well. Tensions increased as the RCMP moved in to arrest the trekkers and detain them at a special camp. On the July 1, 1935, the Regina Riot broke out after mounted police charged a crowd. One plainclothes officer died, and about 120 protesters were arrested.
Fearing more violence, Saskatchewan Premier James Gardiner stepped in and brokered a deal in which the trekkers would receive free train transportation back to where they had come from. The On-to-Ottawa Trek was over, but few sympathized with Bennett’s harsh tactics. Within months, Bennett’s government was voted out of office.
School trains
If you were a child living in a remote area of northern Ontario between the 1920s and the 1960, you might have attended school in a railcar. Schools on rails operated on a number of routes to provide an education to the children of railway workers, miners, forestry workers, trappers, and other northern residents.
The Northern Ontario Railroad Museum and Heritage Centre in Capreol, Ontario, describes the school on wheels as a joint venture between the Ontario Department of Education and the CN and CP railways. A train would drop the railcar off at a designated siding. Kids would arrive and attend school for about a week. They would then be given enough homework to last them until the next time the car came around.
“They travelled by foot and by canoe and on skis and snowshoes,” says the museum’s website. “One story tells of two young boys aged nine and eleven who travelled twenty miles by dog sled and who then built a small lean-to shelter of pine boughs to stay in overnight. It was minus forty degrees.”
The school car was half classroom and half residence for the teacher — and often for the teacher’s family. Fred Sloman spent thirty-nine years as teacher on a school car that served a 240-kilometre stretch between Capreol and Foleye. Not only did he and his wife, Cela, raise five children in the school car, they became an integral part of the each settlement. They provided basic medical care, offered various kinds of help to new immigrant families and even provided entertainment in the form of movies, bingo, and card nights.
Sloman was inducted as one of the heroes of the Canadian Railway Hall of Fame in 2003. “Northern Ontario in those days was a land of hardships and deprivations, and Sloman diligently shared his knowledge with the locals and made a real difference in their lives,” says the hall of fame’s website.
The school on wheels program ended in 1967.
Centennial train
For those who couldn’t attend Expo 67 in Montreal, a visit to the Confederation train was the next best thing. Considering how central the building of the transcontinental railway was to the birth of Canada as a country, it’s little wonder that the train was one of the most popular features of the 1967 centennial. With its sides dramatically emblazoned with colourful centennial graphics and its locomotive numbered “1967,” the train stopped at more than eighty cities and towns across the country. It featured six coaches filled with multimedia exhibits telling the story of Canada from its prehistoric beginnings to the atomic age.
The train was outfitted with a special horn that played the first four bars of “O Canada.” People lined up for hours to step on board. (Similar tractor-trailor caravans travelled to communities not accessible by rail, attracting comparable crowds.) As Peter H. Aykroyd wrote in The Anniversary Compulsion (1992), the long lineups were not a deterrent. “People didn’t mind. After all the caravan comes to us, doesn’t it? It’s a privilege. Glad to wait.” Moreover, admission was free.
The journey started in Victoria on January 9, 1967. The train arrived on the east coast in October, then doubled back to end its journey in Montreal on December 5. Visitors all experienced what was then cutting-edge technology that allowed them to see, hear, and feel some of the benchmarks of Canada’s history. “The visitor to the train will feel what it was like to take steerage passage to Canada from Europe as so many Canadian immigrants did,” promised its marketing material. “He will be surrounded by the atmosphere experienced by the Canadian soldier in the First World War. He will be taken dramatically through the boom and bust of the twenties and relive the atmosphere of the hungry thirties.”
Not everyone welcomed the train, though. In Montreal, a group of about seventy separatists attacked it, throwing paint on its sides. The protesters denounced the exhibition as propaganda that lied about events such as the deportation of Acadians. At another demonstration, in Quebec City, separatists argued with visitors, calling them traitors to Quebec.
Most Canadians loved the train, though. The Confederation train received more than 2.7 million visitors, and most were quite happy to, as the marketing material stated, “see Canada as you’ve never seen it before.”
Macdonald was born on January 11, 1815. He was prime minister for 19 years. Among other things, he orchestrated Confederation, drafted much of Canada’s Constitution — the British North America Act — and led the push for a transcontinental railway. But recognizing his legacy has also been problematic, in part because of his policies towards Aboriginal Canadians, Chinese migrant workers and the Métis.
Nevertheless, Sir John A. Macdonald Day is celebrated annually in his hometown of Kingston, Ontario. And this year, there will be a number of events to mark the occasion. The Sir John Eh? The Road Show by the SALON Acting Company, which is travelling across Canada, promises to offer stories about Macdonald “warts and all.”
Bergeron Winery in Adolphustown, Ontario, where Macdonald attended school, has produced a special wine to mark the occasion. And Province House, P.E.I., where the Fathers of Confederation met to negotiate Canada’s Confederation, is being renovated by Parks Canada.
For more about the Sir John A. commemorations, go to SirJohnA2015.
To read our reviews of Richard Gwyn's award-winning two-volume Macdonald biography, go to: Volume One and Volume Two. Or watch the CBC production John A.: Birth of a Country online.
And there is more about Macdonald’s complicated legacy in the December 2014-January 2015 issue of Canada’s History magazine. Subscribe now!
After Japan attacked Pearl Harbor in 1941, both the United States and Canada cracked down on their citizens of Japanese descent. In British Columbia, entire Japanese-Canadian neighbourhoods were eradicated. Homes and possessions belonging to Japanese-Canadians were seized and sold. Some Japanese-Canadians — deemed threats to national security — were forced into internment camps.
In 1988 the federal government apologized for this historical wrong. Now, a new project will explore and highlight the human and cultural costs of this forced dispossession. The Landscapes of Justice project with see fourteen university, museum, and Japanese cultural organizations work together to create a travelling museum exhibition as well as an online an educational component for students.
The $3-million, seven-year project was launched in 2014 and draws upon, among other materials, the Royal BC Museum’s considerable collection of Japanese-Canadian photos, letters, and other artifacts.
“The story of the Japanese-Canadian experience during the Second World War is well-documented but perhaps not widely understood by most British Columbians,” said Kathryn Bridge, deputy director of the Royal BC Museum. The lead organization is the University of Victoria. For more, see Landscapes of Injustice.
Visitors to Bell Island are often surprised to learn that this small island in Conception Bay, Newfoundland, was one of the few places in North America to come under direct attack during the Second World War.
Bell Island harbour was a target of German U-boats in 1942. A total of four ore carriers went down and about 60 crew members were killed.
Bell Island Mine Museum manager Teresita McCarthy spoke to Nelle Oosterom of Canada’s History recently about the island’s fascinating wartime history.
by Danelle Cloutier
The St. James Cathedral in Toronto is launching an exhibit to honour Canadian military chaplains for the one hundredth anniversary of the declaration of the First World War. From November 6 to 16, 2014, the cathedral will exhibit Called to Serve, a collection of letters, artifacts, and stories that help explain the role of chaplains of all faiths. Organizers say it's the first exhibit of its kind in Canada.
“You can sum up the work of a military chaplain with one word — presence,” said Nancy Mallett, an archivist and museum curator at the cathedral. “They’re there to comfort, to counsel, and to help maintain the morale and the resiliency of the men.”
The organizers have been accepting submissions from people across Canada of different faiths. Among the items on display are travelling communion sets that chaplains carried with them in the trenches. Another item that will be on display is a hooked rug that a woman made from her grandfather’s old uniforms with a postcard that he sent home woven throughout. “We’re getting beautiful embroideries that are inspired by what we’re doing,” said Mallett. “It adds a depth to the exhibit that I’m delighted with.”
The exhibit, which is free of charge, will also have stories and artifacts from chaplains from other wars, including John Strachan who served as a chaplain during the War of 1812. In conjunction with the exhibit, the cathedral is on November 14 holding a performance of The Unknown Soldier, a composition by Andrew Ager that is dedicated to Ager’s grandfather who fought at Vimy Ridge.
Visit the St. James Cathedral website for more information about the exhibit.
by Jessica Knapp
Feeling the Heat in Montreal
In 1917 the NHL was in its inaugural season with four teams at the ready. Sam Lichtenhein, owner of the Montreal Wanderers, identified himself as a sore loser before the games even began. He demanded three players from each of the other teams in the league be sent to the Wanderers, because he felt that his squad was at a competitive disadvantage. But that would prove to be the least of his worries after his Montreal Arena exploded in 1918 and burned to the ground. To learn more about the early struggles of the NHL, read Ryan Kessler’s “Early NHL: Montreal 1917-1918.”
Who Cancelled the Stanley Cup?
In March 1919 the Montreal Canadiens were set to play the Seattle Metropolitans in game six of the Stanley Cup finals — but the Spanish Flu put majority of the Canadiens in the hospital. The Canadiens’ owner, George Kennedy, tried to forfeit the Cup to Seattle, but Pete Muldoon, manager-coach of the Metropolitans, refused the forfeit. The game was never rescheduled. To learn more about the deadly Spanish Flu, listen to this podcast featuring Eric Zweig, author of Fever Season.
Canada Mines Olympic Gold
The first Olympic hockey tournament took place at the 1920 Summer Olympic Games in Antwerp, Belgium. The Winnipeg Falcons represented Canada and they easily won the gold medal against the United States. To learn more about Winnipeg’s rich hockey history, watch this heritage minute or read Forgotten Heroes: Winnipeg’s Hockey Heritage, by Richard Brignall.
A Surprise Defeat
Remember when the Toronto Maple Leafs were perennial contenders for the Stanley Cup? We don’t either. But in 1938, they were clear favourites, which made it all the more shocking when they fell to the underdog Chicago Black Hawks. To learn more about the early days of the Black Hawks, read Ryan Kessler’s “Early NHL: The Underdog Black Hawks. Meanwhile, Leafs fans can relive the glory days by reading A Great Game: The Forgotten Leafs & the Rise of Professional Hockey by Stephen J. Harper.
Canada’s “Goal of the Century”
All Canadians of a certain age remember where they were when — with thirty-four seconds left in the final game — Team Canada’s Paul Henderson scored to defeat the Soviet Union in the 1972 Summit Series. Unbelievably, Henderson has not yet been admitted into the Hockey Hall of Fame for single-handedly saving Canadian hockey. To learn more about the Summit Series, read editorial cartoonist Terry “Aislin” Mosher’s first-hand account of the Summit Series, “On Thin Ice.”
by Stephen R. Bown
On February 15, 1935, Andrew Bahr prepared to lead a bedraggled, scruffy herd of nearly 2,500 reindeer across the frozen, windswept channels of the Mackenzie River Delta. Departing from Alaska, he had been on the trail nearly five years. It was a venture that was supposed to have taken eighteen months, and this was the final push. “Reindeer Near End of Four-Year Trek” announced the New York Times on October 7, 1934, “Canada Grooms Alaskan Herd for 70-Mile Lap Over Delta Ice to Mackenzie Basin.”
The previous fall had been cheerless, monotonous, and fraught with anxiety for Bahr and his small band of weary herders. As February approached, impatience and fear were at a peak. Bahr anxiously awaited the perfect conditions necessary for the final drive. An attempt the previous spring to cross the delta had met with failure when an unexpected storm scattered the herd. It demoralized the herders and nearly ended the seemingly doomed venture. Bahr feared that the herd might never be brought across the delta. If the Mackenzie crossing failed for the second time, it could mean the end of the drive, the loss of four-and-a-half years of labour, the forfeiture of a small fortune for the Lomen Brothers Reindeer Corporation of Alaska, and the disappearance of a hopeful Canadian government enterprise, years in the planning.
The circumpolar world has two major divisions. The Subarctic, or taiga, is characterized by coniferous boreal forest. Moving northward, trees disappear as the Subarctic merges with the Arctic, or tundra.
Dawn Huck.
The saga began just before the great market crash of 1929, when an Alaskan entrepreneur named Carl Lomen — the “Reindeer King” — signed a contract with the Canadian government to ship a herd of 3,000 reindeer 2,400 kilometres from Naboktoolik, Alaska, to the Mackenzie Delta, Northwest Territories, ostensibly to feed starving Inuvialuit (the Inuit people of the western Arctic). As part of the Canadian government’s plan for asserting its sovereignty over the Arctic, it was establishing Royal Canadian Mounted Police outposts throughout the region and encouraging native peoples to settle at permanent trading and administrative posts. In the 1920s, the western Arctic caribou herd did not yield sufficient numbers to feed the expanding communities of Aklavik and Tuktoyaktuk.
While hunting for a living had become unreliable, animal husbandry was believed to be stable and predictable. Reindeer held the most promise for success for domestication because of their suitability to the northern climate and their astounding breeding potential — a properly managed herd could double in size every three years. “The Canadian government saw this as a single solution to two of their problems,” writes Thomas Conaty in his 2003 book titled The Reindeer Herders of the Mackenzie Delta. “First, reindeer herds would provide a constant supply of hides and meat for Inuit. Second, herding could be a means of settling Inuit in at least semi-permanent localities.”
Reindeer, a more easily domesticated cousin of the wild caribou, that the NewYork Times called “the camel of the frozen north,” had been thriving in Alaska for several decades since two separate herds were brought over from Siberia and Lapland near the end of the nineteenth century. By 1925, the various herds in Alaska numbered more than 350,000 animals. Between 1918 and 1925, nearly two-million pounds of reindeer meat was processed and shipped south to the U.S. mainland. “The flavor of reindeer meat offers not the slightest suggestion of gaminess or wild animal flavor,” stated Alfred W. McCann, an American gourmand and newspaper columnist in New York in 1925. “The meat is finer in texture than beef and far more tender. It has all the juiciness of beef with the texture of lamb, but tastes like neither. It is actually delicate in flavor.” McCann was promoting reindeer meat as a quality alternative to beef. Annual shipments had grown to 700,000 pounds by 1925, making it one of the most important industries in Alaska, second only to fishing. The reindeer industry was a local success story with native Alaskan ownership that employed over 600 Inuit and several hundred Laplanders.
The Canadian government, seeing the success of the reindeer industry in Alaska, contacted the Lomen Brothers Reindeer Company with an unprecedented proposal to establish a Canadian herd. They settled on a price of $75 a head for the delivery of 3,000 animals to Reindeer Station on the east side of the Mackenzie River Delta totaling $225,000 — a small fortune in those days. The drive was optimistically expected to be completed by 1931, in less than two years. “If success can be achieved after the reindeer have been introduced,” claimed an editorial in the Montreal Gazette when news of the deal became public, “a new era may be opened up for Canada’s northland. A meat industry of great proportions may be developed.” It was to be called the Canadian Reindeer Project.
Neither the Canadian government nor the Lomens had any real concept of the logistical difficulties of manoeuvering thousands of fickle animals 2,400 kilometres across the northern tundra, but they knew just the man for the job. Andrew Bahr, a veteran Lap herder who had come to Alaska during the Klondike gold rush in 1898, was respected as one of the most dependable herders in Alaska. Bahr’s prophetic words of wisdom, gleaned from years of experience, should have been a warning to the overly optimistic planners. “The deer run the herder,” he claimed, not the other way around.
In full winter attire, Laplander Andrew Bahr poses with two reindeer at his side at a reindeer fair held in January 1915 at Igloo, Alaska. A patient man, Bahr’s reindeer driving mantra was “You don’t lead the herd, the herd leads you.”
Glenbow Museum/NC-1-547D.
Bahr’s planned route cut across Alaska to Howard Pass in the Brooks Range and then followed the coast of the Arctic Ocean east into Canada. He ruled out a more southern route because it was impossible to drive reindeer through trees, and he avoided a northern route along the Alaska Coast to avoid mixing his animals with the small, local Inuit herds. In 1926, the Canadian government had hired Danish botanist Alf Erling Porsild to scout the western Arctic for a suitable region to be the nucleus of the Canadian reindeer industry. In 1928, he reported that the Mackenzie River Delta held the greatest potential for success. Porsild eventually settled on a suitable range, and the government constructed a small town called Reindeer Station to be the administrative centre.
The drive had an inauspicious beginning. Near the end of November 1929, just as the herd was assembled from the surrounding region, a vicious storm lashed the tundra and destroyed the corral, and the reindeer issued forth to wander across the landscape. Unrelated events cast a shadow over the drive as well: on Black Tuesday, October 29, 1929, the world stock markets crashed, sending thousands out of work, driving the price of beef, and eventually reindeer, to all-time lows. The deal had already been signed, however, and in December 1929, a kilometre-long, undulating mass of reindeer numbering 3,442 were soon on the trail, milling, snorting, sniffing, and seemingly overbalanced by their massive antlers under the stark polar sky. They moved under the watchful eye of the sometimes taciturn, yet indomitable, Andrew Bahr. They were on their way to Canada.
Bahr, his men, and the large herd of reindeer would spend the next five years on the trail toiling through some of the most rugged terrain on the continent. They would endure wildly fluctuating temperatures, from sweltering humidity to bone-chilling polar gales; they would struggle through snow up to their waist and wade through stagnant swamps; they would suffer from lack of food, inadequate clothing and supplies; and, perhaps worst of all, they would be paid rather poorly. Nevertheless, they plodded on each winter as blizzards lashed them piteously and wolves circled the herd driving the reindeer into a frenzy. “We were always looking for wolves,” recalled Matthias Hatta, one of the Lap herders. “They would come around in the dark and when it was stormy. You couldn’t see them. You would just fire into the air and scare them away ... they were mostly white wolves, like the snow ... there were sometimes twenty in one bunch.”
Reindeer are notoriously difficult to herd because they prefer walking into the wind. In the Arctic, shifting winds caused the animals to bolt, and Bahr spent weeks trudging back and forth across the tundra to retrieve them. Other problems hindered the drive as well. When temperatures rose unexpectedly, the snow melted into a slushy quagmire, bogging the sleds down in the mess. When the temperature froze again, the land became smothered under a blanket of ice that prevented the reindeer from feeding on the lichens hidden underneath. Bahr was philosophical. “We are now just training,” he reputedly said to his herders after the first year, “training dogs and training men. I must do much talking now to tell and show how things must be done. By and by, everyone will know what to do.”
They spent the first spring camped along the banks of the Kobuk River for the fawning season. The fawns were born in late April and early May and matured over the summer before the chaotic herd set off for the jagged spires of the Brooks Range in mid-October 1930. The Lomens had placed food caches along the route through Howard Pass, but for the herders it was a dreadful nightmare as frigid winds froze their faces, snow clogged the rocky chute, and the reindeer became frightened and edgy. At -50° Celsius, a mist formed about the animals, enveloping the herd in an eerie, steaming cloud that blocked all vision and communication. Travel was excruciatingly slow, averaging less than two kilometres a day. “We would have to be out watching the herd, walking around them, night and day looking for wolves and chasing some of the deer that would stray and get lost,” noted Matthias Hatta. “It was sixty below — sometimes seventy — and cold winds. We would work in shifts of twenty-four hours, but sometimes we would have to keep working for forty-eight hours or more. We didn’t get much sleep anytime.”
Once through the mountains, Bahr and his men spent the next two tedious years slogging back and forth along the same stretch of coast from the Shaviovik River to the Mackenzie Delta. The animals stampeded twice, in July 1931 and March 1933, and the bulk of the winter travel season was spent trying to locate the wayward beasts. While winter travel had its difficulties, the idle summers near the coast were even worse. Added to the extreme boredom of continuously wandering the perimeter of the grazing herd, the insects almost drove the herders mad. Pestering black flies and mosquitoes hovered about them in a buzzing cloud. They wiggled through crude face netting and swarmed about the frying pans, crisping into a crust on the food. For the reindeer, it was horrible. Some animals nearly died from blood loss, while others fell prey to the dreaded warble fly, which laid its eggs in their skin. The larvae painfully burrowed through the flesh until escaping the following spring. Another pest was the nostril fly, which laid its eggs in reindeer noses. The larvae gestated until the following summer when they burrowed into the throat and the poor reindeer sneezed them out in a bloody mass.
In full winter attire, Laplander Andrew Bahr poses with two reindeer at his side at a reindeer fair held in January 1915 at Igloo, Alaska. A patient man, Bahr’s reindeer driving mantra was “You don’t lead the herd, the herd leads you.”
Photograph taken during the Canadian Reindeer Project. Today, Lloyd Binder’s reindeer herd is directly descended from the first herd of reindeer to come to Canada as part of the Canadian Reindeer Project, which had been driven by his grandfather, Mikkel Pulk, one of the first Lapland herders.
For three generations, the task of introducing reindeer husbandry to a new land has been full of challenges for the Pulk/Binders.
Glenbow Museum/ NC-1-1170A.
After three years on the trail, only two thousand reindeer were still with the herd. Hundreds had frozen to death, hundreds more bolted and were never recovered, and countless others were weakened by insects and devoured by wolves.
After three years on the trail, only two thousand reindeer were still with the herd. Hundreds had frozen to death, hundreds more bolted and were never recovered, and countless others were weakened by insects and devoured by wolves. The drive was years behind schedule, and all Bahr, who by now had earned the nickname “The Arctic Moses,” could tell the Lomens and the Canadian officials was that he was “making haste slowly.”
Crossing the Mackenzie Delta was the final obstacle, but a third stampede in June 1934 almost broke Bahrs spirit. After leading the herd onto the ice, a storm blew in. Through severe wind and cruel temperatures, the herders could not stop the frightened animals from bolting back to land. To see the remnants of the herd fleeing west again was a devastating blow. The herders had had almost all they could take of the solitary tedium, poor food, and punishing conditions. After wearily retracing his path and rounding up his flock, Bahr stationed the remnants of the herd at a good feeding ground near Shingle Point on the Arctic Coast for the long wait for winter. This one random storm delayed the arrival of the herd by nearly one year.
Finally, on February 15, 1935, more than five years after they set out, Bahr judged the conditions good for a crossing of the frozen Mackenzie River and led his weary band out onto the expanse of ice for the second time. No unseasonable storms shattered the herd, the snow cover held, and Bahr was able to lead them from island to island to the east side of the river after a three-day journey. The herd was corralled at last, at Reindeer Station, on March 6, 1935. It was the end of an odyssey. Although 2,370 reindeer reached their destination, more than three-quarters of them were born along the route.
In 1937, the United States government assumed control over the reindeer industry in Alaska and made it illegal for anyone other than a native person to own a female reindeer. The industry, already weakened by the Depression, collapsed within a few years, reduced from producing over 700,000 pounds of reindeer meat annually to only a few thousand. The industry has only been on the rebound in recent decades. The Canadian reindeer industry has had a similarly up-and-down history.
An advertisement for the Seattle-based Lomen Brothers Reindeer Company pronounced reindeer meat “a new delicacy” in the 1920s.
Glenbow Museum/ ND-1-526.
The objective of the Canadian government was for native peoples to become the independent owners of the herds, but initially, several families of Laplanders were hired to manage the project and teach the necessary skills in reindeer husbandry. The technique of herding practiced by the Laplanders was called “close” herding. A family group travelled with the herd at all times, keeping a close watch on them. In the Canadian Arctic, however, this proved difficult. The Canadian herd was huge by traditional standards — perhaps ten times the size of an average herd in Lapland — and tended to consume the forage quickly. Slow herding was also inefficient in time and labour and produced little remuneration. In the 1940s, Canada’s great reindeer herd was split into four independent herds, which struggled along into the 1960s. During this time, Mikkel Pulk, head of the only Lapland family remaining, was the chief herder. Then the herds were again amalgamated and the style shifted to “open” herding, whereby the animals were turned loose in a specific range with little daily observation or direction. The grandson of Mikkel Pulk, Lloyd Binder, is part owner and manager of the herd today.
Initiated by the Canadian government and run by immigrant Lapland herders, the Canadian Reindeer Project was a monumental achievement with a noble objective. In 1929, the Edmonton Journal called it “the most spectacular reindeer drive in the history of the industry,” and it has remained so to this day. Although it has admittedly never lived up to its original optimistic billing, reindeer herding has evolved into a multi-million-dollar industry in Canadas North. But practical considerations aside, the Canadian Reindeer Project stands as one of the most audacious, unusual, and exotic tales in Canadian history.
Stephen R. Bown is a writer living in Canmore, Alberta. He is the author of A Most Damnable Invention: Dynamite, Nitrates and Making of the Modern World.
by Tom Brodbeck
It hangs breathtakingly in the foyer of the Holman Grand Hotel in downtown Charlottetown, Prince Edward Island — twenty-three Fathers of Confederation depicted in a stunning 3.2-by-4.5-metre oil painting.
It would be easy to mistake it for an older, classic portrait of the framers of Canada’s Constitution. But it’s not. The painting, completed in 2000 but unveiled just last year, is a newer and entirely original illustration of the September 1864 Charlottetown Conference. It took some time for this exquisite piece to find a home.
“It’s a pretty big painting to put anywhere,” said John Bradford MacCallum, a native Islander who began work on the painting in 1997. “I just wasn’t finding the right spot for it.”
So he stored it in his uncle’s barn in Winsloe, P.E.I. — just outside the capital city — for thirteen years, awaiting a location large enough to display what he hopes will one day become a Canadian classic.
It wasn’t until management at the Holman got wind of the portrait in 2013 that they invited MacCallum to hang it in the hotel’s busy lobby, right across the street from Province House, the provincial legislature where the famous meetings took place. As fate would have it, Charlottetown — indeed, all of Canada — is celebrating the 150th anniversary of the Charlottetown Conference this year, a fitting time for MacCallum to introduce his masterpiece to Canadians.
MacCallum, a self-taught painter, says the portrait — which draws long gazes and inquisitive chatter from passersby — couldn’t be in a better place right now.
“It’s right there for the people, you know — you walk right into it,” he said. “That’s what I like about it — you can just walk right there to the painting, eye to eye.”
This article originally appeared in the October-November 2014 issue of Canada's History.
by Yves Y. Pelletier
On April 29, 1941, during the dark days of the Second World War, Prime Minister William Lyon Mackenzie King made an unusual reference in his diary: ”There came to mind the vision I had a day or two ago of looking out of an open window at what seemed to be the grave of Sir John MacDonald [sic]. It brought to mind what I had intended to plan as to a memorial service at his grave on the fiftieth anniversary of Sir John’s death.”
This wasn’t the first time King had written about a mystic vision in his diary. And it wasn’t his first reference to Canada’s founding prime minister. But the vision was remarkable in that it gave birth to what was then an unconventional idea — to hold a major commemoration of the fiftieth anniversary of Macdonald’s death, on June 6, 1941. The idea was unusual for at least two reasons: It was being initiated by a Liberal prime minister (Macdonald was a Conservative), and there was no consensus about whether Macdonald deserved the recognition.
Born on January 11, 1815, Macdonald spent more than fifty years in Canadian politics and he was certainly an irrefutable historic figure. He masterminded the union of British North America and was the lead drafter of a Canadian constitution that sought conciliation between French and English Canadians. He was Canada’s first prime minister, a role he occupied for nineteen years, and he steadfastly championed a national railway to unite the new country But his star faded with some Canadians when they became aware of his penchant for drinking, his use of gerrymandering, and his knowledge of bribes. His insistence on hanging Metis leader Louis Riel, “though every dog in Quebec bark in his favour,” did not win him friends in French Canada, and his policies towards Aboriginal Canadians and Chinese migrant workers are today perceived as racist.
Macdonald often came under partisan attack while he was alive, and attacks on his legacy continued after his death in 1891. When Wilfrid Laurier’s Liberals came to power in 1896, they allowed his memory to fade from the public’s consciousness. Even King went out of his way to shift the focus away from Macdonald to a broader focus on other relatively unknown Fathers of Confederation during the Diamond Jubilee Celebrations of Confederation in 1927.
So why did King suddenly want Macdonald commemorated in 1941? The answer is that King needed a reason to bring the nation together. Canada was increasingly being called upon to assist its wartime allies — and the country was by no means united about the sacrifices that had to be made.
The spring of 1941 was a difficult time. Canada had declared war on Germany on September 10, 1939, and Parliament had passed the National Resources Mobilization Act in June 1940, giving government special emergency powers to mobilize all human and material resources for the defence of Canada. Canadian troops were being sent overseas, and recruitment intensified as more men were needed at the front. Pressure was building to introduce conscription — an issue that had pitched the country into a crisis during the First World War. King was intent on avoiding a repeat. Yet the promise to avoid conscription for overseas military service would be difficult to keep.
Two weeks after having his mystical vision of Macdonald, King announced to the House of Commons his government’s intention to organize a “suitable ceremony” in Kingston, Ontario, where Macdonald was buried. With less than three weeks before the event, the planning had to be carried out expediently. King chaired the organizing committee and named most of its members, with the exception of a few local Conservative members from Kingston, who were added by acting Conservative Party leader Richard Hanson. They agreed to four speakers: Hanson and King as national party leaders; Sir Arthur Meighen as the only other living Canadian prime minister; and King’s Quebec lieutenant, Ernest Lapointe. They also secured the live broadcasting of the event by Canada’s radio stations, then still a rare technological feat. As a live radio event in the pre-television era, it would give King an opportunity to reach inside the homes and workplaces of Canadians.
Hoping to ensure a large crowd, King held the event on a Saturday — one day after the actual anniversary of Macdonald’s death. While travelling on the train from Ottawa to Kingston that morning, King made some last-minute revisions to his speech. “I think I got it into nearly perfect shape at last,” King wrote in his diary that day. “It came to express exactly what I wanted: first, of unity in historic races, and then of unity in the nations of the Commonwealth, and unity in fighting for the preservation of peace.”
Clouds and the threat of rain greeted King’s arrival in Kingston, but the prime minister was apparently not discouraged by the weather, for he wrote later that “the ceremonies there went off very well.” Brigadier F. Logie Armstrong, the deputy adjutant general, escorted King to the city’s downtown park, where a crowd of five thousand servicemen were lined up in full dress uniform to add pomp and pageantry to the event. Another eight thousand people came to witness the ceremony, which had been heavily promoted by the local newspaper in the days leading up to the event. An 1895 statue of Macdonald, which depicted him standing on top of a fifteen-foot granite stone wearing his Imperial Privy Councillor uniform, served as a centrepiece.
King placed a wreath at the base of the statue and then spoke for ten minutes.
“I leave to others to speak of Sir John Macdonald’s career and attainment,” he began, thus allowing more time to focus on his key theme. King then stated what he viewed as Macdonald’s hope for unity: “A country of two races merged into one I nationality, governed in the well-tried ways of the British constitution, a pride and glory to the new world, this was the daydream of his youth. Its unity was the hope and the prayer of his riper years. Sir John not only lived to see his dream realized and his prayer answered, but both, in memorable part, affected by his own exertions.”
King defined the entirety of Macdonald’s political career as one dedicated to national unity. By doing so, he purposefully ignored many chapters of Canadian history where Macdonald’s policies and decisions — the hanging of Riel, for example — created national disunity. His selective memory allowed him to note that Macdonald had achieved the ultimate goal: from the “union of two historic races” emerged “one young and vigorous nation.”
All of the speakers that day cast away any real or perceived criticism of Macdonald’s legacy.
The other speakers followed closely King’s portrayal of Macdonald. In his speech, Hanson, the Opposition Conservative Party leader, pleaded with Canadians “who inherited the early fruits of [Macdonald’s] work [to] strive to make of this nation the best that is possible for all of our people. In diversity there can be true unity.”
Lapointe, the leading political figure from Quebec and the only French-language speaker, spoke to French and English Canadians in their respective languages. “[A] dark cloud hangs over our civilization,” he said. For Quebecers listening to the broadcast, Lapointe asserted that Macdonald had been responsible for safeguarding the French language in Canada. Speaking in French, he said, “Thank you, Sir John! We salute you as one of the first champions of national unity. French Canadians are delighted to join their fellow Canadians to pay tribute to your memory”
The remaining speaker, former Prime Minister Arthur Meighen, a Conservative, focused on elevating Macdonald’s status beyond that of a Conservative Party icon and into a national symbol. He noted that Laurier had awarded Macdonald “the primacy among the founders and the builders of our nation.”
In short, all of the speakers that day cast away any real or perceived criticism of Macdonald’s political legacy or personal story to ensure that Canadians could rally around this new image of Sir John A. Macdonald as a unifying force.
“I thought all the speeches good,” King wrote later in his diary. “Meighan’s very good, but with blemishes; very poorly delivered. Lapointe the best of all. Hanson better than usual.” After the speeches, King reviewed the troops and then mixed with the crowd. “I was agreeably surprised and pleased by the reception I got from the people on the streets after the review,” he noted. The ceremony finished with the dignitaries going to the cemetery to place wreaths at Macdonald’s grave.
The considerable coverage in Canada’s newspapers the next day was overwhelmingly positive. The Toronto Star focused on Macdonald’s role in conciliating English and French Canadians as the chief success of his political career. The Globe and Mail noted Macdonald’s ability to “put national welfare ahead of party.” Montreal’s French-language paper, La Presse, ran the headline, “L’unite natio-nale jut I’espoir et le voeu de sir John-A. Macdonald” (National unity was Sir John A. Macdonald’s hope and wish).
The newspapers also carried interesting editorial reflections. A La Presse editorial noted that Canadians should be inspired by the examples offered by French and English Canada’s Fathers of Confederation. “The political formula they adopted remains the correct one,” said La Presse in French. “By following that formula, we serve the best interests of the Dominion and the vital causes that we are committed to defend.” The Montreal Gazette’s editorial referred to the “transcending power of Sir John Macdonald’s example” and hoped that current leaders would copy his model.
A series of articles in the Kingston Whig-Standard suggested that the commemoration had already made an immediate impact on French-English relations in Canada. A day earlier, Thomas Ashmore Kidd, a grand knight of the Orange Order and a former Ontario MPP for Kingston, had told a gathering in Kingston, “Canada’s war effort is not Imperialistic enough, ... the official war effort goes only so far as a certain element in the Province of Quebec ... and French-Canadians were probably disloyal, given their poor showing in the enlistment figures for the war.”
The editors of the Whig-Standard were quick to rebuke Kidd’s stance: “To talk about Quebec Province as if it were trying to hinder Canada’s war work is manifestly unfair. We do not know what military quotas are given to the various provinces, but we do know that Quebec has maintained the quota of reinforcements allotted to it as well as any province in Canada.”
The spirit of the editorial rebuke emerging from Kingston, a community with a long association with the Protestant Orange Order, reflected the tone set at the national commemorative event. For the first time since his death in 1891, Macdonald was a universally acclaimed national figure, heralded by senior members of both the Liberal and Conservatives parties. The media accepted this without criticism or further analysis.
However, this positive attitude was not to last. In the months and years following the event, the political debate on overseas military service would again divide the country, as it did during the First World War. The memory of Macdonald as a unifying force was not enough to heal the ongoing deep divisions between Quebec and the rest of Canada.
After the war, subsequent prime ministers — even Macdonald’s self-proclaimed greatest admirer, John Diefenbaker — have treaded carefully in commemorating Macdonald. The emergence of a voice for greater independence for Quebec during the 1960s made many federal politicians uncertain about commemorating the primary Father of Confederation. Pearson repeatedly dithered on commemorating Macdonald as part of Canada’s centennial celebrations in 1967.
As Canada approaches the January 11, 2015, bicentennial of Macdonald’s birth, some events are being planned to celebrate the occasion. The Kingston-based Sir John A. Macdonald Bicentennial Commission and Historica Canada received $500,000 and $360,000, respectively, in federal funding to promote Macdonald’s memory. In addition, Canada Post will release a commemorative stamp, and the Royal Canadian Mint plans a coin.
However, to date the federal Conservative government has kept a low profile in promoting the occasion. In this, the government is sticking closely to the approach taken by its predecessors — in case Macdonald’s legacy ends up doing more to divide Canadians than to unite them.
This article originally appeared in the December 2014-January 2015 issue of Canada's History.
Et cetera
From CBC Digital Archives: Listen to this CBC Radio News Special “Ceremony marks 50th anniversary of death of Sir John A. Macdonald”
by Richard J. Gwyn
On July 1, 1867, and for quite a time afterwards, it would have been difficult to find anyone among the small number of people reasonably well-informed about Canada — whether in London, or in Washington, or in New York — who believed that the new national entity would long survive. The general presumption was that the so-called “Dominion” would quickly yield to natural logic and elevate itself into an independent nation state; not long afterwards it would again yield to logic by joining its far larger, richer, more developed, much more dynamic and confident neighbour.
The opinion of The Times of London was that Canada lacked “the body, the vital organs, the circulation, and the muscular force to give adequate power to these wide-spread limbs.” The view of the New York Times was: “When the experiment of the ’Dominion’ shall have failed, as fail it must, a process of peaceful absorption will give Canada her proper place in the Great North American Republic.” The most telling observation was by Lord Monck, Governor General during the struggle to achieve Confederation. After returning home, the retired Monck told the House of Lords that “it was in the interests of the Mother Country that [Canada] should be taught to look forward to independence."
Canada needed to “be taught” to become independent because the map of Europe was being transformed. Almost out of nowhere, Germany was emerging as a major power.
It had just defeated the Austro-Hungarian Empire and, yet more amazingly, would soon do the same to France. Britain needed henceforth to look to its backyard; the last thing it needed was some kind of second War of 1812 precipitated by some incident along Canada’s long, indefensible border.
For the sake of saving face, and for also upholding honour, the British would never push Canada out of the Empire; they would, though, do all they could offstage to encourage it to leave of its own accord, an objective explicitly spelled out by the colonial secretary to one governor general.
Other excellent reasons existed for the doubts that Canada could survive. In the wonderful phrase of American journalist Horace Greeley it was “an eel-skin of a settled country” absurdly elongated but hopelessly narrow with huge gaps between its scattered settlements.
It could never become a conventional nation-state because it was composed of three nations — English, French, Aboriginal — and none of them trusted or liked each other. All the logic of geography, commerce, finance, trans portation, and even demography made it clear that God, or nature, had intended Canada to be a northern extension of the dynamic, energetic nation south of the border.
Two forces caused logic never to be fulfilled. One was the odd, near-inexplicable determination of the great majority of Canadians not to become Americans. In a rare instance of pan-Canadian solidarity, this held true for francophones, anglophones, and Aboriginals.
Why this was the case isn’t easy to pin down. One reason is that the myth of the Loyalists mattered a great deal, particularly because in those days loyalty — to spouse, to employer, to family and kin and ethnic and religious group — was near the top of the list of civic virtues.
Other reasons included the thrill of belonging to the greatest empire since that of Rome; widespread admiration for British law, Parliament, and history; and the certitude of being morally superior to the rough-and-tumble Americans.
The other determining force was contained within a single person — John A. Macdonald. Almost certainly — conclusively so, in this author’s opinion — had there then been no Macdonald there would today be no Canada.
The name “Canada” would linger on, if at all, as a brief Wikipedia note about an improbable northern statelet that quickly yielded to irresistible logic, so making all of North America one, from the Rio Grande to the North Pole.
Macdonald never deviated from the purpose of his public life, which was to make certain that Canada did not become America. His most testing times came during the period from about 1881 on — an era historian J.M.S. Careless has called “Canada’s age of failure.” This was when one in five Canadians left for a better life below the border, while almost all the immigrants Macdonald counted on to make an economic success of his financially lunatic transcontinental railway went instead to the far-more-developed American West.
He never gave up, sticking to his determination to gain for the fragile, unformed nation enough time “to harden from gristle to bone.” This he accomplished, the climax coming in his last election in 1891. He was by then seventy-six, tired, and sick, but he convinced Canadians to vote against their own pockets by rejecting the Liberal promise of cross-border free trade to reinvigorate the depressed economy. Instead, they were asked to vote for “The Old Flag, the Old Policy, the Old Leader.”
He won, but died a few months later.
Macdonald thus never knew that his last stand was applauded, in private, by the U.S. president of the time, Benjamin Harrison. Harrison, who opposed free trade, told his secretary of state that he could not see how free trade by so small a nation with so weak an economy could not but lead it into full economic union and, soon afterwards, into political union with the U.S.
To describe John A. Macdonald as the ablest political leader Canada has ever been lucky enough to have is to do him an injustice. Among all democratic leaders anywhere in the nineteenth century, it is hard to identify any abler but U.S. President Abraham Lincoln and British Prime Minister Benjamin Disraeli. In a certain sense, he had to be even more guileful and adroit than either of them. They, living in advanced societies, could count on advice from a considerable number of first-rate minds. In the small, poor, provincial colony of Canada of Macdonald’s day, few could provide him with the counsel and criticism any leader needs. He wasn’t entirely alone: George Munro Grant, Queen’s University’s first principal, for instance, was one of his advisers. But mostly Macdonald had to make it up himself as he went along — inventing, with no role model to guide him, the practice of picking a Cabinet that was a representative miniature of the nation, regionally, ethnically, and by religious faith.
To confirm Macdonald’s exceptional political credentials is easy. British historians regularly describe as the first modern election under the British parliamentary system the Midlothian by-election waged in 1879-80 by William Gladstone, then opposition leader, who went out among the voters for the first time by a whistle-stop train tour and gave them a specific reason to support him in the form again unprecedented, of a platform calling for Britain to adopt a humanitarian foreign policy.
Those British historians got it wrong — not by applauding Gladstone but by overlooking Macdonald. He pioneered modern election campaigning in 1876–78. Then in opposition, he staged political picnics across the country, offering free food, lemonade, and beer to voters of all persuasions. He then got onstage and traded jokes and jabs with the Liberals.
Macdonald took to politics the instant he entered it. He stood out from all the others by wearing notice-me clothes — a bright red cravate and checked trousers, unlike everyone else’s uniform grey. He was uncannily modern. At a time of high rhetoric, Macdonald always spoke colloquially; his speeches were short, typically just twenty minutes; he never used a prepared text. He loved being heckled, taking good care to taunt any Liberals present into denouncing him, almost always handily winning the exchanges.
He was genuinely funny, unlike any predecessor or successor (Pierre Trudeau possessed a rapier wit but always with a sharp edge). Once, while campaigning in southern Ontario, he mounted a piece of farm machinery to better project to a gathering of farmers. When someone pointed out he was standing on a manure spreader, Macdonald pondered a moment and retorted, “This is the first time I’ve stood on the Liberal platform.”
When a suffragette demanded to know why he but not she had the vote, he considered the puzzle and replied, “Madame, I cannot conceive.” He passed with flying colours the ultimate political test. Of seven elections he won all but one (he lost after the CPR scandal). And, as would be unimaginable today, he won twice when the economy was in state of all-out depression.
But while Macdonald’s political skills matched those of any democratic leader of his century, as a statesman he was less accomplished. For instance, he never appealed to people’s “better angels,” as did Lincoln and Gladstone, if not Disraeli. Macdonald is viewed by many Canadian historians, and by many ordinary Canadians, as an exceptionally clever, very charming politician who possessed little else — no vision, no creativity, and no ideas but the tactical stratagems of a pragmatist and opportunist—as well as being corrupt and cynical, and a drunk. Actually, he gave up drinking in the mid-1870s and wasn’t so much a cynic as a realist — most especially so about human nature, as in his observation that no leader should “ever count on gratitude from the public.”
There was a great deal more to Macdonald than being merely an artful politician. He was highly intelligent and exceptionally well-read, consuming not just the obvious books on politics, law, and biography but also novels and plays, and philosophy and travel. Disraeli spotted that there was far more to him than just charm.
They met once, in 1879, when Disraeli invited him, while in Britain, to come to his country house, Hugenden. They dined alone and afterwards talked in the library until the early hours of the next day.Disraeli’s later diary comment on Macdonald was, “he is a considerable man.” One reason for this assessment was that the subject they discussed at greatest length was “the poets and philosophers of Greece and Rome.”
Instances of Macdonald applying his talents to purposes that had nothing to do with winning the next election can be cited at length. Several follow immediately. Afterwards will come an instance that will amaze almost all readers, both because it is so original and enlightened but also because its existence will be utterly unknown to any reader (excepting early readers of the book, Nation Maker from which this essay is derived). The reason for this ignorance, one all but incomprehensible, is that this country’s historians have been ignorant of this accomplishment.
A good start to any accounting of Macdonald’s accomplishments is his creation of the North-West Mounted Police in 1873, an achievement that vanished from the memory of historians and the general public until revived a century later by a 1972 article in Canadian Historical Review. Written by RCMP historian S.W. Horrall, it was titled, “Sir John Macdonald and the Mounted Police Force.” Macdonald conceived the project in the summer 1869 as part of his preparations for the impending takeover of the Hudson’s Bay Territory In one speech he proposed that the force be composed “of a comingling of the races,” with Metis and Natives as well as English and French. It was an unprecedented attempt at ethnic inclusiveness but was made impossible politically by Louis Riel’s resistance to the takeover of the territory. Not until September 1873 did Macdonald bring the enabling legislation into the Commons, getting it passed just four days before the Canadian Pacific scandal removed him from office.
The legislation was Macdonald’s personal work. Its most important passage described the NWMP’s mandate as “the preservation of peace, the prevention of crime"— that is, not to punish crime but to pre-empt it by giving police officers the mission of getting to know, of befriending, and of earning the trust of both Aboriginals and settlers, treating both impartially, and indeed most often by protecting Native people from the newcomers. The consequence was a Canadian West utterly different from its U.S. equivalent: here, peace, order, and good government; there, vigilante justice and the rule of the gun.
If belatedly, this story is quite well-known — his idea of “comingling the races” excepted. Of Macdonald’s well-known National Policy of protective high tariffs, the most interesting aspect is quite unknown. Macdonald enacted this project in 1879. Almost never mentioned is the fact that what he was doing was being done at the same time by the nineteenth century’s ablest statesman (if no democrat) — Otto von Bismarck. Macdonald’s objective was to move Canada towards true nationhood by giving its citizens reasons to buy and sell from each other. In Germany, Bismarck likewise imposed high tariffs so that Germans might cohere into a single nation rather remaining an assemblage of principalities, statelets, bishoprics, and the rest. The solitary mention of this intriguing cross-Atlantic similarity is contained in a 1976 master’s thesis for the University of Windsor by Suzanne Keller.
Macdonald’s capacity for imagination and generosity towards French-Canadians is well known. He famously told Conservative MP Brown Chamberlin: “Treat them as a nation and they will behave as a free people usually do — generously. Call them a faction and they become factious.” That was in a private letter; in public, he went further still. In the late 1880s, a severe backlash arose against bilingualism in the West. The movement’s leader was the able politician Dalton McCarthy. When McCarthy moved a resolution in the Commons to abolish the language guarantees contained in the North-West Territories Act, Macdonald, by then old and tired, intervened to say, “there is no paramount race in this country; we are all British subjects ... having equal rights of every kind—of language, or religion, of property and of person.” He intervened a second time to remind MPs that in 1793 the first legislators of the new Upper Canada Province, all English, had voted to publish all bills in both languages for the benefit of a few hundred French-Canadians out in the far west near present-day Windsor. Would present-day MPs, he asked, “be less liberal to our French-Canadian fellow subjects than were the few Englishmen, United Empire Loyalists?” In 1929, the great Quebec nationalist Henri Bourassa would cite this speech and go on to praise Macdonald as “the one man who best understood and to a large extent best applied the spirit of Confederation."
And now to one of the great unknowns of our history, the long silence about it being all the more incomprehensible because the evidence confirming it has all along been hiding in plain sight — in the pages of Hansard.
It concerns Macdonald and women. In this instance, Macdonald wasn’t being merely ahead of this time: He was being unique. In 1885, Macdonald became the first national leader in the world to attempt to extend the vote to women. (Women did gain the vote in eighteenth-century revolutionary France, but only briefly, and the Isle of Man, if indeed a country, as it claimed, enacted the necessary legislation in 1881.)
Whence Macdonald gained the idea, and why he then attempted to enact it, is impossible to know now. That early, the idea was entirely absent from public discourse in Canada, scarcely existed in Britain, and only flourished on the political margins in the U.S. because of the charisma of Susan B. Anthony. Yet early in 1885 he advanced the policy as part of his attempt to revise the Franchise Act (to revise it radically in his favour by transferring to Ottawa from the provinces the patronage over the selection of returning officers, so fully justifying the opposition’s ferocious fight against the legislation).
Macdonald spoke on April 27, 1885. He noted that the definition of “persons” should be broadened to include women, this being a half century before the deed would finally be done by the famous Person’s Case of 1929. He then explained why: “Mr. Chairman [the House then being in Committee], with respect to female suffrage, I can only say that I, personally, am strongly convinced, and every year for many years I have been even more convinced, of the justice of giving women otherwise qualified the suffrage [the universal requirement for possessing the right to vote being owning a minimal amount of property].” He continued, “I had hoped that Canada would have the honour of first placing women in the position she is certain, eventually, after centuries of oppression, to obtain ... of completely establishing her equality as a human being and as a member of society with man."
In a few sentences Macdonald had said everything that needed to be said: that the deed, “was only a matter of time"; that he hoped Canada could have the “honour” of being the first; and that women had endured “centuries of oppression.” He said something else even more extraordinary for the times, or for all the decades ahead, really down to the 1960s and the Royal Commission on the Status of Women. This was that women would inevitably eventually gain not just the vote but “equality as a human being and as a member of society with man.” He thus was arguing for comprehensive genuine equality, as no one had then done but John Stuart Mill.
Not long after his intervention, Macdonald withdrew these sections of the bill. His own bleu MPs from Quebec were unanimously opposed, and by one estimate only four Conservatives were ready to support him. But he had used a prime minister’s invaluable asset — possession of the best bully pulpit in the country — to point out the future to his people.
This extraordinary exercise in far-sightedness has attracted no interest from historians. Just one attempt to describe it in full exists, a 2009 M.A. thesis about the 1885 Franchise Act for Carleton University by Colin Grittner. Otherwise it has been ignored, by both historians and gender studies experts, or ridiculed, as by the chief electoral officer’s 2007 pamphlet, A History of the Vote in Canada. The pamphlet says, “the suspicion remains that Macdonald had inserted the clause as a sacrificial lamb, never intending that it survive final reading of the bill."
This is bunkum, as Macdonald would have said. Sacrificing lambs is pointless unless they are seen to be valuable. The worth to Macdonald of the gesture was a minus. It’s true that Macdonald was interested in attracting their votes — his secretary, Sir Joseph Pope, wrote in his memoirs that Macdonald “believed that women, as a whole, were conservative."
But even if the small number of women who might qualify all cast their ballots for him, Macdonald would have lost the votes of an incomparably larger number of men. Opposition MPs captured the mood of the time when they said the vote would “coarsen women” and that “Canadian women are more proud to be known as good mothers than as voters.” Even Macdonald’s wife, Lady Agnes, thought women should not “point their dainty fingers into the political pie."
Macdonald was unlike most men of his time, in that he was wholly at ease in the company of women and had no concern about women in public life. In the early 1880s, he broke social rules by attending a few meetings of the Salvation Army in Kingston, Ontario. Women could hold any position in the army, and the Kingston unit was headed by Captain Abigail Thompson. By attending meetings at which Thompson presided, he was doing something astonishing — he was showing his approval of women giving orders to men in public, an act that scandalized public opinion of the day.
Macdonald did not give up on extending the vote to women. In 1890 he asked his ministers for information about women voting in municipal elections — Ontario granted such rights to widows and spinsters in 1884, and other provinces followed. He also inquired whether they could be members of school boards. He had to have been gathering material for a speech. He never gave it because he died the next year after giving his all to prevent Canada negotiating a cross-border free trade pact that he — and the U.S. president — believed had to end in political union.
These, and others, were the acts of “a considerable man.” He’s worth a long second look.
This article originally appeared in the October-November 2012 issue of Canada's History.
by Nelle Oosterom
In our February-March 2015 issue, Barry Gough writes about how the daring mariner helped capture Quebec. Here we delve deeper into his experiences along the west coast.
On April, 1, 1778, Captain James Cook and his crew arrived at present-day Nootka Sound on the west coast of Vancouver Island with the ships Resolution and Discovery. The English explorer was on his third and last voyage around the world (he would be killed in Hawaii the following year). Here’s some of what took place during Cook’s journey up the coast:
Greeted by the locals
At Nootka Sound, the crew set to work cutting wood, setting up an iron forge and making repairs to the ship. Local inhabitants — the Nuu-chah-nulth — were quick to greet them. James Burney, the first lieutenant on the Discovery, noted that on April 4, “several of the larger Canoes saluted us, by making a Circuit round the ships and giving three Halloos at their departure. They paddle in most excellent time, the foremost man every third or fourth Stroke making flourishes with his paddle. The halloo is a single note in which they all join, swelling it out in the middle and letting the Sound die away.”
Making small beer
While most of the crew worked on ship repairs, some brewed beer. David Samwell, the ship surgeon’s first mate on the Resolution, called it “small beer” and noted it was served to the ship’s company in place of brandy.The beer was actually an antiscorbutic made from spruce needles and tea leaves and meant to prevent scurvy.
While in New Zealand, Cook described how the beer was made: “First make a strong decoction of the small branches of the spruce and tea-plants, by boiling them three or four hours, or until the bark will strip with ease from the branches; then take them out of the copper, and put in the proper quantity of molasses, ten gallons of which is sufficient to make a ton, or two hundred and forty gallons of beer. Let this mixture just boil; then put it into casks, and to it add an equal quantity of cold water, more or less according to the strength of the decoction, or your taste. When the whole is milk-warm, put in a little grounds of beer, or yeast if you have it, or anything else that will cause fermentation, and in a few days the beer will be fit to drink.” By April 23, Samwell had made enough spruce beer to last the company for two or three months.
Keeping a silent watch
At one point, Cook’s crew went into the woods to take down a tree and make a mizzen mast. The reaction of the local people was unusual enough that James King, second lieutenant on the Resolution, remarked in his journal: “Many of the Natives were alongside who regarded this piece of duty with an attention and astonishment that is far from common with them… I have observed half a dozen canoes close together and not heard a single word spoken by any for an hour or more. This silent conduct of theirs is apt to strike us the more, as being so very diff[erent] from the behaviour of the Islanders we have visit[ed] whose perpetual din is the most tiresome and vexatious circumstance of our intercourse with them.”
Taking a break
By April 19, most of the heavy work was out of the way and Cook decided an excursion was called for and set off in a couple of small boats to explore the area around Nootka Sound. James Trevenen was one of the midshipmen who rowed the boats. “We were fond of such excursions, altho’ the labour of them was very great, as, not only this kind of duty, was more agreeable than the humdrum routine on board the Ships, but as it gave us an opportunity of viewing the different people & countries, and as another very principal consideration we were sure of having plenty to eat & drink, which was not always the case on board the Ship on our usual allowance. Capt. Cooke also on these occasions, would sometimes relax from his almost constant severity of disposition, condescend now and then, to converse familiarly with us. But it was only for the time, as soon as we entered the ships, he became again the despot.”
Sailing north to Alaska
After about a month, Cook and his crew began making their way north as part of their mission to find the Northwest Passage. On May 4 they spotted Mount St. Elias — on the boundary of present-day Alaska and Yukon — the second highest mountain in North America. Cook landed on a nearby island and left behind a bottle containing a note on which he wrote an account of the ships’ reaching the place. He also left two silver penny pieces dated 1772 and named the island after Reverend Richard Kaye, the chaplain to the king. Today it is called Kayak Island.
Meeting a “very happy race”
On May 12, the crew reached Prince William Sound. Some local inhabitants appeared and came aboard the ships. Charles Clerke, the captain of the Discovery, gave them a glass bowl “with which they seemed much delighted.” In return, the indigenous people gave Clerke a waterproof coat made out of bird skin “exceedingly well calculated, to keep out both Wet & Cold; then, both Boats put off and made for the Shore, paddling and singing with all the Jollity imaginable. We either found these good folks on [one] of their Jubilee Days, or they are a very happy Race,” wrote Clerke.
Hitting the wall
The crew continued northward, hoping to a find an open across the top of the continent. They followed a promising arm leading into Cook’s Inlet in the Gulf of Alaska but were once again disappointed, as it proved to be a river.
On June 6, they encountered some local people — the Aleut — who paddled to their ships and handed over a small box. Expedition member Heinrich Zimmerman described what happened next: “We opened the box and found therein a small piece of paper on which were written five lines in Greek letters. We could understand nothing of it but recognized the dates 1776 and 1778 and concluded from these circumstances that Russians had been wrecked on this island.” Russians had been trading in the area since 1759.
Cook sailed on until he hit a wall of ice at Icy Cape, above seventy degrees north, in mid-August. With no Northwest Passage presenting itself, Cook turned around. On a return stop at Unalaska Island, Cook met Russian fur trade post factor Gerassim Ismailov, who provided him with valuable map information.
His search for the Northwest Passage concluded, Cook slowly made his way back across the Pacific to Hawaii, where, on February 14, 1779, he met his final end in a skirmish with Islanders.
For more about James Cook, you can read “Captain Cook’s Canada” by Barry Gough when you buy the February-March 2015 issue of Canada’s History or subscribe today.
Despite his lack of a law degree, Squamish leader Andrew Paull (1892–1959) was remarkably successful in defending clients in British Columbia’s courts of law in the early part of the twentieth century.
Paull had received legal training but refused to be called to the bar because at the time it would have meant giving up his Aboriginal status.
So he worked as an unofficial lawyer, as well as a land claims lobbyist, longshoreman, community organizer, and lacrosse coach.
He was also the secretary of Mission Reserve No. 1 at Burrard Inlet, North Vancouver, and formed the North American Indian Brotherhood in the late 1940s.
It was Paull’s performance in the courtroom that impressed his contemporaries. He was able to cite chapter and verse and memorize long portions of documents.
According to his colleague Maisie Hurley, “He was considered the greatest authority on this continent on Indian aspects of the law. He would have been one of the country’s most brilliant criminal lawyers if he’d had a degree. He had dignity, drama. He was superb.”
When handling murder cases, Paull was often successful in getting the charges reduced. He also argued for Aboriginal land rights and opposed laws that were discriminatory towards Native people.
You can read Janet Nicol's story on Andrew Paull in the February-March 2015 issue of Canada’s History magazine, or subscribe now.
There is more about Paull in this article by Brendan F.R. Edwards (BC Studies Winter 2009/2010).
Music lovers will soon be singing the blues in Calgary — and that’s a great thing for fans of heritage preservation.
That’s because one of the city’s key musical landmarks — the King Edward Hotel — is undergoing a multi-million-dollar restoration and expansion.
The King Eddy, possibly the oldest blues bar in Canada, is being transformed into the new home of the National Music Centre, a museum and performance facility dedicated to showcasing Canada’s musical past, present, and future.
Located in the city’s East Village neighbourhood, the venue was known to patrons as the “Home of the Blues.” Many musical legends played there, including BB King, John Hammond, Pinetop Perkins and Buddy Guy. Built in 1905, the hotel enjoyed years of glory, followed by decades of decline; it closed in 2004.
In February 2013 the National Music Centre broke ground on the restoration and expansion project. The King Eddy was taken apart brick by brick. Each brick has been cleaned, stored and placed on numbered pallets so that the building can be reassembled exactly as it was in 1905. Not only will original bricks be recycled, but original sandstone windowsills, cornices, and the signature neon sword sign will also be re-used.
The King Eddy will be the showcase element of more than $200-million expansion. It will host live music seven days a week and boast five floors of exhibition space, a three-hundred-seat performance venue, a radio station, recording studio facilities, distance education classrooms, and much more. The building itself will be considered the “largest artifact” in the NMC collection.
The new facility is expected to open in the spring of 2016.
For more information, visit the National Music Centre website.
by Jessica Knapp
The corset first became popular in sixteenth-century Europe. Originating in Italy, the fashionable undergarment made its way to France soon after. These corsets focused more on flattening the bust instead of narrowing the waistline. A farthingale (a stiff hoop skirt) made a woman’s waistline already seem smaller.
By the 1550s corset fashion had made its way to Britain. Advancements in corset construction followed. British corset makers used baleen whale bone and wood sewn into a casing on the corset to maintain a stiff shape.
The corset’s popularity had a bit of a lull in the seventeenth as fashion became simpler. The introduction of the high empire waistline in the eighteenth-century de-emphasized the natural waistline keeping corsets at the wayside.
After the corset hiatus it peaked in popularity the Victorian era (1837 to 1901). During the reign of Queen Victoria, steel began to replace whalebone and clasps were included on the front along with eyelets on the back. The corset design was changing. The convenience of dressing oneself and cost were factors introduced by the many classes of women who were wearing the corset.
Accentuating the bust and the waist were no longer satisfactory reasons to wear a corset. Supporting the back and improving posture were two new reasons for Victorian women to wear a corset. The health benefits of wearing a corset soon become a marketing tool.
The appeal of the corset had finally made its way to Canada. Canadian women wore corsets for a number of reasons, but the underlying truth was to slim the figure. It wasn’t too long before the corset was redesigned. The S-curve corset came into fashion in the Edwardian era (1901 to 1914) and it narrowed a women’s waistline by flattening the abdomen, which arched her back and threw her bust forward. This style, along with full-sleeves and a bell-shaped skirt allowed women to achieve the newer S-bend silhouette.
Upper class women imported their handmade corsets from France or England, but by 1880s all women could purchase a machine-made corset from companies that had started up in Canada.
The Crompton Corset Company was incorporated in 1880 in Toronto. It employed over 350 workers, who were mostly women, and produced approximately 8,400 corsets a week. In 1886, Dominion Corset was founded in Quebec City and by 1911 it produced almost 5,500 corsets a day.
The Crompton and Dominion battled for the title of largest corset manufacturer in Canada until 1901 when Eaton’s also began selling corsets.
Corsets remained a staple part of Canadian women’s fashion until the outbreak of the First World War. While upper class women could maintain the fashion, many women traded in the corset for a girdle. Using elastic fabrics, the girdle was less restricting and more comfortable while providing the appearance of a flat stomach for women.
by Mark Collin Reid
Canadians are renowned for many things, including our amiable ability to poke fun at ourselves.
This uniquely Canuck quality was put on world-wide display during the closing ceremonies of the 2010 Winter Olympics in Vancouver.
When crooner Michael Bublé took the stage to sing the old standard “The Maple Leaf Forever,” everyone expected an earnest if overwrought rendition.
However, minutes into the performance, things took a turn. Suddenly, the stage erupted with every cliché imaginable about the true north strong and free, from dancing Mountie showgirls to inflatable beavers to a hockey game played by towering table hockey pieces.
All in all, the extravaganza struck a chord with its skewering of all things Canadian.
by Allan Levine
You can also watch a video with Allan Levine describing the events surrounding the creation of the new flag.
For Prime Minister Lester B. Pearson, travelling to Winnipeg on May 16, 1964, was a bit like the biblical Daniel walking into the lion’s den. The lions he was about to face were veteran members of the Royal Canadian Legion gathered at their national convention. They knew he was coming to sell them on his proposal for a new flag with a maple leaf design and to retire the Canadian Red Ensign under which Canadian soldiers had fought and served. And some of them were prepared to roar with disapproval.
During the flight to Winnipeg aboard the government Jetstar, Pearson thumbed through marked issues of the Legion’s magazine — the Legionary — and calmly read every adverse article that had been written about his flag proposal. The cover of the magazine — which bore a Canadian Red Ensign with the caption “This Is Canada’s Flag: Keep It Flying” — said it all. But if Pearson, who headed a minority Liberal government, was nervous, he didn’t show it. “Nothing appeared to bother him,” recalled John Matheson, the Ontario Liberal MP who accompanied Pearson on the trip and played a key role in the flag drama. “When he stepped off the plane in Winnipeg and mingled with the legionnaires, it was obvious that he felt at home and relaxed.”
The next day, Pearson entered the jam-packed Capitol Theatre in the city’s downtown and faced about two thousand delegates, many of them wearing Red Ensign pins in silent protest. As he stepped to the podium, the audience could see that the prime minister was wearing his set of medals from the First World War, a reminder that he was one of them. He then launched into a passionate speech about patriotism, service to the country, and the importance of “pride in our nation and its citizenship.” The key point of his remarks was that Canada needed a flag that would be relevant to all Canadians, not just those of British descent.
“I believe that today a flag designed around the maple leaf will symbolize ... will be a true reflection of — the new Canada.” His remarks received polite applause in addition to loud boos and hisses from a minority in the audience. Legion president Judge Clare C. Sparling twice jumped to the podium to call the members to order. Pearson laughed, shrugging off the interruptions and continuing with his speech. The great Canadian flag debate had now officially begun.
The debate would rage for more than six months, cause acrimony in the House of Commons, unleash an emotional debate among Canadians everywhere, and, in the end, do little to unite the country.
Until the adoption of the Maple Leaf, Canada did not really have a flag of its own. After Confederation in 1867, Canada used the Union Jack and then the Red Ensign as it flags. Both were symbols of the country’s historic connection to Britain. During the 1920s and 1940s, Liberal Prime Minister William Lyon Mackenzie King considered the adoption of a new flag, but there was little support for it. Instead, by an order-in-council passed on September 5, 1945, the Canadian Red Ensign — which as of 1921 featured the Union Jack and the shield of the coat of arms of Canada with three maple leaves at the bottom — was designated as the flag that was to be flown on all federal buildings “until such time as action is taken by Parliament for the adoption of a national flag.”
In Pearson’s opinion, the time for such action had arrived in early 1964. Canada, he believed, was on the brink of a major crisis. The rising tide of Quebec nationalism threatened the survival of Confederation. As Pearson recalled in his memoirs, “the flag was part of a deliberate design to strengthen national unity, to improve federal-provincial relations, to devise a more appropriate constitution, and to guard against the wrong kind of American penetration.”
Pearson had first concluded that Canada needed its own official flag when he was secretary of state for external affairs in the 1950s. Once he became Liberal Party leader in 1958, he supported the inclusion of a new flag in the party’s platform. At a rally in 1961, he promised that “a Liberal government will establish a distinctive Canadian flag within two years of taking office,” a commitment that was reiterated during the 1962 and 1963 federal election campaigns.
Once in power, Pearson was true to his word. He assigned the task of conducting the initial research on a new flag to Matheson, the MP for Leeds in eastern Ontario. Matheson was of Loyalist heritage, a wounded veteran of the Second World War, a distinguished lawyer, and a member of the Heraldry Society of England. He was also later involved in the creation of the Order of Canada. “Everybody seemed to assume that [producing a suitable flag] would be a straightforward, simple matter,” Matheson later wrote. Matheson, Pearson, and every other Liberal soon discovered how wrong that assessment was.
As Pearson’s biographer John English pointed out, “1964 was one of the worst political years in Canadian history.” As the head of a tottering minority government besieged by scandals, Pearson hoped a new flag would serve as “an elixir that might transform followers, wearied of the parliamentary battles and sad at heart as their heroes fell. Moreover, in the races against national division, a new flag might be a rallying symbol,” said English.
By the spring, following discussions with Matheson and others, Pearson had a fairly good idea of what a new Canadian flag would look like: two blue bars, top and bottom, with three maple leaves on a white background. Later this design was modified by war veteran Alan Beddoe, an artist, who placed the blue bars vertically to symbolize Canada’s motto of a dominion “from sea to sea.” Much to Pearson’s annoyance, this design was soon derided by the Conservatives and their allies in the press as the “Pearson pennant.”
A group in support of keeping the Red Ensign as Canada’s flag demonstrates on Parliament Hill on June 1, 1964. RCMP were out in full force to ensure there were no clashes between these protesters and an opposing group supporting a new flag.
Yet Pearson pressed on. Demonstrating the “courage of a Roman gladiator,” as an editorial in the Hamilton Spectator described it, Pearson broached the subject of the flag at the Royal Canadian Legion branch in Espanola, Ontario, in his home riding of Algoma East in early May. In his speech, he made the case for the uniqueness of the maple leaf as a Canadian symbol and expressed to his skeptical audience “the pride he felt at wearing the maple leaf badge” as a Canadian soldier during the First World War.
He next met privately with eight Ottawa journalists to survey their opinions of the three-maple-leaf flag design that he was about to publicly unveil. The intimate gathering was supposed to be off-the-record — at least according to Richard O’Hagan, Pearson’s press secretary — but Walter Stewart of the Toronto Star, one of the reporters O’Hagan had invited, broke the unwritten protocol (he later denied he had done anything wrong) and wrote an article about the new flag. His colleague Val Sears wrote in a companion piece that Pearson had already chosen the flag design. The two articles and the publicity they received played into Opposition and Progressive Conservative leader John Diefenbaker’s hands. He accused the Liberals of being manipulative and Pearson with subverting Parliament by “personally” selecting the flag design and already informing the Queen about it — a charge the prime minister denied.
At the same time, Pearson was not to be deterred. Without conferring with his Cabinet (according to historian Norman Hillmer) he decided to speak about the flag at the Legion convention in Winnipeg, setting off a national, and frequently contentious, discussion.
Following Pearson’s well-publicized Winnipeg speech, some commentators denounced the Liberals as being anti-British. “To tamper with our traditional flag — the Canadian Ensign — at this time is mischievous and dangerous,” the editors of the Toronto Telegram claimed in a typical criticism. Some Canadian historians, including Donald Creighton and WL. Morton, protested that the proposed flag was “innocuous” and that, contrary to Pearson’s belief, it would not promote national unity but merely produce “an indifferent response.” Some members of the Liberal Cabinet were uncertain what to make of the fuss, and there were discussions about simplifying the design and featuring only one maple leaf rather than three.
Academic studies and opinion polls of the era indicated that Canadians were more or less evenly divided about adopting a new flag and retiring the Red Ensign. There is, however, no convincing polling data of French-speaking Quebecers, the group the flag was allegedly meant to appease, notes historian C.P Champion, who has written extensively on the flag debate. The comment made in December 1964 by then University of Montreal law professor Pierre Trudeau — who within less than a year was elected to Parliament and became a member of Pearson’s government — that “French Canada did not give a tinker’s damn about the flag” was probably accurate. Moreover, if Frenchspeaking Quebecers did feel connected to a flag, it was the feur-de-lys, the province’s official flag adopted in 1948 at the behest of Premier Maurice Duplessis and his Union Nationale government.
The flag debate in the House of Commons opened on June 15, 1964, with the Liberal government’s proposal to adopt the three-leafed flag on a field of white between sections of blue. The resolution included a provision to fly the Union Jack on certain occasions — an attempt to show respect for history and tradition.
If the flag resolution was to pass, the minority Liberals needed support from the other parties. Tommy Douglas of the New Democratic Party was in no rush to proceed. Real Caouette, the leader of the Ralliement des creditistes, the independent Quebec wing of the Social Credit Party of Canada, generally approved of the Liberal plan, though he regarded the maple leaf design “of British and regal inspiration” and did not support the continued use of the Union Jack.
The main obstacle in the House was Diefenbaker. Pearson’s detested Tory adversary could not be placated or convinced of the merits of the flag. To Diefenbaker, it was a disavowal of Canada’s British tradition. He demanded a referendum on the flag, something Pearson was not prepared to hold. The Commons continued sitting all summer, but the Conservatives held firm in their opposition. By mid-September, with Parliament seriously stalemated, Pearson finally obtained Diefenbaker’s agreement to refer the flag issue to a parliamentary committee. Seven of the members were Liberal, five were Conservative, and the NDP, Social Credit, and Creditistes each had one member. Matheson, who was appointed the committee’s chairman, was given six weeks to produce a report. Pearson was confident about the outcome. “We are going to have a new flag by Christmas,” he told one party supporter. “It’s going to be a distinctive national flag, and it will be based on this historic and proud emblem of Canada, the maple leaf.”
That prediction turned out to be correct. Yet what the flag the committee eventually endorsed was not Pearson’s preferred blue, red, and white trifoliate design. Some months earlier, Matheson had consulted with veteran and historian George F.G. Stanley, then the dean of arts at the Royal Military College of Canada in Kingston, Ontario. As Matheson recalled, Stanley “believed that simplicity was of the essence in a flag and that a single maple leaf would serve better than the three.” For his model, Stanley recommended a design based on the military college’s red and white flag, which he noted were “traditional colours for French and English Canadians.” In time, Matheson, who had been committed to Pearson’s three-leaf design, changed his view and advocated for a flag with a single red maple leaf with two red vertical bars on a white background.
By the end of October, the choice before the parliamentary committee came down to three designs: a Union Jack and fleur-de-lys combination; Pearson’s blue, red, and white three maple leaves; and the Stanley-inspired white and red single maple leaf. When the committee vote was taken, the five Conservatives naturally assumed that the seven Liberals would vote for the Pearson pennant. And, with the intent of producing a divided result, they cast their ballots for the Stanley design.
Instead, the Liberals by mutual agreement — and with orders from Pearson, who did not want his flag to pass with a slim majority — had also decided to vote in favour of Stanley’s flag, so that it was the design most favoured by the committee and presented to Parliament.
A day before the committee’s report was tabled, however, Diefenbaker, who was furious at what had transpired, publicly dismissed the single maple leaf flag as being too close in design to the flag of Peru — which also has two vertical red bars with a coat of arms in the middle against a white background. “If we ever get that flag, we would have the Peruvians saluting it, anyway,” he sarcastically declared in a television interview,
His caustic remarks set the tone for fourteen days of rancorous debate in the House of Commons. According to Pearson, “Mr. Dief-enbaker was determined to do everything possible to defeat and destroy this resolution.” The Conservatives proposed an amendment that a national plebiscite on the flag be held. When that failed, they started a prolonged filibuster.
The Liberals were rescued from this embarrassing mess on December 9 by a member of the Conservative caucus, Leon Balcer, a Quebec MP who had had enough of his own party’s time-wasting ploy. He urged the Liberals to invoke closure to halt the debate and call for the vote, a proposal endorsed by Caouette’s Creditistes. Though Pearson was hesitant to use closure — given the bitter memories of the pipeline debate of 1956, in which a Liberal government also invoked closure, an action that was roundly condemned and had paved the way for Diefenbaker’s Conservatives to come to power — he felt he had little choice.
On December 15, a motion on closure passed 152 to 85. Diefenbaker berated the Liberals that they had given the country, “a flag by closure.” Nonetheless, two days later on December 17, 1964, at 2:15 A.M., after 270 speeches had been delivered on the subject, Canada’s flag with the single red maple leaf was declared official by a vote of 163 to 78. All but three MPs rose from their seats and sang a loud rendition of “O Canada.”
At the end of January 1965, Pearson travelled to London to witness Queen Elizabeth II sign a proclamation affirming Parliament’s decision. Then, back in Ottawa on February 15, at the damp and cool Flag Day ceremony on Parliament Hill in the shadow of the Peace Tower, the Red Ensign was taken down and the new Maple Leaf flag was raised with a resounding cheer from the dignitaries and the large crowd in attendance. For Pearson, it was a proud moment — his proudest as prime minister, according to his wife Maryon — while a news photo published the next day showed Diefenbaker shedding a tear.
Did the new flag make Canada less British? Not according to historian Champion, who has convincingly shown that the choice of the maple leaf for Canada’s flag as well as the eventual choice of the colours red and white all had deep British roots.”If it was not explicitly British in appearance, the rebranding of British scarlet, the red of the Red Ensign, as ‘gules on a Canadian pale argent,’ represented a continuing, if more subtle, Britishness — the legacy of a very British coup,” writes Champion.
This may be so. But five decades ago the adoption of the Maple Leaf flag was perceived as a step forward in Canada’s national development. As author Peter C. Newman wrote in 1964, it marked a “transfer of power from one generation to the next.”
Since its inception, the Maple Leaf flag has been carried proudly in every winter and summer Olympics since 1968. It has been highlighted on sports uniforms, worn on suit lapels, and displayed on the backpacks of generations of Canadians trekking across the world.
Fittingly, when Pearson passed away in 1972, his coffin was draped with the red Maple Leaf flag. And, just as fittingly, when Diefenbaker died six years later, his casket was covered with two flags — a Maple Leaf and a Red Ensign — sewn together.
You can also watch a video with Allan Levine describing the events surrounding the creation of the new flag.
To see some of the suggestions for a new flag, visit the University of Saskatchewan photo gallery.
by Andrew Workman and Nelle Oosterom
It has been 50 years since the red and white Maple Leaf became the official flag of Canada. Until then, Canada made do with unofficial versions of the Red Ensign, which was originally the flag of the British Merchant Marine. The Red Ensign displayed the Union Jack in the corner, reflecting Canada's ties to Great Britain.
The drive to estabish a made-in-Canada flag began in the 1920s with Prime Minister Wiliam Lyon Mackenzie King. But progress was not made until 1964, a few years before Canada's Centennial year. The decision by Prime Minister Lester B. Pearson to move forward with a new flag resulted in almost of year of often acrimonious debate.
In this video, historian Allan Levine talks about Canada's Great Flag Debate.
You can also read The Great Flag Debate by Allan Levine.
by Lawrence Hill
It is not easy to find original documents about the history of blacks in Canada. Indeed, many high-school or university students would come back empty-handed if you sent them to the library in search of material about blacks in the eighteenth century. A few enterprising students might unearth newspaper advertisements for runaway slaves. For example, the July 3, 1792, issue of The Royal Gazette and the Nova Scotia Advertiser carries a crude sketch of runaway slaves with the advertisement: “Run Away, Joseph Odel and Peter Lawrence (Negroes) from their Masters, and left Digby last evening ... Whoever will secure said Negroes so that their Masters may have them again, shall receive TEN DOLLARS Reward, and all reasonable Charges paid. Daniel Odel, Phillip Earl.”
The truly motivated student might dig up one of the memoirs written centuries ago by blacks who had come to Canada. One, for example, would be the Memoirs of the Life of Boston King, a Black Preacher. Written by Himself, which begins, like most slave narratives, with the circumstances of his birth: “I was born in the Province of South Carolina, 28 miles from Charlestown. My father was stolen from Africa when he was young ...”
But even some of the keenest students might miss a little-known document offering details about the names, ages, places of origin, and personal situations of thousands of blacks who fled American slavery and hoped to find their promised land in Canada.
It is called the Book of Negroes.
The handwritten ledger runs to about 150 pages. It offers volumes of information about the lives of black people living more than two centuries ago. On an anecdotal level, it tells us who contracted smallpox, who was blind, and who was travelling with small children. One entry for a woman boarding a ship bound for Nova Scotia describes her as bringing three children, with a baby in one arm and a toddler in the other. In this way, the Book of Negroes gives precise details about when and where freedom seekers managed to rip themselves free of American slavery. As a research tool it offers historians and genealogists the opportunity to trace and correlate people backward and forward in time in other documents, such as ship manifests, slave ledgers, and census and tax records.
Sadly, however, the Book of Negroes has been largely forgotten in Canada. And that is a shame. Dating back to an era when people of African heritage were mostly excluded from official documents and records, the Book of Negroes offers an intimate and unsettling portrait of the origins of the Black Loyalists in Canada. Compiled in 1783 by officers of the British military at the tail end of the American Revolutionary War, the Book of Negroes was the first massive public record of blacks in North America. Indeed, what makes the Book of Negroes so fascinating are the stories of where its people came from and how it came to be that they fled to Nova Scotia and other British colonies.
The document, which is essentially a detailed ledger, contains the names of three thousand black men, women, and children who travelled — some as free people, and others the slaves or indentured servants of white United Empire Loyalists — in 219 ships sailing from New York between April and November 1783. The Book of Negroes did more than capture their names for posterity. In 1783, having your name registered in the document meant the promise of a better life.
As the last British stronghold during the Revolutionary War, Manhattan — where the sacred and the profane mingled so freely that an area teeming with brothels was ironically dubbed “Holy Ground” for its proximity to churches — became a haven for black refugees. Some of the blacks who crowded into the city arrived on their own volition. But others came on the invitation of the British, who twice issued formal proclamations asking blacks to abandon their slave owners and to serve the military forces of King George III.
The first proclamation appeared in November 1775, just months after the Revolutionary War had begun. To attract more support for the British forces, John Murray, the Virginia governor who was formally known as Lord Dunmore, infuriated American slave owners with his famous Dunmore Proclamation:
To the end that peace and good order may the sooner be restored ... I do require every person capable of bearing arms to resort to His Majesty’s standard ... and I do hereby further declare all indented servants, Negroes, or others (appertaining to Rebels) free, that are able and willing to bear arms, they joining His Majesty’s Troops, as soon as may be, for the more speedily reducing this Colony to a proper sense of their duty to his Majesty’s crown and dignity.
Enslaved blacks attentively followed this proclamation, fleeing their owners to serve the British war effort.
The Philipsburg Proclamation came four years later and was designed to attract not just those “capable of bearing arms,” but any black person, male or female, who was prepared to serve the British in supporting roles as cooks, laundresses, nurses, and general labourers. Issued in 1779 by Sir Henry Clinton, commander-in-chief of the British forces, it promised: “To every Negro who shall desert the Rebel Standard, full security to follow within these lines, any occupation which he shall think proper.”
It is no small irony that Lord Dunmore, who issued the first proclamation, was a slave owner himself. The sad truth is that when a number of former British military officers left New York City at the end of the war, they took with them slaves or indentured servants, all of whom had no choice but to follow the men who claimed to own them as they sailed to areas still under the rule of their king.
Nonetheless, in response to the British promises of security and freedom, many blacks escaped from their owners and lent their skills and their labour to an army that had been weakened by smallpox epidemics and by the daily toll of fighting a war on a foreign continent.
If you want to find examples of blacks joining the British war effort, you would only have to scroll through the Book of Negroes to find listings of blacks who had served in a British military regiment called the Black Pioneers. In the ship La Aigle [sic], for example, which left New York for Annapolis Royal on October 21, 1783, all forty-four of the black men, women, and children on board are listed as having served with the Black Pioneers. The children appear to have been with their parents as they served behind British lines:
Jam Crocker, 50, ordinary fellow, Black Pioneers. Formerly servant to John Ward, Charlestown, South Carolina; left him in 1776.
Molly, 40, ordinary wench, incurable lame of left arm, Black Pioneers. Formerly slave to Mr. Hogwood, Great Bridge near Portsmouth, Virginia; left him in 1779.
Jenny, 9, Black Pioneers. Formerly slave to Mr. Hogwood, Great Bridge near Portsmouth, Virginia; left him in 1779.
How did it happen that among the thousands of blacks who huddled in Manhattan — many staying in a shantytown oftents and shacks — ended up filling the pages of the Book of Negroes and sailing to Nova Scotia in the final months of the war?
Certainly, not all American blacks believed in the British cause during the Revolutionary War. Indeed, many fought for the Americans, and the first person to die in the Revolutionary War was a black rebel from Boston by the name of Crispus Attucks. (He was one of five people killed in the Boston Massacre on March 5, 1770, and has been frequently named as the first martyr for the cause of American independence.) However, the blacks who sided with the British did so in the hope of finding freedom at the end of the war.
By 1782, as it became apparent that the British were losing the war, and as George Washington, commander-in-chief of the Continental Army, prepared to take control of New York City, blacks in Manhattan became increasingly desperate about their prospects. They had been promised freedom in exchange for service in wartime.
But would the British live up to their side of the bargain?
For a time, it looked as though they would not. When the terms of the provisional peace treaty between the losing British and the victorious rebels were finally made known in 1783, the loyal blacks felt betrayed. Article 7 of the peace treaty left the Black Loyalists with the impression that the British had abandoned them entirely. It said:
All Hostillities both by Sea and Land shall from henceforth cease all prisoners on both sides shall be set at Liberty and His Britannic Majesty shall with all convenient Speed and without Causing any destruction or carrying away any Negroes or other Property of the American Inhabitants withdraw all its Armies, Garrisons, and Fleets, from the said United States.
Boston King, a Black Loyalist who fled from his slave owner in South Carolina, served with the British forces in the war, and went on to become a church minister in Nova Scotia and subsequently in Sierra Leone, noted in his memoir the terror that blacks felt when they discovered the terms of the peace treaty:
The horrors and devastation of war happily terminated and peace was restored between America and Great Britain, which diffused universal joy among all parties, except us, who had escaped from slavery and taken refuge in the English army; for rumour prevailed at New York, that all the slaves, in number 2,000, were to be delivered up to their masters, altho’ some of them had been three or four years among the English.
This dreadful rumour filled us all with inexpressible anguish and terror, especially when we saw our old masters coming from Virginia, North Carolina, and other parts, and seizing upon their slaves in the streets of New York, or even dragging them out of their beds. Many of the slaves had very cruel masters, so that the thoughts of returning home with them embittered life to us. For some days we lost our appetite for food, and sleep departed from our eyes.
In the end, Boston King and his wife, Violet, and three thousand other Black Loyalists did manage to get their names registered in the Book of Negroes, a necessary prerequisite to obtaining permission to sail to Nova Scotia.
To a certain degree, they owed this opportunity to the stubborn loyalty of Sir Guy Carleton, British commander-in-chief in the final days of the war. As historian James W. St. G. Walker at the University of Waterloo has noted, Carleton interpreted the peace treaty to mean that blacks who had served the redcoats for a year were technically free, thus they could not be considered “property” of the Americans. They were free to leave with the British.
Much to the consternation of George Washington, Carleton ordered his officers to inspect all blacks who wished to leave New York and, most importantly, to register those who could prove their service to the British in the Book of Negroes. Carleton told Washington that the British would keep a record of the blacks being removed from New York, and he kept his promise with the meticulously detailed ledger.
The document gives not only the name and age of every black person who sailed from New York under British protection, but, for the most part, it also gives a description of each person, information about how he or she escaped, his or her military record, names of former slave masters, and the names of white masters in cases where the blacks remained enslaved or indentured.
Following is a small sample of passengers listed on July 31, 1783, on the ship L’Abondance heading for Port Roseway (Shelburne), Nova Scotia (“GBC” stands for Brigadier General Samuel Birch’s Certificate, which was proof of service to the British military during the American Revolutionary War).
John Green, 35, stout fellow. Formerly the property of Ralph Faulker of Petersburgh,Virginia; left him four years ago. GBC.
David Shepherd, 15, likely boy. Formerly the property of William Shepherd, Nancy Mun Virginia; left him four years ago. GBC.
Rose Bond, 21, stout wench. Formerly the property of Andrew Steward of Crane Island, Virginia; left him four years ago. GBC.
Dick Bond, 18 months, likely child. Daughter to Rose Bond & born within the British Lines. GBC.
The Book of Negroes also gives the name of the ship on which they sailed, its destination, and its date of departure:
We did carefully inspect the aforegoing Vessels on 31st July 1783 and... on board the said Vessels we found the negroes mentioned in the aforegoing List amounting to One hundred and Forty four Men, One hundred and Thirteen Women and ninety Two Children and ... we furnished each master of a Vessel with a Certified List of the Negroes on Board the Vessel and informed him that he would not be permitted to Land in Nova Scotia any other Negroes than those contained in the List and that if any other Negroes were found on board the Vessel he would be severely punished ...
To qualify for departure by ship to a safe haven well away from the thirteen colonies and the new country they were about to establish, blacks had to prove that they had served behind British lines for at least one year. Many obtained certificates demonstrating their service to the British. But many others who had no such certificates were entered into the Book of Negroes and allowed to sail.
In the end, while frustrated American army officers looked on, 1,336 men, 914 women, and 750 children embarked on more than two hundred vessels waiting to spirit them out of the New York Harbour. Some of the Black Loyalists went to Quebec, England, or Germany, but most travelled to Nova Scotia, establishing communities that exist to this day in places such as Shelburne, Annapolis Royal, Digby, Sydney, and Halifax and its nearby areas.
Although many Nova Scotians can still trace their heritage to the Black Loyalists, the blacks who arrived in 1783 did not meet with a fairytale ending. Some never received the land they had been promised in exchange for serving the British during the war, but worse, many were subjected to cruel treatment in the province — confronting a segregated society, the ropes of hangmen, and the first race riot in North America (when disbanded white soldiers drove blacks out of their homes in Birchtown, near Shelburne, in order to secure employment for themselves).
Understandably, more than one thousand Black Loyalists elected to migrate again, just a decade later. Embarking in a flotilla of fifteen ships in the Halifax harbour, they commenced the first “back to Africa” exodus in the history of the Americas, literally navigating past slave vessels as they sailed east across the Atlantic Ocean to found a new colony in Sierra Leone. That voyage, too, was thoroughly documented. But that is another story.
The Book of Negroes is a national treasure and deserves to be considered as such. The Nova Scotia Archives, the Nova Scotia Museum, the Public Archives of Canada, and the Black Loyalist Heritage Society have all helped document the Book of Negroes. Like any great historical document, it offers far too much information to be absorbed in a single sitting. It offers repeated glimpses of the difficult relationship between Great Britain and the nascent United States, and manages to both reinforce and shatter the romantic notion that Canada was a promised land for fugitive American slaves. Many of the people listed in the book travelled “on their own bottom” and free, assuming that their newfound liberty would be protected in Canada. On the other hand, a substantial number of the blacks listed in the Book of Negroes came to this country as the property — slaves or indentured servants — of white United Empire Loyalists. For them, Canada would be a new place to test the chains of human bondage.
Inside the Book of Negroes
(More about the first slide at the top) There are British and American versions of the Book of Negroes. The British version here, which appears to be the original, is written in ink in a large ledger of about 156 pages. For each person entered in the book, details run horizontally across two facing pages, much like these pages, 37 and 38. There are nine columns for information, but not every person has an entry in every column. The columns include the name of the vessel on which the Black Loyalist is travelling, where it is bound, the passengers’ name, age, and description. By modern standards, the descriptions are cruel. “Almost past his labour;” “stout, squat with small child;” and “tall & worn out” are typical entries. There are also columns for the names and place of residence of “Claimants” — a euphemism for slave owners — and for “Names of the Persons in whose possession they are now,” people holding blacks as indentured servants. Finally, the second page for each entry contains “Remarks,” which provide personal details. — L.H.
The (Legislative) End of the Trade in Slaves
Passed 200 years ago, the Slave Trade Act was officially titled, “An Act for the Abolition of the Slave Trade.” The act rid the slave trade in the British Empire, which had begun about 250 years earlier, during the reign of Elizabeth I. A group opposing the slave trade, consisting of Evangelical Protestants and Quakers, rallied behind the Slave Trade Act. The Quakers had long viewed slavery as immoral. The antislave-trade groups had considerable numbers of sympathizers in the English Parliament by 1807. Nicknamed the “saints,” this alliance was led by parliamentarian William Wilberforce, the most vocal and dedicated of the campaigners. Wilberforce and Charles Fox led the campaign in the House of Commons, whereas Lord Grenville was left to persuade the House of Lords.
Grenville made a passionate speech arguing that the slave trade was “contrary to the principles of justice, humanity, and sound policy” and criticized fellow members for not abolishing it. They put it to a vote. The act was passed in the House of Lords by 41 votes to 20 and it was carried in the House of Commons by 114 to 15, to become law on March 25, 1807. But it would take another twenty-five years before slavery itself became illegal — when parliament passed the Slavery Abolition Act in 1833.
The British soon set their sights on convincing other nations to end the slave trade, if only to eliminate a foreseeable economic and competitive disadvantage they would be placed in. The British campaign was a large-scale foreign-policy effort. It would take decades to convince some nations to abandon the slave trade. Denmark and the United States banned the trade much later, around 1850. Some small trading nations, such as Sweden and Holland, which had little to lose, responded much earlier.
After the Slave Trade Act was passed in 1807, British captains caught transporting slaves were fined £100 for every individual found on board. Still, the slave trade continued, more deviously than ever. Slave ships in danger of being captured by the British navy would throw many of their illegal passengers overboard to minimize the £100 fine per individual.
Lawrence Hill lives in Burlington, Ontario. His novel, The Book of Negroes, was published by HarperCollins Canada in 2007 and turned into a mini-series by CBC in 2015. For more information, visit LawrenceHill.com. You can buy his novel online at Chapters; an illustrated version was published in 2012.
The Book of Negroes can be found in the Nova Scotia Public Archives, the National Archives of the United States, and in the National Archives (Public Records Office) in Kew, England. It can also be found online at Library and Archives Canada.
This article originally appeared in the February/March 2007 issue of the Beaver.
From The Beaver archive, related articles can be found in back issues available in our store:
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“In Bondage” by Tom Derreck, February/March 2003: Black slavery arrived in Canada in 1628 aboard a privateer’s ship. It would not be abolished for more than two centuries.
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“The Varieties of Black Experience” by Christopher Moore, June/July 2002: By the 1850s, blacks were a more rooted, permanent, and diverse part of the Canadian population than the fugitive slave narratives might suggest.
by Ernie Bies
Walking through the Cochrane, Ontario graveyard you may be drawn to a beautiful granite head stone adorned with an image of a Beaver float plane. The inscription reads:
LOUTTIT LINDBERGH JOHN
“LINDY” THE HAPPY EAGLE
OCT. 27, 1938 – DEC. 21, 2006.
Lindy Louttit, a legendary bush plane pilot in northern Ontario, was born in Attawapiskat on James Bay. His aunt Jenny Chum, who was a big fan of world famous aviator Charles Lindbergh, suggested the name Lindbergh for the new baby and his mother Susie agreed. Young Lindy went to school in Moose Factory and Moose River Crossing where he was cared for by his grandmother Mary Louttit. He tried his hand at many jobs in the Moosonee area, such as trapping, logging, sawmill worker, lineman and construction worker. The local game warden, Andy Gagnon, formerly of Hearst, took Lindy on as an assistant and interpreter in 1956. Gagnon encouraged the local natives to benefit from their knowledge of hunting and fishing by providing tourism services to southerners. This made a lasting impression on the 18 year old Lindy who had not yet found his true vocation. He was fascinated by airplanes and would hang around the Austin Airways base in Moosonee doing odd jobs for the pilots, sometimes for no pay and then as a part time cook. In 1959 Lindy was working for a construction company in Moosonee that was building a military bunkhouse. Bill Bies, a Hudson Bay Company clerk, recalls Lindy’s last day on that job when he had a mishap while backing a truck up. He inadvertently clipped the corner of the almost completed bunkhouse reducing it to a pile of sticks and couldn’t believe it when they gave him his pink slip. That was a blessing in disguise as Lindy then found a job with the ground crew of Austin Airways.
Noticing his keen interest in learning to fly, Jim Bell, the Austin Airways base manager, encouraged him to get his pilot’s license. Bell arranged with Vern Gran, an Indian Affairs official, to provide a $2,500 loan and in 1960 Lindy found himself at the flying school of Laurentide Aviation in Montreal. Flying instructor Chris Merriam soon had the eager Lindy applying for his license and he became one of the first native bush pilots in Canada. He stayed with Austin Airways for several years. He married Doris Gagnon, Andy’s daughter and on May 15, 1968, Lindy and his growing family, which now included daughter Danis, moved to Kapuskasing. He took over as base manager for Stan Deluce’s White River Airways at Remi Lake with Doris as his office manager. As a youth, Lindy had perfected his bush survival skills under the guidance of his Grandmother Mary and his step-father Chris Paulsen who was an experienced trapper. Lindy knew every tree and lake and rarely used charts. If forced to land by bad weather, he quickly set up a tent, caught fish, snared rabbits and gave his guests an unexpected added bush experience to talk about when they got home. On one occasion he replaced a damaged wing tip with tanned deer hide after a minor mishap near James Bay and continued flying until the replacement part could be brought in. He logged well over 10,000 hours with only a few minor mishaps flying for White River Airways.
Four years later, Lindy and Doris decided they could run their own business. On May 1, 1972, with a grant from the Department of Indian and Northern Affairs and a huge mortgage, Lindy was able to buy his first Beaver airplane and Lindbergh’s Air Service Ltd. was born. He bought 87 acres of land on Lillabelle Lake, four miles north of Cochrane where he cleared land for his home and office and built a plane dock. Lindy was soon ferrying prospectors, hunters and fishermen into the far north, while scouting lakes for potential fishing destinations. Soon he built eleven 24’x24’ log fishing cabins on lakes north of Cochrane. By 1975 he had a clientele of 500 hunters and fishermen requiring the addition to his enterprise of a second Beaver aircraft as well as a single engine Otter and more pilots. Pickerel, pike and speckled trout were in abundance. The guest log book at the Nettogami Lake cabin indicates that the first visitors in June 1974 were from West Virginia: Bob Glotfelty of Clarksburg and Jack Burnside and Lew Davis from Good Hope, Harrison County. They were also the first to visit the Lindbergh cabins at Inglis, Detour and Edgar Lakes. Lindy sold his company to Rogerson’s Enterprises in 1980 and continued to fly with other charter companies for years after.
He moved to Matheson where he served as Chief of the Wahgoshig First Nation from 1985 to 1989 and as Deputy Grand Chief of the Nishnawbe Aski Nation (NAN) in 1985. Later he lived in Chapleau where he was elected to the Band Council. He encouraged his daughter Betty Albert-Lincez (Wabimeguil) to follow her dream to become an artist.
Lindbergh’s Air Service was well known in Northern Ontario but few may realize the Moose River connection with Charles Lindbergh who had completed the first solo non-stop flight across the Atlantic in 1927.
Charles Lindbergh, “the Lone Eagle”: Charles “Lucky Lindy” Lindbergh, who was also known as the “Lone Eagle”, was on top of the world in 1931. His wife Anne was also a pilot who served as radio operator and navigator on many of their flying adventures. She was the daughter of U.S. Senator Dwight Morrow. Charles and Anne decided to take a vacation flight to the Orient. Leaving their one year old son Charles III at home they chose the shortest route between New York and Tokyo, through Canada and along the shores of the Arctic seas, North to the Orient. The Temiskaming and Northern Ontario Railway had just been completed to Moosonee, allowing them to ship drums of gasoline by train and then to Moose Factory by canoe. They also relied on fuel cached by the Canadian government and private sources like the Hudson’s Bay and Revillon Frères Companies. Lindbergh owned a two-seated single engine plane, “The Sirius”, purchased from Lockheed in 1929, at a cost of $22,825. It had a fuel capacity to travel for 2,000 miles at a cruising speed of 150 mph. Charles modified the open cockpits, adding sliding canopies for their Arctic adventure. The plane was outfitted with survival gear, two radio sets and provisions for sixty days. Leaving Long Island, New York on July 27, with stopovers in Washington and North Haven, Maine, they arrived in Ottawa at 4:36 P.M. on July 30, 1931. They were hosted by U.S. Minister Col. Hanford MacNider and enjoyed a surprise visit from Canadian Prime Minister R.B. Bennet. They left Ottawa at 10 A.M. on August 1, flying to Moose Factory where they landed at 2 P.M. Anne was experiencing difficulties with the radio and anxious followers of their journey in south were left on the edge of their seats until word came back that they were safe. They spent the rest of the day in Moose Factory and obviously made a big impression on the local population.
At eleven A.M. on August 2, they left Moose Factory for short stopovers at Churchill, Manitoba and Baker Lake, NWT, where Anne was the first white woman to visit. Their next leg was a twelve hour flight to Aklavik, NWT which required taking turns flying the plane and sleeping. After a few days rest and refreshment, they proceeded to Point Barrow, Alaska, thence to Nome, Alaska and Siberia, Russia. When flying over water, they wore both a parachute and a life jacket which further cramped their seating space. Then, after a series of hops on remote islands in the Pacific Ocean, they arrived in Tokyo, Japan on August 26. Their next stop was Nanking China where they were pressed into service to assess flood damage along the Yangtze River. In October, their plane was damaged while being hoisted onto the British Carrier Hermes and their trip ended when they learned of the sudden death of Anne’s father Dwight Morrow. They returned home by boat and their damaged plane was shipped back to the Lockheed factory in California for repairs.
The next year the world was shocked by the tragedy of the kidnapping and death of the Lindbergh baby, the crime of the century. In 1935 Anne wrote a book about their adventures entitled “North to the Orient”. News of their exploits and loss certainly would have reached the Louttits in Attawapiskat, influencing the naming of Lindbergh John Louttit in 1938.
Returning to our original story, Lindy Louttit passed away on Dec. 21, 2006 but will never be forgotten for his contributions to Northern Ontario. Fittingly, he became renowned as a pilot in his own right. The “Lone Eagle” would have been proud of his namesake, the “Happy Eagle”.
REFERENCES and ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS:
North to the Orient, by Anne Morrow Lindbergh, 1935
The Happy Eagle, by William Stephenson, 1977, Ontario Ministry of Culture and Recreation, with photos by Paul J. Savoie.
http://www.charleslindbergh.com/ photos of Charles and Anne Lindbergh
Newspapers.com/
The Winnipeg Tribune, Aug. 1, 1931, P1. “Lindy and Wife Start Flight across Northern Canada”
The Ottawa Journal, Sept. 6, 1975, P.26, “Air Service for Sportsmen”
Sunday Gazette-Mail, Charleston, West Virginia. Aug. 15, 1976. P.55 “Bush Pilot Lindy Louttit, a Cree Indian, Finds Fishing Business Good”
Sunday Gazette-Mail, Charleston, West Virginia. Aug. 15, 1976, P. 58, “Walleyes are best at Northwoods Lake”
Bill Bies, Orillia, story idea, research and personal recollections
Doris Louttit, Cochrane, Ontario, personal recollections
Neil Aird, Beaver Tails, DHC-2.com, Photos of Lindy’s Planes in Cochrane C-FLUB by Peter Keating, C-GEAU by Neil Aird.
Paul Lantz, photo of Lindy’s Head stone
Sandy Bies, Ottawa, Editing.
by Paul Jones
Say what you will about family history as a hobby, there are no food and beverage minimums. A good job, too, because genealogists are aggressively and sincerely frugal — or, in technical parlance, cheap.
As with most pastimes there is no upper limit on what one could purchase: first-class trips to ancestral homelands and their records offices, or to the world’s largest genealogy library in Salt Lake City, Utah; attendance at conferences hosted annually around the world; fully loaded subscriptions to family history websites; memberships in relevant societies here and abroad; the hiring of researchers in faraway places who can navigate impenetrable records repositories in exotic languages; and a growing personal library of all the essential books and journals.
You could quickly run up a tab that would give even a globe-trotting golfer a case of the yips. Yet for virtual pennies — the price of gas money, a library card, and the occasional handling charge — you can do an impressive amount of top-quality research. Here’s how:
Visit a Family History Centre
First stop, the closest Family History Centre (FHC) run by the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, also known as the LDS or Mormons. These mini-genealogy libraries are readily accessible by the vast majority of Canadians. (Check FamilySearch.org/locations for the closest one to you.)
Don’t worry, you will never be proselytized by the devout while conducting research in an FHC. The knowledgeable, committed volunteers will get you started and show you how to order what you need from the Family History Library in Salt Lake City.
Use of an FHC is free, as is access to the ever-growing array of digitized and indexed records at the related FamilySearch website. And it’s just a few dollars to order resources from Utah.
Just remember to call ahead before you visit to make sure you have the FHC’s most up-to-date hours of operation, as these can vary.
Use free library resources
Next stop, identify the public library in your area with the most extensive genealogy holdings.
These are probably more comprehensive than you imagine. Provided there aren’t impatient patrons milling in a queue behind you, most librarians love to talk about their collections.
Ask if they subscribe to any library editions of commercial family history websites such as Ancestry.ca. (Many FHCs also have access to these editions.)
Also inquire about online services available only to libraries, such as HeritageQuest and Gale Genealogy Connect.
The former offers the Periodical Search Index and many other resources; the latter offers access to reference texts published by Genealogical.com.
Once you settle in at one of the library’s computers, you will soon be accessing thousands of databases at no cost to you.
Many researchers pay hundreds a year for largely the same service you’re getting for free. Of course they get to do it at 2:00 a.m. in their underwear, an option not yet offered by public institutions.
If you happen live in a university town, check out the research resources available at a nominal charge to local residents. Access to online databases may well be more extensive than in the public library system.
And don’t forget about interlibrary loans. At WorldCat you can locate two billion books, journals, and other items in ten thousand libraries around the globe, including about four hundred and fifty in Canada alone. A WorldCat search done at your library has advanced features not available at the public website.
Work from home
If researching from home is a priority, there are plenty of online resources available to you at no charge.
Start with FamilySearch for global records or Library and Archives Canada’s Genealogy Services website for Canadian research.
Consider googling your ancestors, especially those with rare or unique names, or looking for mentions of them in out-of-copyright publications available for search at Google Books or the Internet Archive. Cyndi’s List can provide a structured starting point for access to thousands of free websites.
Even if you aren’t a paid-up member of a commercial website such as Ancestry, you can still get freebies. For example, Ancestry allows limited free access to a wide variety of databases, including various historic censuses and the Drouin Collection that’s so important to those with Quebec ancestry.
Try to identify records you want to explore in more detail during the free-access periods that many pay-to-play commercial services often offer around major holidays. Even expensive DNA tests may be offered at a substantial discount.
Be aware that some offers of zero- or low-cost trial subscriptions may require your credit card number and an agreement that a regular subscription will start immediately after the trial period if you do not cancel in the interim.
Unless you truly have no money to spend on your hobbies, you will eventually conclude that there is a value in the convenience of researching on your own terms and from investing in genealogy tourism. By then you’ll know how to spend wisely while still pinching your pennies.
Viola Desmond didn't set out to be a civil rights leader. But in 1946 when she was removed from a theatre in New Glasgow, Nova Scotia for sitting in a section reserved for whites, she fought back in court. The beauty salon owner lost the case but strengthened the fight to end racial segregation in Canada. She went on to become a civil rights icon. In Nova Scotia, Heritage Day on February 16, 2015, has been dedicated to the legacy of Viola Desmond.
by Nelle Oosterom
Our experts have weighed in with their choices for Canada’s Greatest Explorer — Samuel de Champlain, Robert Bylot, Alexander Mackenzie, David Thompson and Lady Jane Franklin. However, there are many more people than the five we featured that have helped further our understanding of Canada's vast wild spaces. Here are five more men and women, all beautifully illustrated by artist Robert Carter, who could vie for the title of Canada’s Greatest Explorer.
Robert (Bob) Bartlett
The legendary Captain Robert (Bob) Bartlett of Newfoundland had remarkable career of exploration spanning more than fifty years. He skippered some of the most dangerous expeditions to the Arctic, including Robert Peary’s trek to North Pole in 1909. Shipwrecked at least twelve times, Bartlett once survived for months in the Arctic after sea ice crushed his ship, and journeyed hundreds of miles by dogsled to reach civilization. The Arctic expeditions he helped lead made a huge contribution to the world’s understanding of the North.
Vilhjalmur Stefansson
Manitoba-born Vilhjalmur Stefansson was an anthropologist and explorer who went on three Arctic exploratory treks, including the famed Canadian Arctic Expedition of 1913–1918. He became well known for his report of a group of Arctic people who were non-Inuit in appearance, leading to a theory they were descended from early European traders. However, the existence of this group was never substantiated. He also championed the idea of a “friendly Arctic” that explorers could thrive on if they adopted Inuit practices of hunting, clothing and transportation. Stefansson wrote some twenty-four books and four-hundred articles about his Arctic travels.
Higilaq
Higilaq was a member of the Copper Inuit of southwest Victoria Island, who, along with her husband Ikpukkuaq, adopted anthropologist Diamond Jenness into her family for eight months in 1915. Besides being proficient in the skills required of an Inuit woman, Higilaq was also a shaman, which helped save Jenness from a local murder charge. Through Jenness’s observations, Higilaq and her husband, a renowned hunter, contributed much to the knowledge of everyday life among indigenous Arctic people.
Rudolph Martin Anderson
Rudolph Martin Anderson was a mammalogist and zoologist who spent seven winters and ten summers north of the Arctic Circle. He was the leader of the southern party of the Canadian Artic Expedition of 1913–18. Besides organizing the expedition, he collected bird and mammal specimens, took photographs and gathered information on a variety of topics. His knowledge of Arctic animals played a role in the Canadian government drafting legislation to protect northern wildlife. Initially on the staff of the American Museum of Natural History, he later joined the National Museum of Canada as chief of the biology division.
Patsy Klengenberg
Patsy Klengenberg was the son of a Danish whaler and an Alaskan Inupiat mother. In 1915, when he was fourteen years old, he was hired by the Canadian Arctic Expedition to fill many roles, including hunter, dog driver, guide and interpreter. He also assisted southern party leader R.M. Anderson with collecting and maintaining Arctic specimens. Considered an excellent interpreter, he used the skills he acquired during the expedition to become a successful businessman and trader in the Canadian Arctic.
by Chris Nikkel
Skip to the bottom to watch the trailer of Romance of the Far Fur Country and the full length video of Nanook of the North.
On March 30, 1915, long before he became famous, Robert Flaherty was at Convocation Hall in Toronto, exhibiting a series of motion pictures taken of the Inuit near Baffin Island. In the audience, a reviewer kept his eye on one man, who, he observed, brandished “an occasional enormous yawn” while igloos and scenes of Inuit domestic life flickered in front of his eyes. The man was Sir William Mackenzie, the railroad magnate who was at that time exploring the feasibility of a rail line to move prairie wheat to Hudson Bay, from where it would be shipped to Europe. Mackenzie was also Flaherty’s employer.
Robert Flaherty would win acclaim seven years later for his film Nanook of the North, but on that spring evening at the University of Toronto campus he was still a prospector hired by Mackenzie to find minerals that a future rail line could carry back from Hudson Bay lands. the film footage, gathered while searching for ore deposits, focused on Inuit families in their day-to-day lives, whether eating breakfast or lighting oil lamps. penniless, and recently married to Frances Hubbard — who would become his lifelong collaborator and play a huge role in his success — Flaherty hoped the northern footage would be enough to convince Mackenzie to bankroll another trip north — his fourth.
Despite Mackenzie’s yawns, the railroad man must have been impressed. Not only did he fund another expedition, he offered Flaherty an office in which to finish the film when he returned in september 1916. Flaherty cut and assembled his footage in the makeshift studio, preparing the final copy to send to New York in the hope of finding a distributor.
The negatives were in stacks and the extremely flammable nitrate film was wound tight on reels when the tobacco-smoking filmmaker made a catastrophic mistake: “Carelessly, amateur that I was, I dropped a cigarette off the table,” Flaherty recalled.
The small office ignited instantly. Rushing into the street with his clothes on fire, the filmmaker barely saved himself. He was so badly burned that he spent weeks in hospital. As for his 30,000 feet of original film, none of it survived. He was left with a single print, in poor condition.
Disheartened, but not defeated, Flaherty travelled to New York, hoping to sell the Baffin Island print to someone willing to transfer it back to negative, an expensive process. To garner attention, he screened the print wherever he could. In 1918, he showed it to the New York Geographical society, where he had a moment of realization. Watching many of the same scenes that Sir William Mackenzie had sat through three years earlier, Flaherty began to cringe. “It must have bored the audience to distraction,” he said later. “It certainly bored me.”
Bruno Weyers was in the audience the night of Flaherty’s epiphany, and he wasn’t bored at all. Weyers, the Hudson’s Bay Company agent for New York, was so taken by the film that, with the HBC’s 250th anniversary just two years away, he suggested borrowing the footage for the festivities.
Various anniversary commemorations were already underway, including a written history of the company, a gramophone recording of that history, and the inauguration of The Beaver (now known as Canada’s History) magazine. The biggest gathering was slated for Winnipeg, the company’s Canadian headquarters. the main attraction was to be a film depicting HBC activities in the North.
But rather than using Flaherty’s footage, the HBC decided to shoot its own film. Flexing its corporate muscle, the HBC bought controlling interest in a film company in New York and selected H.M. Wyckoff, a former cameraman for the Red Cross in Russia, as chief cinematographer for the “moving picture expedition,” as the HBC called it. At Wyckoff’s disposal was the Nascopie, an HBC steamer. With film gear and crew on board, the Nascopie shoved off from Montreal in July 1919 with Captain George E. Mack ferrying them into Hudson Bay.
Wyckoff shot film while docked at trading posts, from the Nascopie deck, and sometimes even from a canoe or kayak. Using the technology of the time — a hand-cranked camera, black-and-white film, and no sound — he recorded fur trade life: the unloading of crates emblazoned with the HBC emblem; trappers trudging down traplines; fishermen hunched over holes in the ice; and even a marriage ceremony.
By the time Wyckoff completed filming at the end of December, he’d gathered 75,000 feet of film, some eighteen hours of viewing time. he rushed the negatives to New York where the editing began. By mid-April, a first draft clocked in at four hours. A month later it was cut in half.
The completed film, entitled Romance of the Far Fur Country, premiered on May 23, 1920, at Winnipeg’s illustrious Allen Theatre. The crowd was a mix of HBC store clerks, shoppers, and a hundred First Nations people in traditional clothing. The latter were unfamiliar with European theatre-going etiquette and interacted with the motion pictures, calling out “get your gun” or “shoot him” when animals appeared on screen.
It eventually played in London, where footage of white women models wearing HBC beaver fur coats was spliced into scenes on a trapline, a not-so-subtle reminder of the company that funded the film.
Robert Flaherty was still in New York when Romance of the Far Fur Country premiered in Winnipeg. By then he had stopped peddling the Baffin Island print. He was preparing instead to reshoot the footage lost in the studio fire. This time, though, he was not going north as a mineral explorer, but as a full-time filmmaker.
Thierry Mallet had been to one of Flaherty’s screenings. As president of the New York branch of Revillon Frères, a rival fur company to the HBC, Mallet was gearing up for an anniversary, too — Paris-based Revillon was celebrating two hundred years in business. Taking a page from the HBC, Mallet put Flaherty on a salary to produce a promotional film capturing the essence of the company, “one better than the recent anniversary of their rival,” Flaherty noted. Flaherty could then cut his own film from the same footage.
In June 1920, Robert Flaherty left New York for a fur trade post at Port Harrison, on the shores of Hudson Bay. He arrived in early August, his thirty-nine crates of film gear barely escaping a dunking when the barge they were being transferred to almost sank in foul weather. Revillon Frères gave him a comfortable cabin with flower-print curtains, where he kept a gramophone, hung portraits of his heroes on the walls, and stored 75,000 feet of film stock. A ramshackle addition, tacked together with scrap lumber and driftwood, served as his developing room.
Flaherty gathered a dozen local Inuit for his film crew. He chose a main character, a well-known hunter named Allakariallak — who would be known in the film, and for posterity, as Nanook (which means polar bear in Inuktitut). Nanook also served as his developing room assistant. Other characters included Nanook’s wife, Nyla, and the couple’s young children.
Flaherty wanted to ensure that viewers of the film stayed awake, so he strove for plenty of action and suspense. He demanded complete creative control, especially during hunting scenes. “Do you know that you and your men may have to give up making a kill, if it interferes with my film?” he asked Nanook. His film star responded dutifully: “Not a harpoon will be thrown until you give the sign. It is my word.”
Nanook’s promise was tested during a walrus hunt on September 26. Though Nanook admitted it had been “many moons” since he’d hunted the animal, he followed Flaherty’s orders, harpooning a two-thousand pound monster while it slept on the beach. Rudely awoken, the walrus wrestled itself into the sea and a dangerous tug-of-war ensued. As the frightened men slid toward the icy waters, “the crew called to me to use the gun but the camera crank was my only interest then and I pretended not to understand,” Flaherty said later.
After developing footage, Flaherty often held public screenings, projecting his moving pictures onto a Hudson’s Bay Company blanket hung in the kitchen of the fur post. At the walrus hunt screening, the audience members, many of whom had helped film the scene, were enthralled as Nanook and his crew struggled for footing on the beach. “Every last man, woman, and child in the room was fighting that walrus,” Flaherty said of the screening.
Flaherty shot through the long, dark winter, except when it was so cold that the film would shatter into tiny particles the moment he turned the crank. Much film was lost to soot, the result of using soft coal to heat the stove in the film-drying room. still more film was lost due to stray hairs from Nanook’s deerskin coat.
On April 29, 1921, Flaherty’s developing hut caved in, a major frustration as processing film on-site was no small feat: “The light of my little electric plant was not steady enough for the printing of the film,” Flaherty wrote in his journals. “To do that, I cut a hole in the wall of the hut and let the daylight in through a trap the exact size of the aperture of the printing machine.”
“He told me he was terribly sorry, but it was a film that just couldn’t be shown to the public.”
By the end of September, Flaherty was back in New York, putting his film together. The final version made little reference to the fur industry, nor to his sponsor, Revillon Frères, other than in the credits. The company was by then losing money and had started selling its fur posts to its rival. By 1936 the HBC held full control of Revillon Frères. As for the promotional film Flaherty was supposed to make for Revillon’s 200th anniversary, it seems to have been discarded.
Flaherty’s own film appeared destined for the same fate. His first screening was for the staff of Paramount, a potential distributor. With the projection room a haze of cigarette smoke, the manager “very kindly put his arm around my shoulders and told me that he was terribly sorry, but it was a film that just couldn’t be shown to the public,” Flaherty said of the event. The problem was, the film was not like anything they had seen before. It was not a travelogue of the North, nor was it an adventure story from an expedition. In all, five distributors rejected his film because they feared it would not sell. Finally, a Paris-based company, Pathé, agreed to take a chance.
To find a venue for the premiere, Pathé proceeded to “salt” the executive screening at New York’s biggest theatre, the Capitol. The staged audience clapped on cue, and the manager became more and more excited — when it ended, he called it a “masterpiece.”
Nanook of the North premiered at the Capitol Theatre on June 11, 1922, and became one of the most popular films of the summer. In London, Paris, and other European capitals, the film stayed in cinemas for six months or more. Commercial spinoffs included a soft drink called the “Nanook fizz,” “Igloo” refrigeration units and an ice cream bar with Nanook’s face on the wrapper. Within a few years, critics hailed Flaherty as the first “documentary” filmmaker, and today Nanook of the North is available on DVD, re-released by Criterion in 1999.
As for Romance of the Far Fur Country, it had a far shorter life in public memory. Visual historian Peter Geller is one of the few people alive to have watched Romance of the Far Fur Country — at least, the footage that once made up the film. There are no known complete copies. “The film doesn’t exist as it did then,” Geller says of the footage, which is in pieces at the British Film Institute archive in London. Geller, author of Northern Exposures: Photographing and Filming the Canadian North, 1920–45, has a dream of reassembling it and placing a copy in the HBC archive where it belongs.
In Winnipeg’s trendy Exchange District, a few blocks from the now vacant Allen Theatre, a February film weekend, entitled In the Shadow of the Company, is planned at Cinematheque, the city’s arthouse theatre. On the bottom floor of a stone and brick warehouse built when Winnipeg was the western fur trade capital, screenings of rare HBC footage, dug out of the company archive across town, will take the audience on another journey north, a route similar to what Romance of the Far Fur Country took when it premiered, ninety years ago. Fittingly, In the Shadow of the Company is sponsored in part by The Beaver magazine. And in a twist of irony, the main ticket item is a screening of Nanook of the North.
Chris Nikkel writes creative non-fiction and documentary screenplays. He splits his time between Winnipeg and Ireland.
You may also be interested in reading Robert and Frances Flaherty: A Documentary Life, 1883–1922 and Northern Exposures: Photographing and Filming the Canadian North, 1920–1945.
Romance of the Far Fur Country / Hudson's Bay Company Archives Archival Trailer
Nanook of the North
by Nelle Oosterom and Andrew Workman
by Nelle Oosterom
Today, orbiting satellites allow anyone to have a bird's eye view of just about any place on earth. But early cartographers had far less to go on when they produced their hard-won charts of unknown lands. Here are some important maps from Canada’s past.
More than six decades ago, George Feyer became a giant in the world of Canadian cartooning.
A one-of-a-kind artist, Feyer’s work defied categorization. Inspired by a difficult past as a half-Jewish survivor of wartime Hungary, his work was brilliant, incisive, irreverent, and often quite dark. His cartoons cut through the pretentions and hypocrisies of 1950s North America — often without using a single word.
Between 1949 and 1967, Feyer drew hundreds of cartoons for more than forty publications around the world, including Collier’s, Punch, Maclean’s, the Globe and Mail and the Toronto Star.
He also became a nationally known television personality and children’s entertainer and owned several patents for innovative animation techniques.
He was part of a wave of Hungarian intellectuals, artists, and writers that immigrated to Canada after the Second World War.
He enjoyed huge success in his career, but continued to be haunted by the trauma of his wartime experiences throughout his life. Sadly, his life in 1967 in Los Angeles, where he was found dead of an apparently self-inflicted gunshot wounds.
Today, George Feyer continues to be known in the cartooning world as one of the greats.
Read more about Feyer in the article “The Twisted Genius of George Feyer” by Brad Mackay in the April-May 2015 issue of Canada’s History magazine.
by Nelle Oosterom
Five years ago, Veterans Affairs Canada created a video that includes interviews with veterans who took part in the liberation of Holland.
From the fall of 1944 to the spring of 1945, the First Canadian Army played a major role in liberating the Netherlands from Nazi occupation.
During this operation, more than 7,600 Canadians lost their lives.
Their sacrifice and their part in freeing the population from hunger and hardship earned for Canadian soldiers the lasting gratitude of the Dutch people. A warm friendship still exists between the two countries.
To commemorate the 70th anniversary of the Liberation of the Netherlands, the Government of Canada and surviving veterans will take part in commemorative events in the Netherlands from May 3–9, 2015.
Read an article about the liberation of the Netherlands in the April-May 2015 issue of Canada’s History magazine.
by Dean Jobb
Click here to skip to the end and watch the video.
From the wharf, the sleek black hull, the long sweep of the bow, and the soaring masts and rigging all looked as shipshape as ever. Inside the belly of one of the world’s iconic sailing vessels, though, it was a much different story.
By the time Alan Hutchinson got a close look below the deck of Bluenose II in the summer of 2009, the ship was more than forty-five years old and decades beyond its best-before date. Salt water was penetrating the hull from below. Rainwater had seeped in from above. Rot and decay were eating away at the planking and the elegantly curved ribs. Hogging — the boat builder’s term for the gradual sagging of an aging vessel’s frame — had dropped the stern of Nova Scotia’s trademark schooner by more than a metre.
“A lot of the lower sections of the frames and planks were in pretty rough shape,” recalled Hutchinson, the president of Covey Island Boatworks of Lunenburg, Nova Scotia.
The vessel’s owner, the government of Nova Scotia, faced a tough decision. It could patch up the worst of the damage, as had been done many times before. Or it could invest the millions of dollars needed to keep Bluenose II sailing into the next half of the twenty-first century.
The province charted the latter course in what proved to be a costly, problem-plagued project. Hutchinson’s company, which builds luxury yachts, joined forces with two other firms — Lunenburg Industrial Foundry and Engineering and Snyder’s Shipyard — to form the Lunenburg Shipyard Alliance and build a modern Bluenose II. The new ship would be true to its heritage as a replica of the fastest of the Grand Banks racing schooners.
“Bluenose II is a tangible connection to our past,” said Bill Greenlaw, Nova Scotia’s executive director of archives, museums, and libraries and the government’s lead official on a refit to see the schooner back in the water and under sail.
The story of the Canadian schooner that outraced the Americans has become the stuff of legend and a source of national pride, a symbol of triumph over adversity. Canada is not a country known for celebrating its heroes, but there’s something different about the swiftness, grace, and indomitable spirit of the original Bluenose. It has glided across Canada’s ten-cent piece since 1937, and its sails have billowed on three postage stamps. Folksinger Stan Rogers and other songwriters have sung its praises. Countless writers and journalists have retold its David-and-Goliath story.
“It was one of the rare occasions in which, in an absolutely fair and square contest, we beat the Yanks repeatedly,” said Nova Scotia writer Silver Donald Cameron, who contributed his own volume — Schooner: Bluenose and Bluenose II — to the shelf of Bluenose books.
The schooner was launched in Lunenburg in 1921 with one goal in mind — to win back the International Fishermen’s Trophy that had been lost, the previous year, to the rival Massachusetts fishing port of Gloucester. A group of Halifax businessmen led by William H. Dennis, a senator and the publisher of the Halifax Herald, offered the trophy after an America’s Cup race was called off due to high winds any fishing schooner could have handled with ease. Theirs would be a competition between working schooners and real sailors, not the timid crews of rich men’s yachts.
After the embarrassing defeat of Nova Scotia’s first challenger in 1920, an amateur naval architect, William J. Roue, was commissioned to design Bluenose. Measuring 143 feet from bow to stern and with masts as high as a twelve-storey building, it was dispatched to the Grand Banks to fish for cod — a prerequisite for vessels competing for the trophy. An experienced Lunenburg fishing captain, Angus Walters, signed on as majority owner and skipper.
Bluenose won the trophy in 1921 and defended it in 1922, outclassing the best schooners the Americans could muster. A rematch in 1923 was cut short when Walters, incensed by a ruling that he had strayed from the course, refused to continue racing. The dispute ended the competition for the rest of the decade, and Bluenose fished out of its home port, Lunenburg. In 1930, Walters finally agreed to race against a speedy new addition to the Gloucester fleet, Gertrude L. Thebaud, for the newly created Lipton Cup. Bluenose lost.
It was the first and last time the schooner was defeated in an international racing series. The following year, Bluenose and Thebaud squared off for the Fishermen’s Trophy, and this time Bluenose emerged the victor. As the Great Depression deepened, the now-famous schooner represented Canada at the Chicago World’s Fair in 1933 and crossed the Atlantic two years later to help celebrate King George V’s silver jubilee. “Her name,” noted Toronto’s Evening Telegram, “is a household word. She has knit Canada together.”
A final showdown came in 1938. Old, waterlogged, and worn out from too many seasons on the Grand Banks, Bluenose somehow beat the odds and defeated Thebaud three races to two while setting a speed record.
“There’s something about the incredible drama of that, of defending the championship,” said Cameron. “It’s the last time she’s ever going to sail in a race, and she reaches deep inside herself and finds whatever it takes to win.”
It was a last hurrah for the vanished age of wooden ships and iron men — and for Bluenose itself. Unable to drum up interest in preserving his beloved schooner, Walters was forced to sell it in 1942 and retired from seafaring to run a dairy. Bluenose ended its days in the Caribbean, ferrying cargoes of fruit and rum until it sank on a reef off Haiti in 1946.
A legend was born of the unbeatable Bluenose, even though it lost its share of individual races and the 1930 Lipton Cup series. “She was beaten often enough,” said author Marq de Villiers, who recounted the schooner’s exploits in his 2007 book, Witch in the Wind. “You can be a World Series baseball team but you’re still going to lose games.”
Bluenose was fast, especially in strong winds — a Canadian warship escorting it to Gloucester had to do fourteen knots to keep up — and theories abound about the source of its speed. Many credit Roue’s streamlined design or Walter’s decision to add height to the bow during construction. One Lunenburg shipwright was convinced a frost during construction had “set her beams ... like no man could ever do.” De Villiers is among those who credit a perfect combination of sturdy vessel and skilled captain. Walters, he said, was at the helm for so long under so many conditions that he could sense how far he could strain sails and rigging in the quest for speed. “He got to know every quirk, every possibility.”
For all the racing victories, perhaps the finest hour for Walters and Bluenose came during a fishing trip in April 1926, when a powerful blizzard caught the schooner at anchor off Sable Island, the infamous graveyard of unlucky ships. Walters lashed himself to the wheel and battled for eight hours to keep from running aground as the crew huddled below, waiting for the end. Bluenose kept “biting her way into the gale,” Walters recalled. “Don’t know as any other vessel could have done it. All you could do was to keep her going and hang on.”
The Bluenose saga almost ended that night. “If it wasn’t for the ship she was and the captain he was,” crew member Clement Hiltz told a reunion of Bluenose crewmen decades later, “I wouldn’t be here today.”
It took Hollywood’s quest for authenticity and history’s most notorious mutiny to bring Bluenose back to life.
In the early 1960s, MGM Studios commissioned Smith & Rhuland, the shipyard that built Bluenose, to construct a replica of HMS Bounty for the movie Mutiny on the Bounty. (The same replica was in the news in the fall of 2012 when it sank in a hurricane off North Carolina with the loss of two crew members.) If Lunenburg shipwrights still had the skills to build large wooden sailing vessels, some said, why not rebuild the fabled Bluenose?
Halifax’s wealthy, brewery-owning Oland family came forward, paying more than a quarter of a million dollars — a fortune at the time — to build a schooner based on Roue’s original plans. Gerald Zwicker, then in his early twenties, worked on both ships and remembers manhandling massive rib timbers for a little more than a dollar an hour. “It was hard work because everything was heavy,” he remembered, but “it gave you a good feeling to know that you could help build something like that.”
Launched in 1963, Bluenose II was used to advertise Oland’s Schooner brand beer and showcased Nova Scotia’s maritime heritage at Expo 67 in Montreal. In 1971, the government assumed ownership and launched the vessel on a new career as the province’s star tourist attraction. When not at dockside in Lunenburg or Halifax, or taking visitors on harbour cruises, it joined parades of tall ships and visited ports along the Eastern Seaboard and the Great Lakes. It ventured through the Panama Canal to attend the 1986 world’s fair in Vancouver. Its elegant lines and distinctive triangular sails became a magnet for crowds. During one visit to Toronto an estimated 100,000 people walked its decks in a matter of days.
”It’s one of the things that distinguishes Nova Scotia,” said Cameron, who was aboard Bluenose II for a 1983 trip to Atlantic City. “It is the symbol of Nova Scotia.”
Bluenose — or Bluenoser — has been a nickname for Nova Scotians since the late eighteenth century, and there’s no escaping the schooner in its home province. Its logo separates the letters and numbers stamped on every blue-and-white Nova Scotia licence plate. More than two hundred and fifty Nova Scotia companies and community groups, past and present, have adopted the name, from Bluenose Accounting and Tax Services to Bluenose Well Drilling Ltd.
It is also a symbol of a simpler age, a prosperous time when wooden ships were built in harbours and coves throughout the Maritime provinces, fishing was the region’s lifeblood, and Nova Scotia’s ships and sailors could be found in ports around the world. Bluenose II evokes nostalgia for “a province that was self-sufficient and confident and made its own way in the world,” said de Villiers.
Historians Ian McKay and Robin Bates have challenged this romanticized, packaged-for-tourists view of Nova Scotia’s history. “Bluenose provided a record of stalwart heroes, the rugged individuals of a maritime frontier,” fostering an escapist image of a “proud people with a noble past,” they wrote in their 2010 book, In the Province of History.
A reminder of the harsh reality of Bluenose’s lost world can be found on Lunenburg’s waterfront, amid the centuries-old architecture that has made this South Shore town of 2,300 a UNESCO World Heritage Site. A circle of black-granite pillars, configured as a compass rose, bears the names of hundreds of local sailors and fishermen who have perished at sea since 1890. Bluenose is listed among the close to ninety vessels sunk over the years, and forty more are recorded as lost with all hands.
”It was a brutal way of life,” said de Villiers. The crewmen of Grand Banks schooners fished cod from small dories, often in “weather that was very close to suicidal [and] an awful lot of people lost their lives.” It was a romantic way of life “to the people on shore, not so much for the fishermen.”
On a hot afternoon in the summer of 2011, the clink of metal on metal filled the air as workmen armed with sledgehammers pounded twenty-centimetre spikes into the undersides of Bluenose II. They toiled beneath a circus-sized canopy on the Lunenburg waterfront, a stone’s throw from the shipyard where Bluenose and Bluenose II were built. While the back-breaking work of attaching planks to ribs has changed little since the 1920s, the schooner taking shape above these shipwrights ’heads incorporates the latest building techniques.
”You could call it more of a hybrid method of construction,” said the Lunenburg Shipyard Alliance’s Alan Hutchinson. “We’re mixing traditional materials with more modern methods.”
For the new generation of craftsmen given the task of recreating Bluenose II, the project was a chance to preserve history while showcasing Nova Scotia’s ability to build everything from custom yachts to the modern warships and Arctic patrol vessels soon to take shape at the Irving Shipbuilding yard in Halifax.
And the world was watching. Over two summers, an estimated fifty thousand people visited the Lunenburg shipyard for a glimpse of the vessel under construction. Webcams set up to record the work as it progressed attracted more than two million hits.
“It’s kind of a dream job, getting to do a restoration on Bluenose,” Hutchinson said. “We all carry her in our pockets, right?”
The initial stage of the massive restoration took almost an extra year to complete. Bluenose II’s entire hull and deck had to be scrapped and built anew using durable tropical hardwoods. Gerald Zwicker and his co-workers used local oak, pine, and spruce to build the replica a half century ago, but those materials have a limited lifespan; Bluenose II had already undergone two major refits that saw as much as three quarters of the hull planking replaced.
The planks muscled into place to form the outer hull this time around are angelique from Suriname in South America. “They’re naturally resistant to rot and decay, very dense, very hard,” Hutchinson explained. The planks contain resins that repel marine organisms that bore into other woods.
The ribs and deck beams were formed from thin strips of angelique and iroko — another tough wood from the west coast of Africa — glued together with epoxy to create framing components that, for their weight, are many times stronger than steel. The woods are so hard that the shipyard went through $10,000 worth of band saw blades as it cut the strips for laminating.
”The designer’s mandate was to design a boat that would not hog or need a major refit for at least fifty years,” noted Hutchinson, who’s confident the rebuilt Bluenose II will easily outlive its namesake. Steel brackets known as hanging or lodging knees reinforce the beams. Layers of laminated Douglas fir cover the inside of the hull to add more strength. “We’ve had naval architects tour this and they think that it could be an icebreaker, it’s built so strong.”
Transport Canada approved reuse of the existing name and hull number despite the extensive overhaul, but that has not stopped jokesters from dubbing the vessel “Bluenose Two-and-a-Half.” Many components of the original have been salvaged for reuse, including the towering twin masts, the rigging and sails, deck housings, about eighteen tonnes of lead ingots used as ballast in the keel, and walnut and mahogany trim in the cabins.
The shipyard’s biggest challenge was bringing the vessel up to modern construction and safety standards — a goal reinforced by the sinking of the Canadian tall ship Concordia off Brazil in 2010 and the loss of the Bounty replica. “Because she carries passengers on day sails, we wanted to make sure she was as safe as possible,” said Bill Greenlaw, the provincial official overseeing the project. The refurbished Bluenose II meets strict American Bureau of Shipping standards that require everything from new portholes and a metal rudder to replace the old wooden one to updated electronic gear and watertight doors between compartments.
Unfortunately, the project has encountered many glitches. An inspection report in 2014 revealed problems with water leakage, stability and poorly installed masts. And a costly system had to be devised to manouevre the steel rudder, which was too heavy for a person to operate manually. Cost overruns — it was originally projected to cost $14.4 million but will likely balloon to about $25 million — led to a scathing review by Nova Scotia's auditor.
The restored but still unfinished Buenose II was launched in late September 2012 — when it was slowly lowered into Lunenburg harbour and floated free of its cradle. The event was accompanied by much fanfare, with thousands of spectators lining the wharves, a brass band playing, and a flotilla of small boats sounding horns to greet the return of an old friend. Then-Premier Darrell Dexter told the crowd, “Nova Scotia’s heritage is, and always has been, defined by the sea.”
In the summer of 2015, with a new steering system in place, Bluenose II passed its sea trials and began public cruises in July. You can visit the Bluenose II website to see its current sailing schedule and follow its journey in real time.
While its strengthened hull and safety upgrades would make an Atlantic crossing possible, the vessel is expected to make most of its voyages along the East Coast, south to Bermuda, and into the Great Lakes. Wherever it ventures, the crew will gather around a table crafted from wood and stone collected from every province and territory, cementing its status as Canada’s sailing ambassador.
A BOATLOAD OF CONTROVERSY
Angus Walters beat the Americans time after time on the water. And years after his racing exploits, he defeated the Yanks in a little-known battle on land — in a Halifax courtroom.
He sued New York-based Cosmopolitan magazine for libel in 1946 for reporting that a retired captain from Lunenburg, Nova Scotia, had become incensed and “cursed the Lord” because a young woman touring his “famous racing ship” had touched the wheel. There was no doubt the unnamed captain was Walters, who sought $15,000 in compensation for the attack on his reputation.
The lawsuit is one of a string of controversies that have dogged Canada’s iconic racing schooner — from the dispute that cut short Bluenose’s defence of the International Fishermen’s Trophy in 1923 to media reports lamenting the cost and extent of the latest refit of it replica, Bluenose II.
In 1933, just before Bluenose left Halifax for a goodwill voyage to the Chicago World’s Fair, the Mounties discovered six kegs of contraband rum on board and placed the ship under arrest. Lunenburg County’s representative in the provincial legislature, Gordon Romkey, convinced the authorities to drop the case and the press to stay silent, sparing the schooner from being branded a rum-runner.
Bluenose II became entangled in political scandal when it was revealed that more than $3 million was earmarked for the vessel between 1997 and 2002 under the controversial federal sponsorship program. Most of the money went to advertising firms, with only a fraction used for repairs.
The Bluenose II Preservation Society, set up to cover the cost of operating and repairing the ship, made headlines in 2003 when it accused a Halifax firm of copyright infringement for selling T-shirts and other Bluenose souvenirs. The trust, in turn, became embroiled in a dispute with the Nova Scotia government after a new community group was designated to operate the vessel in 2005. It took seven years to complete the transfer of more than a million dollars in cash and assets to the province.
In the most recent controversy, descendants of Bluenose designer William J. Roue sued the province of Nova Scotia and the marine engineers and shipyards involved in the reconstruction, claiming the work infringed on their copyright to the original Bluenose plans.The lawsuit was settled in March 2014, when the province agreed to pay the family $300,000, plus legal costs of close to a million dollars.
As for Walters and his libel suit, in 1947 a sympathetic Nova Scotia judge condemned the Cosmopolitan story as “malicious” and “grossly false” and awarded the besmirched captain $3,500 in damages.
BLUENOSE: A VOYAGE TO CANADIAN FOLKLORE STATUS
1920 — The International Fishermen’s Trophy race is launched as an alternative to the America’s Cup yacht races. The Massachusetts schooner Esperanto defeats Nova Scotia’s Delawana.
March 1921 — Bluenose, designed by William J. Roue of Halifax, is launched from Lunenburg. Captain Angus Walters skippers it on fishing trips to the Grand Banks that summer.
October 1921 — Walters and Bluenose outsail American challenger Elsie in two straight races off Halifax, finishing eleven minutes ahead in the final race to bring the trophy home to Canada.
1923 — Bluenose wins one race but the second is awarded to American schooner Columbia after Walters passes inside a marker buoy. A dispute follows, ending the competition for eight years.
1931 — The International Fishermen’s Trophy is revived. Bluenose handily beats American challenger Gertrude L. Thebaud in races off Halifax.
1937 — The Royal Canadian Mint issues the first ten-cent piece depicting a two-masted fishing schooner that is soon dubbed the Bluenose dime.
1938 — Bluenose defeats Thebaud three races to two in a final showdown off Gloucester, Massachusetts, to retain the International Fishermen’s Trophy.
1942 — Bluenose is sold to the West Indies Trading Company. It carries cargo in the West Indies for four years before being wrecked on a reef off Haiti.
July 1963 — Smith & Rhuland launch Bluenose II, commissioned by the Oland Brewery to promote Schooner beer. Eight years later, Nova Scotia buys the ship for a dollar.
1994 — The Bluenose II Preservation Trust is formed to operate the aging vessel. The Lunenburg Marine Museum Society takes control in 2005. A dispute follows.
2010 — The Lunenburg Shipyard Alliance is awarded the contract to reconstruct the vessel.
2012 — The refurbished Bluenose II is launched in Lunenburg but does not leave harbour because it is still not finished.
2014 — An inspection reveals problems with the schooner.
2015 — Nova Scotia's auditor releases a report in January pointing out multiple problems with how the project was managed. Cost estimates rise from $14.4 to about $25 million.
July 2015 — The Bluenose II begins its program of public cruises and open deck visits.
Canada Vignettes: Bluenose 1921-1946 by Richard Todd, National Film Board of Canada
This article originally appeared in the June-July 2013 issue of Canada's History. It has been updated to include recent events. Subscribe today!
by Tamara Myers
About a decade ago, while teaching at the University of Winnipeg, I organized a team for an annual breast cancer fundraiser, the five-kilometre Run for the Cure. I went down my department’s corridor and knocked on colleagues’ doors, greeting them with the question, “Sponsor me?”
Hearing myself utter ted in the hallway like an echo from the past. A senior colleague replied to my expectant smile: “How far will you run?” Puzzled, I reminded him that it was a five-kilometre run and our team would have no trouble completing it.
As his eyes conveyed a sense of disappointment I was cast back decades: I was a schoolgirl in Toronto, facing neighbour after neighbour, asking that they “sponsor me” in exchange for my promise to push myself as far as I could go to help eradicate hunger around the world. I was marching in Miles for Millions, an event that would leave a deep imprint to be recalled decades later when I was an adult teaching history at the University of Winnipeg.
This incident — call it a nostalgia trigger — prompted me to do some historical sleuthing into what was an important annual feature of Canadian childhood and adolescence in the 1960s and ’70s.
Miles for Millions — Rallye Tiers Monde in Quebec — began in 1967 and lasted more than a decade. Its origins lay in the growing international fundraising practice of hunger marches spearheaded by organizations such as Oxfam. In Canada, the walkathon idea found highly receptive ground in the months leading up to the celebration of this country’s centennial.
In 1966, the Centennial International Development Program proposed to mark the occasion of Canada’s birth with a major gift to the developing world. Organizers saw a fundraising march as a way to help Third World countries while educating Canadians about international development.
From there came the idea for a series of marches across the country, in which thousands of people would walk as far as they could, having collected pledges from friends, family, neighbours, and local businesses.
Fed by the fervour of the centennial celebrations, the first Miles for Millions marches in 1967 drew great crowds and support.
Twenty-two communities participated, drawing 100,000 walkers and raising $1.2 million.
The gruelling test of endurance became an annual event, drawing more walkers every year. It grew in popularity despite dramatic scenes of exhausted children who had been walking all day collapsing at the finish line in the arms of their parents.
Such images led a 1971 letter writer to the Globe and Mail to ask: “Do middle-class liberals hate children so much that they put them up to feats of utterly unnecessary endurance in order to win some measure of approval?”
It’s unlikely students joined just for approbation, however. In 1969, nearly half a million Canadians walked in 114 communities, raising almost $5 million. By 1973 the walks had raised $20 million for disaster relief work, medical care, agricultural development projects, and the like for countries in Africa, Asia, Latin America, and the Caribbean, as well as for First Nations peoples in Canada.
The Miles for Millions walks continued for more than a decade, coordinated by the Ottawa-based National March Committee formed by Oxfam Canada in conjunction with other international aid organizations.
In hindsight it seems astonishing that Miles for Millions was so popular, for this was no 5K event. It was born in the years prior to the jogging and aerobics crazes. It even predated ParticipACTION, a federal government program launched in 1971 that famously put the fitness of the average thirty-year-old Canadian on par with that of the average sixty-year-old Swede.
Canadians were unused to exerting themselves, yet Miles for Millions covered punishing distances — the equivalent of a marathon or longer. In many cities, the walks stretched more than fifty kilometres.
The Miles for Millions walk was not meant to be easy nor to be shoehorned into busy schedules. It required the commitment of a full day of walking in addition to many hours spent canvassing prior to walk day and collecting funds afterward. Yet it was deeply compelling to a generation of young Canadians coming of age in the late 1960s.
Charitable work with an international focus had long been a feature of Canadian youth organizations. Beginning in World War I and continuing through the Second World War, religiously affiliated youth groups and non-denominational organizations such as 4-H, Girl Guides and Boy Scouts, Canadian Girls in Training, Junior Red Cross, and YM/YWCA proliferated.
Schools also got involved. In the postwar period students were mobilized to raise funds for various foreign causes. For instance, in 1955, the first UNICEF Halloween drive took place in Canada, with costumed children going door to door with collection boxes around their necks.
The Miles for Millions walkathon marked a consolidation, expansion, and updating of earlier fundraising practices. The organizers used language and symbols that spoke to the rising generation, calling on them to use their “sole power” and declaring the walk a “rebellion against poverty around the world.” The slogans were often very earnest: “You walked — that others may live” and “Feet against Famine.”
The central message connected young Canadians’ actions to those of youth around the world. In Sweden, for example, youth had effectively pressured their government to set aside one per cent of the country’s wealth for international development. In an era in which we were reminded daily about our “global village” existence, the Miles for Millions walkathon became an important mechanism for consciousness-raising and activism around international crises.
Press coverage of the Miles for Millions walks across the country emphasized their youthful character, with newspapers reporting that young people “marched, limped, and sang by twos, fives, and twenties.” Oxfam Canada claimed that up to eighty percent of participants in the early years were high school students. The walkathon appears to have drawn boys and girls equally and to have represented the cultural and racial communities in which it was held. Working-class and very privileged students walked side by side.
The walkathon was not easy. Nicknamed “Band-Aid and bunion day,” its short-lived newspaper was aptly called The Blister. The Globe and Mail report on the 1968 walk described young people looking “like thousands of wartime refugees ... as they trudged mile after mile, grim determination and the hint of pain cast on their faces.” Reporting on the 1972 walk, the newspaper told of how a “pale, slim” fifteen-year-old girl walked from 7 a.m. to 6 p.m. to finish the forty-four-kilometre march in Toronto. Her father was seen wheelchairing her in tears from the final checkpoint at city hall. Two girls collapsed.
A year earlier, a parent whose eleven-year-old daughter walked from morning until midnight described the frightening scene at Toronto city hall: “Parents carrying their children ... children and teenagers collapsed everywhere ... children lying on stretchers.”
Why did this endurance test have such appeal? The answer is complex. One factor was that organizers effectively used the schools to generate knowledge about and empathy for victims of world hunger. Sponsor sheets were distributed in classrooms. Students likely felt considerable pressure to conform, to join a good cause. There was also the added incentive of ribbons and certificates for those who finished the walk.
In the lead up to walk day, schools received Oxfam educational kits consisting of film strips, posters, simulation games, and the like to raise awareness about Third World need.
These materials juxtaposed Canadian children’s plenty with the needs of the world’s “hungry half.” Images of suffering children with distended bellies, skeletal frames, and pleading eyes adorned classrooms across the country.
These profound images simplified global issues into a basic dichotomy: The developing world child represented the Third World’s need and the Canadian child symbolized the able-bodied global helpmate. This led some Canadian youth to critique the wastefulness of the developed world. During the 1968 walk, a banner carried by young milers in Calgary depicted Canada as a hot-dog-eating child and Biafra as a starving waif.
The ubiquitous images of starving Third World children undoubtedly stimulated emotions ranging from empathy to guilt, but they also helped to engender a consciousness among Canadian youth of their own ability to help.
Eleven-year-old Katherine Huntley wrote in a 1971 letter to the editor of the Globe and Mail that kids went on the walk because they wanted to and said “everybody felt good because they knew they were walking for people who can’t.”
They didn’t need to know about the complexities of world food systems and of war and famine in far-off places; they were told that if they committed to a heroic feat of their own they could do something to stop the suffering. Walking all day seemed to Canadian youth a straightforward expression of empathy and activism.
It’s worth remembering that for much of the 1950s and 1960s, street demonstrations featuring youth were not always welcome. Young people were under heavy scrutiny. Many adults saw them as either mindless protestors or apathetic students concerned only with money and consumption.
The successful fundraising efforts made on walk day countered such prejudice. The Miles For Millions promotional material urged young people to show adults what they were made of: “It’s a chance to show adults that teenagers aren’t lazy or irresponsible, and a personal chance to prove that to oneself.”
It was in fact difficult to criticize young people who were marching on behalf of humanity. Following walk days the media touted teenagers as heroes.
From the Globe in May of 1969: “They were skinny and fat, tall and short. They wore long hair and crewcuts, outlandish mod clothes and the trim uniforms of private schools. But in their mass display of guts and goodwill the kids showed there is little wrong with their generation.”
Globe columnist Richard J. Needham went a little deeper about “the problem of kids today.” Spouting the line that teenagers were “softer” than they used to be, he argued that kids don’t want to be soft but, unfortunately, “the over-protective homes and schools of an affluent society discourage kids, or actively prevent them, from making tests of their courage, their strength, their initiative, their personal commitment to some cause which excites them.”
Being so young, I didn’t walk very far. Yet for me it wasn’t about crossing the finish line; it was about doing something out of the ordinary in the name of others.
The enthusiasm for the early Miles for Millions events faded in the latter half of the 1970s as the novelty wore off. The campaign faced competition from other fundraising events — Vancouver alone held a thousand different fundraising walks in 1977. Danceathons, bikeathons, and the like also siphoned away support. By the early 1980s, Miles for Millions was done.
The pennies raised each year did not, in the end, result in the eradication of global hunger and poverty. But, for many of us, the experience opened our eyes to global injustice and convinced us, perhaps naively, that we could change the world with small gestures.
In the late 1960s hope abounded that Canada and international development could right the wrongs of the world. In the words of Lester B. Pearson, the prime minister who led the first Miles for Millions Walk: “If we can get the youth of Canada to stir up opinion, to point out that we have these obligations to our fellowmen [sic] who are not as well off as we, if we do that, then we will have made our contribution to the development of peace and security in the world.” Many young people took seriously this calling.
One of them was me. I wasn’t yet ten years old when I went on the walk. Even at that age I was troubled by the suffering of far-off children portrayed in walk posters and I was moved by the marvel of joining that great parade of humanity on walk day. I wonder how many of us first learned about global injustice and collective action as school kids on walk day.
Of course, being so young, I didn’t walk very far. Yet for me it wasn’t about crossing the finish line; it was about doing something out of the ordinary in the name of others.
Tamara Myers is now an associate professor of history at the University of British Columbia. This article originally appeared in the February-March 2012 issue of Canada’s History.
by Keith Spicer
As late monsoon rains swept old Colombo in January 1950, seven anxious Commonwealth leaders met in then-Ceylon’s capital. Their goal: to create the Colombo Plan, an unprecedented international framework for East-West solidarity. Grouping Australia, Britain, Canada, New Zealand, Ceylon, India, and Pakistan, it would become a Marshall Plan to rescue Asia both from poverty and from irreversible communist conquest.
Star attendees included British Foreign Secretary Ernest Bevin, Indian Prime Minister Jawaharlal Nehru, Canadian External Affairs Minister Lester Pearson, and Australian External Affairs Minister Percy Spender. As alumni of British parliamentary and university traditions, they met as familiars, almost like schoolboys at a reunion.
But the times were tense, and studded with momentous events. The Second World War that had ended five years earlier had bled Britain dry. And it was steadily losing its major Asian possessions. In India, Gandhi’s peaceful self-reliance movement had lit a raging anti-colonial fire, exciting all of Asia. By 1947, Nehru’s Congress Party had finally led India to independence from Britain. Ceylon (renamed Sri Lanka in 1972) achieved independence a year later. Gandhi and Nehru had become world-thrilling heroes.
Everywhere, communism was on the march. The defection to Canada of Ottawa-based Soviet cipher clerk Igor Gouzenko in 1945 highlighted Moscow’s spy infiltrations throughout the West. Communists in France and Italy held more than a quarter of parliamentary seats in the immediate postwar years. Soviet subversion led to a communist coup in Prague in 1948.
In April 1949, a frightened West founded the North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO), with strong Canadian urging and tangible support. Western fears of communism continued to grow as more cases of Soviet spying were revealed. Klaus Fuchs, a German communist who worked for a while at Canada’s Chalk River nuclear establishment, passed atomic bomb secrets to Moscow. In Britain, the Cambridge Five — a ring of well-educated British-born communists — infiltrated that country’s counter-espionage establishment.
Most spectacularly, Mao Zedong’s Communist Party trumpeted its conquest of China on October 1, 1949. In impoverished Asia, communist propaganda noisily backed anti-colonial sentiment. Marxism seemed the natural ally of liberation: The theme of an international proletariat fighting off greedy foreign looters seduced many Asian minds, and indeed fit many facts. Japan’s wartime propaganda had whipped up further anger against “white oppressors,” extending the ideology of class oppression to the even more inflammatory matter of race.
Meanwhile, a communist “emergency” threatened Malaya from 1948 to 1960. And postwar France, trying to seize back colonial Indochina, stumbled into a nine-year bloodbath, leaving America to leap into its own Vietnam morass in 1955.
Commonwealth leaders meeting in Ceylon were clear about their motivations for the Colombo Plan. They believed that by accelerating the economic development of Asia they could somehow prevent the spread of communism, thus removing a massive geopolitical threat to the West. They hoped that infrastructure aid in the form of dams, electricity grids, roads, and airports, as well as food aid, technical assistance, and low-interest loans, could rival, or even eclipse, the seductions of Marxism.
Pearson expressed the need for action when he briefed the House of Commons about the Colombo Plan on February 22, 1950: “It seemed to all of us at the conference that if the tide of totalitarian expansionism should flow over this general area, not only will the new nations lose the national independence which they have secured so recently, but the forces of the Free World will have been driven off all but a relatively small bit of the great Eurasian land mass.”
Other ideas also moved Colombo forward. The fast-evolving ideal of a colour-blind Commonwealth of equals smoothly replaced imperial illusions, even among many British aristocrats. (Let’s except a grumpy Winston Churchill, who termed Mahatma Gandhi a “half-naked fakir.”) Lady Edwina Mountbatten, the wife of the last viceroy of India, certainly did her bit for interracial understanding: Jawaharlal Nehru, having slept in British jails, came at least very close to sleeping with her. Lady Mountbatten gamely used her infatuation to try, unsuccessfully, to send Nehru to the United Nations to accept a referendum over Pakistan-contested Kashmir.
In Canada, the notion of a new, egalitarian Commonwealth soon became a theme of foreign policy. Prime Minister John Diefenbaker invoked it in 1961 to spearhead a move to expel apartheid-era South Africa from the Commonwealth. That same year, the first sixteen young Canadian Overseas Volunteers (today’s CUSO-VSO) went abroad to India, Ceylon, and Sarawak.
Asian leaders were publicly grateful for the help, but they privately viewed the massive aid package as reparations for colonial pillaging. They were also seduced by leftist political philosophy. A generation of Indian leaders, including Nehru, were in thrall to dazzling young Marxist (but not Leninist) professor Harold Laski of the London School of Economics. As a result, state ownership and economic planning would hobble major Asian economies, such as India and Pakistan, up to the brink of the twenty-first century.
An inevitable result of loving the state was hating the resulting bureaucracy. Well into the 1960s, the still-revered Indian Civil Service grew into a “babucracy” — a musty body overlain with the Hindu caste system, post-colonial nostalgia for top dogs, and the fawning before every minor paper-pusher by several lower-ranking paper-pushers — babus. The babus skilfully made endless cups of tea to be drunk among mountains of never-read, ribbon-encircled files. Work speed was slow, stop, or reverse. Senior civil servants were often brilliant; but a major obstacle to Colombo aid was administrative weakness at middle and lower levels — the levels of execution.
No wonder that a constant refrain — and aid-refusing pretext —of donors was recipients’ inadequate “absorptive capacity.” Any good idea of aid had to begin with: “Fine, but can the recipient really run this?” That’s partly why Canada’s aid program, like others, quickly split into two operational parts: capital aid to build infrastructure and technical assistance, especially in the form of training.
Capital aid first went to big dams and electricity systems. I remember as a student watching Nehru’s warm smile up close as he shook hands with Canadian engineers at the giant Kundah
Dam near Chennai in Tamil Nadu, India. He made a speech in English, which was translated into half a dozen local languages. He explained India’s great diversity and Canada’s remarkable friendship — both faraway ideas for many of the thousands of listening peasants.
Big projects like Kundah often led to picturesque encounters between easygoing local workers and eager-to-finish Canadian engineers. In the oppressive heat, cursing one’s workers, and even threats of mild physical violence, often moved things along. One Canadian in Dhaka, Bangladesh, told me he regularly “biffed” his “lazy” workers. At the time, local authorities didn’t much seem to mind as long as the job got done. Today, of course, it would be another matter.
The Cold War offered irresistible opportunities to play the West against Moscow. It also showed that giving aid was like riding a tiger — once mounted, your options are invidious, and the results unpredictable.
An especially fraught initiative that came out of the Colombo Plan was the Canada-India Reactor, built near Mumbai (formerly Bombay) between 1955 and 1960 on Canada’s initiative and expertise. In 1960, I interviewed the chief Indian nuclear scientist, Dr. Homi J. Bhabha, who emphasized India’s unshakable intention never to abuse Canada’s aid for military purposes. Much later, Pakistan made the same commitment.
Yet both countries went nuclear. India exploded its first A-bomb in 1974 using material from its Canadian-designed CIRUS reactor. Canada suspended nuclear co-operation with India in 1974 and with Pakistan in 1976. The latter conducted its first nuclear weapons tests in 1998. To this day, India and Pakistan have refused foreign inspections of their nuclear facilities, except for a few Canadian-supplied fuel rods.
Was Canada incautious in offering its nuclear aid to India? One can assume that if Canada had not shared its nuclear know-how with India and Pakistan they would have found other eager donors — especially the Soviets. In India’s case, the Cold War offered irresistible opportunities to play the West against Moscow. It also showed that giving aid was like riding a tiger — once mounted, your options are invidious, and the results unpredictable. Even an innocent gift of three Otter aircraft to Indonesia for inter-island travel ended up being used by Jakarta’s air force to support Malaysian rebels.
Canada also strengthened Asian budgets with direct and indirect financial aid, often via its trademark food aid. A key device was known as a counterpart fund. This was a locally managed account created in a non-convertible local currency to pay for Canadian commodity gifts. Like most creative accounting, these funds were mainly a way to allow politicians at both ends to pretend that, somehow, gifts of food were building economies as well as feeding stomachs.
Perhaps the single most significant value of Canada’s start in the large-scale aid business was the interaction of thousands of Canadian engineers, technicians, and other experts with local populations. Overnight, Canadians become familiar overseas faces.
Most of the Canadians offering technical assistance (a term soon re-baptized as “cooperation”) were quiet, devoted, hard-working people. In an era that invented the pangs and follies of culture shock, they did pretty well, rarely discrediting their homeland, and doing quite a bit of good. They also built enduring friendships that still make the Asian Commonwealth not quite foreign to us.
Were they boring? Hardly. Old hands of the Colombo Plan’s early years can tell tales echoing exotic Asian short stories by Somerset Maugham. I remember hearing of a Canadian engineer nicknamed Harry the Horse who rode his steed into Deane’s Hotel in Peshawar, Pakistan, to prove that the food there was unfit for man or beast. Other expats told me of a love triangle where a Canadian got caught in flagrante delicto with another’s wife — leaving compatriots gleefully to recall that his engineering specialty was “heat injection.”
The Colombo Plan was many such colourful people — not just those far-seeing 1950 worthies in Sri Lanka’s capital who talked of saving the “great Eurasian land mass.” The large-scale mingling of so many aidserving Canadians with previously faraway new friends contributed incalculably to Canada’s postwar growing up. Not as much as our wartime contributions, of course. But the Colombo Plan opened Canadian minds and hearts to the world in ways that still make Canada and Canadians part of a much wider world. For our aid recipients, it made memories that made us — and still make us — worth talking to.
Colombo aid brought thousands of non-white faces — and minds — into Canadian universities, laboratories, and offices. Canadians found charm and excitement in welcoming a diversity of fellow Commonwealth nationalities. Over time, this made Canadians more open to increasingly multiracial immigration — leading ultimately to today’s multicultural Canadian society.
Two other factors broadened the aid movement.
In the 1960s, Quebec intellectuals, spurred by Le Devoir’s passionate pan-Latin editorialist Jean-Marc Leger, demanded a geographic and cultural extension of Colombo-style aid to the Frenchspeaking world, and indeed to Latin America. At the same time, the post-1960 liberation of many African (and later Caribbean) countries caused Ottawa to start substantial aid to Africa.
Canada launched its Special Commonwealth Africa Aid Program in 1960. Focusing heavily on communications, health, and especially resource-seeking aerial surveys — the latter being a Canadian specialty — Canada quickly became a significant player in Africa. This annoyed Paris, which resented Canada’s “invading” the chasse gardee of its neo-colonial Françafrique — code for the interlocking corruptions of French politicians and post-colonial African strongmen.
The Colombo Plan triggered an astonishing array of changes — not only in Canada’s foreign policy, but in Canadian society as a whole. Surprisingly, at the time, large infusions of English-speaking Commonwealth immigrants brought Quebec to overcome its distrust of immigrants in general and to lobby for francophone ones to help keep its linguistic edge.
Hence, today we see a Montreal with vigorous Indochinese and North African communities, and an even livelier one of Haitian taxi drivers and Governors General.
To the chagrin of old-school revenge-of-the-cradle patriotes, these fine overseas francophones know nothing of Quebec’s pure laine history, culture, and world views. With few exceptions, they fail to swell separatist or even nationalist ranks.
Reshaping Quebec into a multicultural society almost like the rest of Canada, they make the case for a unique-Quebec separatism sound archaic, especially to more tolerant, cosmopolitan youth.
The cozy, old boys’ Colombo Plan conceived in 1950 did much to kick-start a new Third World development era. Close, sustained political and economic engagement kept Asia from tilting into the communist camp. That was the big hope, and it worked.
The surprise now is that Asia — and later recipient societies — changed their benefactors’ countries almost as much as we changed theirs. Immigration has become a growing and divisive issue in Europe. Blunt rejections of “multiculturalism” by the leaders of aid-giving Germany, France, and Britain confirm this.
Canada, a significant Colombo Plan donor until it pulled out in 1992, has so far managed its multicultural challenge more smoothly. Whatever the outcome, there is a splendid unintended consequence here: Much of today’s internationally engaged, domestically tolerant Canada began sixty-two years ago in Colombo.
Keith Spicer, an academic, public servant, and writer, is the author of A Samaritan State? External Aid in Canada’s Foreign Policy (1966). This article originally appeared in the February-March issue of Canada's History.
by Leslie Scrivener
In February 1979, nearly two years after his right leg was amputated above the knee, Terry Fox began running in secret. Embarrassed by his artificial leg — a crude device made of a stainless steel shaft, a belt around his waist, and an elastic strap — he ran at night. The twenty-year-old was a competitive athlete and didn’t want to be seen struggling.
Yet, it was a stuggle. He ran one quarter of a mile around the cinder track at a junior high school near his home in Port Coquitlam, British Columbia. Under the dark sky, the rain fell on the lonely runner and on the tall firs that bordered the track. “It was hard,” he said. “I was sweating, wiped out.” Soon he was running a half mile, then a full mile.
This was phenomenal, he thought. He was getting stronger and growing more confident. A jock, watchful for any chance to compete, Terry felt a small victory the day he was fast enough to run past a pair of joggers.
He didn’t talk to anyone about why he wanted to run or, more telling, why he had to run. It was something he kept to himself. For two years, since the surgery to remove his leg — he’d had bone cancer — he had harboured a dream to run across Canada. He knew of an amputee who had run in the New York City Marathon, so why couldn’t he do something challenging, too?
Terry offered lots of reasons why a 5,300-mile (8,500-kilometre) run across the second-largest country in the world seemed to be the one thing he had to do. He had known the suffering of young cancer patients while he was receiving chemotherapy treatment. Their cries haunted him still. He was one of the lucky ones, he thought. He would raise money for cancer research and prove himself “worthy of life,” as he wrote in a letter to the Canadian Cancer Society, asking for its support. “I was determined to take myself to the limit for this cause.”
His mother, Betty, asked him, why not run across British Columbia. She thought running across Canada was crazy. Why set such a daunting task? They argued about it, but Betty lost that battle. Terry, meanwhile, lost toenails. He suffered bone bruises, but it was never unbearable, he said. It was just pain; he could adjust his prosthesis and his running style, and learn to endure it.
Terry trained the rest of that year. He had blisters and open sores that bled down through the valve in the bucket that held the stump of his leg. It drenched his socks. That was a horrible sight for Betty, almost cruel. But Terry was consumed by his need to run. “I cannot stand to see life pass by so quickly without some kind of accomplishment, some meaningful milestone.... My sense of urgency grows stronger with each passing day,” he wrote.
In the spring of 1980, Terry was ready to begin his Marathon of Hope. His goal, when he set out from St. John’s, Newfoundland, was to raise $1 million.
On April 12, he dipped his foot in the Atlantic Ocean, collected a jug of sea water, and, wearing shorts and a T-shirt — he had long shed his embarrassment about his artificial leg — began to run across Canada.
Editors at the Toronto Star had heard about Terry, but only one of them, Bonnie Cornell, who edited the Family section, thought he merited a story. As a hardened newsman said dismissively, Terry would be news only when he stopped running. It’s boring, said another.
But Cornell, a tough editor with an instinct for spotting trends and unusual feature stories, had seen Terry on the CBC television news and kept thinking about him. I worked for her and had been at the paper a little more than a year. She asked me to “find out if he’s for real.”
The switchboard operators at the Star were doggedly determined, too — qualities you wouldn’t immediately grasp just hearing their cheerful, buttery smooth voices. When I asked them to find a one-legged runner somewhere in Newfoundland, there was no problem. These are women who had found a Star reporter in a jail cell in Idi Amin’s Uganda. A few hours later they told me, “We have Mr. Terry Fox on the line.”
The thing about Terry Fox is he made you believe it was entirely possible that an amputee could run across Canada. He was running into the wind, and every day he was averaging a marathon — twenty-six miles (forty-two kilometres). It was an astounding athletic achievement.
We talked once a week or more on the phone. I wrote bland news stories about who he’d met or how he felt frustrated when the Canadian Cancer Society failed to organize a fundraiser in the little towns he was passing through. He was doing the running; couldn’t someone else look after the business of fundraising? He told me about a motivational poem, “It Couldn’t be Done,” that he read each night before going to bed. Sometimes he described how he felt as he ran: “When I’m really tired, I’m actually crying on the road. I get so emotional, but being in that state keeps me going.”
Doug Alward, his childhood friend and another committed athlete, was Terry’s wheelman. He drove a donated van, stopping ahead of Terry at one-mile intervals. By the time they reached Halifax, they were pretty much at war with each other, so Terry’s parents flew in to broker peace. Terry could be chippy; Doug would withdraw into sullen silence. Terry would argue; Doug wouldn’t. They later sent Darrell, Terry’s sweet-natured seventeen-year-old brother, to help and act as a buffer between the two friends.
I finally met Terry on a sunny June afternoon. Seeing him on television or in news photos was different from seeing his living body on the hard pavement of a Canadian highway.
Maybe because of the scale — the long highway, the tall trees — he appeared smaller than his five-foot, ten-inch height. He was in Quebec, heading toward the Ontario border. Terry didn’t look up when I shouted as I drove past him.
He raised his arm in a kind of greeting. He had a lopsided gait, dubbed the Fox Trot — two hops with his good leg to match the longer stride of his artificial leg.
On the Ontario side of the Ottawa River, a celebration was underway to welcome him to a new province. A band played “Georgie Girl,” balloons drifted to the sky, and Terry walked up to a community centre to shake hands with officials. The crowd shouted, “Hip, hip, hooray.” His hard concentration and focus were gone. He was attentive to what people were saying. “I hope this walk, excuse me, this run...,” an Ontario MPP began. Terry smiled.
He had been studying kinesiology at Simon Fraser University, and though he had been a hard-driving competitor on the basketball team, he was terribly shy — so much so that he avoided classes that required oral presentations. That was all behind him. He took the microphone and told his story. He said the kind of support he was seeing, all these people coming out to welcome him, made a big difference to his Marathon of Hope.
A fourteen-year-old boy who had been doing wheelies on the grass couldn’t exactly say why Terry’s speech moved him. “I found that story of his very touching,” said Charles Tuttle. “It makes a funny feeling inside me.” At a press conference, a reporter asked if he was running to find himself. “This isn’t soul-searching,” Terry said. “I’m not trying to find something. I’ve found what I want.”
The images of the next thirty-six hours are sharp thirty years later: the shoppers who gawked as he ran through the town of Hawkesbury; Terry’s pre-dinner snack — cheeseburger, fries, apple pie, a milkshake; the way he clenched his jaw when a Cancer Society official told him he was expected to speak at a fair in Plantagenet, just down the road. This was unexpected and the kind of thing that happened too often.
"I’m not going,” he said. He was spent. The days were long. There were no days off on which to recover from his daily marathon; he just got up and did it all over again.
But the mayor was waiting, and there would be fundraising. And so he did what was expected of him, running into the fair, politely signing autographs after he’d finished speaking. No one could tell that this had not been the plan from the start.
Soon it was evening; dinner was at the Poplar Motel, where there was more serious eating to be done. Terry was lively and curious in conversation — what was this about Quebec holding a referendum to separate from Canada, he asked.
At 4:30 the next morning Terry and the Marathon of Hope routine began again. It was dark as Doug drove through the countryside, looking for the pile of stones they’d left where Terry had stopped running the previous day. No one spoke.
The moon was high; it gleamed off the farm buildings. We could see cattle in the fields and there was sweetness in the cool, still air.
Terry loved that morning and remembered it. The miles went by so lightly, he recalled. “I just floated.” He could run in peace and by 6:00 a.m. he’d finished five miles (eight kilometres). A CBC reporter jogged with him part of the way. Terry, competitive in his bones, didn’t like two-legged runners too close to him. “I want to make those guys work,” he said. “I can’t stand making it easy.”
The day wore on. There was a rest break in the drowsy, sun-soaked countryside. There was a parade-like atmosphere in Rockland, where people ran out on the street, then back into their houses to bring out someone else to witness Terry running through their town.
Later, in Ottawa, Terry was looking forward to meeting then Prime Minister Pierre Trudeau; he hoped the vigorous Trudeau, who had somersaulted into swimming pools and slid down banisters, would spare a half-hour to run with him. It was a disappointment. The prime minister seemed unprepared and knew nothing about Terry or his run. “It was as if Trudeau was talking to Terry and thinking about something else,” his brother Darrell said.
Trudeau may not have given Terry the welcome he’d hoped for, but there were others who were wise enough to see that Terry was someone special. Isadore Sharp, founder of Four Seasons Hotels and Resorts, who’d lost a son to cancer, challenged Canadian corporations to pledge two dollars for every mile Terry ran. Sharp, who became a trusted friend and adviser to the Fox family, wanted to ensure Terry’s legacy endured and later that year started the annual Terry Fox Run.
By the time Terry reached Toronto, Canadians were lining the streets, cheering him. It really did seem, at the time, that that summer was bathed in some kind of golden glow. He had become a hero — in one town someone even crowned him with a leafy wreath. It was showtime for the Marathon of Hope.
There was a triumphant run down University Avenue. Women were in tears. Volunteers were hauling in buckets of money. One single day brought in $100,000. But raising money wasn’t consistent. Terry flew to Niagara Falls, where he was handed a cheque for $100; it was an embarrassment.
He angrily refused to visit Marineland in Niagara Falls when he learned he wouldn’t be able to use the appearance to raise money. He rebuffed all commercial endorsements and abhorred the thought that he or his run could be used for anything other than funding for cancer research; he was almost fanatic about it, even making sure the grey shorts he always wore were logo-free. Still, his original goal of $1 million seemed pitifully small; he set a new goal, one dollar for every Canadian, about $24 million in total. Did that seem absurdly high?
By now his friends were hearing a different tone in Terry’s speeches, something more subtle and shaded. He started saying that if for some reason he couldn’t finish the run, the Marathon of Hope had to go on without him. Everyone was a part of it, he said.
It was about this time that Doug and Darrell started looking at Terry and the run a little differently. They sensed a change, a deepening. Doug, who was thoughtful and had more time to think about things behind the wheel of the van, believed they were at a turning point. What that was exactly, he wasn’t sure.
Terry ran on through the sweltering heat of southern Ontario — some days it was thirty-eight degrees Celsius — going hundreds of miles out of his way — worth it, he believed, for the extra fundraising. It was a relief to head north, to leave the crowds behind. But after the euphoria, they faced something unexpected, a new critical tone in the media.
"Give it up, Terry,” the Peterborough Examiner implored. The Globe and Mail painted a portrait of him as a tyrant to his lighthearted younger brother.
He wasn’t happy to see me, either, at Lake Joseph near Gravenhurst, Ontario, where he was resting one afternoon. There had been reports that his leg was bleeding. War Amps officials warned that Terry was going to have terrible problems if he continued running at the pace he had set for himself. They had reports that the stump of his leg was changing shape and developing sores. They wanted him to see an orthopedic specialist. It was hard, they said, to say anything critical of Terry’s run, because it could look as if the organization wasn’t supporting him.
This only irritated Terry, who insisted that he knew his body and what he was capable of better than anyone else. “I’ve seen people in so much pain. This little bit of pain I’m going through is nothing. They can’t shut it off, and I can’t shut down every time I feel a little sore.” As he headed north, the crowds thinned. The rock star business that had diverted them through the southern part of the province was well behind them. They were more serious now; they needed to get home.
Terry blew off his medical checkups. Darrell noticed that Terry’s steps seemed more laboured; he didn’t have the same comfort in his stride that Darrell had seen in New Brunswick. What was wrong? Then there was a brittle, repetitive cough that they had never heard before.
By September 1, the cough was persistent, and with it came a pain that spread into his chest. It hurt to run, but he ran anyway, because there were people on the road. As any athlete knows, you don’t want to let your people down. His chest hurt, but his legs were working fine, so he kept running. People were cheering him on, saying, “You can make it all the way.” He heard what they said, and wondered if he would make it all the way.
He had run 3,339 miles (5,373 kilometres) — two-thirds of the way across Canada. He’d run through snow, biting wind, and terrible heat. He’d nearly been run over. He’d seen camera crews covering his run injured in car accidents. He’d fought with organizers. He’d played jokes on his brother. He’d had food fights with Doug. He’d been ignored. He’d been idolized. He’d run nearly a marathon a day for 143 days.
Terry called his parents to tell them his old enemy, cancer, was back. They flew to Thunder Bay, Ontario, and took him in their arms and cried.
"Isn’t once enough?” Darrell asked bitterly.
But as Terry said later on, “That’s the thing about cancer.”
Terry spoke to reporters at the Royal Columbian Hospital in New Westminster, British Columbia, the same hospital where his leg had been amputated three years earlier. Betty held his hand and cried. We listened gravely. He’d raised $1.7 million, not the sum he’d hoped; still, he didn’t want anyone to finish his run, even though Darryl Sittler offered to organize NHL hockey players to collect pledges and run the last 2,000 miles (3,200 kilometres). Someone asked Betty how she was doing. She couldn’t answer. “We’ve been through this before,” his father Rolly said.
Upstairs, in his hospital room, Terry talked to some old friends, including wheelchair basketball star Rick Hansen. That day in the hospital, nobody wanted to be the first to bring up the subject of cancer. But Terry did. He didn’t want anyone feeling sorry for him. “It’s one thing to run across Canada, but now people are really going to know what cancer is.”
That fall, Terry drove me to all the places he had trained in 1979. We went up steep hills in the woods, to Simon Fraser University and to the track where he ran his first mile. He was pale and thin and looked like a teenager. He was given awards, athletic and honorary, and was the youngest person to receive the Order of Canada. The country did go crazy with fundraising, as he had hoped. By February 1, 1981, $24.17 million had been raised for cancer research. He had eight chemotherapy treatments between September and January, but still the cancer consumed him.
The last time I saw him was at his family’s Christmas party. He left the living room early, pulling his sweater up over his shoulders as he walked down the hall to his room.
In the five months that he ran his Marathon of Hope, and in the years that followed, Terry became part of us, just as the bedrock of the Canadian Shield is part of Canada. It’s taken three decades to understand precisely what that means. He is in our geography now. A B.C. mountain and an icebreaker were named after him, as were thirty-two streets, seven statues, fourteen schools, and nine fitness trails. He was the first person other than a king or a queen to be put on a Canadian general circulation coin, the 2005 loonie. Yet there is much more to his legacy than that.
The three million people who take part in the Terry Fox Run held each September, and throughout the year in schools across the country have raised $550 million. The infusion of new funds boosted cancer research in Canada in the early 1980s. Since then, more than $450 million has been invested in research through nearly 1,200 grants and awards.
This research reflects Terry’s own spirit — it is adventurous and innovative, but still practical. Terry Fox-funded scientists are not bound to the letter of their grant proposal. If they encounter new pathways that seem more promising than what they initially proposed, they can follow those new directions. Advances in lymphoma and prostate cancer research, imaging technology and other areas, have been made possible through Terry Fox-funded research.
Every year since 1982, some twenty students have won Terry Fox Humanitarian Awards, and their achievements ripple around the world. These award-winners have excelled: Six became Rhodes Scholars, seventy became physicians, and fifty became teachers.
Dr. Roshni Dasgupta won a Terry Fox Humanitarian Award that paid her way to McGill University. She became a pediatric surgeon at Cincinnati’s Children’s Hospital, where the day I spoke to her, she had operated on an eighteen-year-old boy who had bone cancer in his right leg. It had spread to his lungs. She was operating on someone just like Terry.
Canadian children grow up with the story of the ordinary boy who became extraordinary Terry’s story inspired Canadian speed skater and four-time Olympian Kristina Groves. He wasn’t the strongest or the fastest athlete; in fact, he was probably one of the worst players on his junior high school basketball team, she explained. She didn’t start off as the most talented speed skater, either. But, she said, “I can identify so strongly with his effort to become the best.”
Terry’s wheelchair basketball teammate, Rick Hansen, went on to heroic achievements of his own and wheeled around the world, creating a foundation that has donated some $200 million for spinal cord research. He learned from Terry how to dig deep, he said, and to find more potential inside himself than he ever dreamed possible.
A few years ago, I drove from Ontario to Juan de Fuca Park on the west coast of Vancouver Island to see what would have been the end of the road for the Marathon of Hope. It is a wild and rocky place, where ropes of kelp turn in the roiling bay and signs warn of rogue waves. Douglas fir stand tall around the bay — trees just like the ones that framed the running track where Terry had trained in the darkness years before.
I asked people on the beach if they knew about Terry, and they did; it had been that way all across Canada. Everyone had a story about Terry, or felt a connection to him. One of the women on the beach that day said she taught English to new Canadians and said Terry’s story is popular among her Chinese students, who love tales of people who overcome obstacles. I met a twenty-eight-year-old surfer who was part of a group of young men who called themselves the Extreme Kindness Crew. “Terry is what I want to be; he’s what I want to create in the world,” the young man said.
He was only three years old when Terry ran. They’d never met. But, as with countless others, Terry had become the best part of him, just as he became an enduring, timeless part of Canada’s story.
July 28, 1958
Terrance Stanley Fox is born in Winnipeg to Rolly and Betty Fox. The family moves to British Columbia in 1966.
October 15, 1979
After losing his right leg to cancer, Terry writes to the Canadian Cancer Society to announce he is running across Canada to raise money to fight the disease.
April 12, 1980
Terry Fox dips his artificial leg in the waters off Newfoundland, beginning his Marathon of Hope.
July 1, 1980
Terry arrives in Ottawa for Canada Day. He kicks the opening ball of a CFL exhibition game with his good leg. The crowd of 16,000 gives him a standing ovation.
July 11, 1980
Terry meets his idol, Darryl Sittler of the Toronto Maple Leafs. The marathon raises $100,000 in a single day.
August 5, 1980
Terry reaches Sudbury, Ontario, the halfway point of his planned route across Canada.
September 1, 1980
Terry is forced to stop his run outside of Thunder Bay, Ontario. Doctors discover that cancer has spread to his lungs. Canadians everywhere are shocked by the news.
September 2, 1980
Isadore Sharp, chairman and CEO of Four Seasons Hotels and Resorts, tells the Fox family that he plans to organize an annual charity run in Terry’s name.
September 9, 1980
The CTV network broadcasts a star-studded telethon. It lasts five hours and raises $10 million. Terry watches the event from his hospital bed.
September 18, 1980
Terry becomes the youngest inductee into the Order of Canada.
He later wins the Lou Marsh Award for athletic achievement.
February 1, 1981
Terry’s hope of raising one dollar from every
Canadian is realized.
Canada’s population reaches 24.1 million; fundraising totals $24.17 million.
June 28, 1981
Terry Fox dies at Royal Columbian Hospital in New Westminster, British Columbia, one month short of his twenty-third birthday.
July 30, 1981
A stretch of the Trans-Canada Highway between Thunder Bay and Nipigon in Northwestern Ontario is renamed the Terry Fox Courage Highway.
September 13, 1981
The first annual Terry Fox Run is held. About 300,000 people participate, raising $3.5 million.
February 11, 1994
The Terry Fox Hall of Fame opens in Toronto. It recognizes people who make extraordinary contributions to enriching the quality of life of people with physical disabilities.
June 30,1999
Terry Fox is voted Canada’s greatest all-time hero in a month-long national online survey by the Dominion Institute and Council for Canadian Unity. Frederick Banting, discoverer of insulin, comes in second.
September 16, 2005
More than three million students from nine thousand Canadian schools participate in the first annual Terry Fox National School Run Day.
September 19, 2010
The thirtieth annual Terry Fox Run is held. The international event has to date raised about $550 million for cancer research.
by Mark Collin Reid
Most Canadians know Richard (Dick) Pound for his efforts to eliminate doping in sports. But the former Olympic swimmer is also a respected lawyer and author. His latest book is Made In Court: Supreme Court Decisions that Shaped Canada.
What inspired you to write Made In Court?
I wanted to show some of the many ways the Supreme Court’s decisions affect a broad range of Canadians, who may not be aware of the role the court plays in our day-to-day lives.
How much influence has the Supreme Court had on Canada’s development?
Only a tiny percentage of the cases that enter the legal system … ever get to the Supreme Court of Canada, but those that do are almost always important. Charter cases, criminal cases, Aboriginal rights issues, administrative law, and civil responsibility principles can have far-reaching impacts on Canadian society. What I hoped to show, at least in part, is that our governments, even though they may occasionally disagree with some decisions, have exhibited great confidence in the quality of our judges and have left great discretion to the courts in matters such as, for example, the Charter of Rights and Freedoms, where broad principles have been legislated, but specific applications have been left entirely to the courts to decide, with the Supreme Court of Canada as the final arbiter.
What surprised you most as you wrote the book?
Probably the obvious sincerity of the efforts of the judges to get the right answers — even when there may have been disagreements between them as to a particular outcome. The disagreements are always respectful and are not personalized, as they often are in the United States Supreme Court.
You wrote Made In Court to be accessible to both lawyers and lay people. Why?
My idea was to present a broad range of cases, old and new, in a manner that would be accessible to non-lawyers. There is not a single footnote in the book. I tried to give a brief background of each case and what the issues were and then to include some excerpts from the judgments, so that the readers could get a sense of how the court approached each problem and also be exposed to legal writing and reasoning.
by Ann Chandler
A group of English colonists arrived In August 1610, making them the first Europeans in Newfoundland. They settled at a place they named Cupers Cove, known today as Cupids. The colony’s first governor, John Guy, was given very specific instructions about how to set up the new colony, which included fortifying the settlement, building dwellings and other structures and carrying out experimental farming. In 1997, an archaeological excavation crew uncovered and mapped the dwelling house.
Almost half a millennium ago, pioneering groups of Inuit began to establish their winter villages on Labrador’s northern coast, relocating from the High Arctic to milder climatic conditions. Archaeologist Peter Whitridge has been excavating the village sites in order to shed more light on this neglected period of Labrador’s history.
For many Canadians, summer is a time to travel and explore the vast and diverse land we call home. It may seem as though much of the land is untouched, but wherever you go in Canada, people have been there before you, some of them much earlier than can be imagined. This land has been inhabited for more than 11,000 years, but the archaeological traces of human activity are often buried in the earth or lying beneath a sea bed.
While there have been extraordinary archaeological discoveries, much of the ground is unexplored. And the digging has really just begun. Even huge archaeological finds, such as the unearthed evidence of a Viking settlement at L’Anse aux Meadows on the northern tip of Newfoundland, have been discovered only in the last 50 years.
Archaeologists are devoted to studying the traces of material culture left behind by humans many, many years ago. Sites, discovered remains of human activity, can include single artifacts, kill-site areas, encampments and more defined habitation, such as villages and fortifications. In Canada, our largest archaeological sites include the Fortress of Louisbourg in Cape Breton, the Rainy River Burial Mounds in northwest Ontario and Head-Smashed-In Buffalo Jump in southern Alberta, among others.
While summer is a time for travel, it is also the prime time for site excavation. All across the country, field archaeologists are digging in the dirt. It’s not always a glamorous career, but the discoveries help complete our understanding of Canada’s past and the people who lived on the land hundreds or even thousands of years ago.
Check out these excavations:
Cupids, Newfoundland: Conception of a New Life
Quebec City: Trash or treasure?
Havre Saint Pierre and Port-la-Joye, P.E.I: A tale of two families
Nachvak and Kongu, Labrador: A new design
The Northern Plains: Nomads of the grasslands
Cypress Hills, Alberta: Secrets of the Great Plains
West Pubnico, Nova Scotia: Farming saltwater marshes
Quebec City: Blending past and present
Whitehorse, Yukon: Frozen in time
Victoria, B.C.: Unearthing an intersection of cultures
Dorset in the arctic: A Norse connection
Quality Creek, B.C.: Walking with dinosaurs
by Ann Chandler
It was August 1610 when English colonists first arrived in Newfoundland under the leadership of John Guy, a Bristol merchant, and walked the beaches of Cupers Cove in Conception Bay in search of a suitable area for a plantation. In an October letter sent to England to Sir Percival Willoughby, an investor in the company to settle Newfoundland, John Guy confirmed his choice:
This harbour is three leagues distance from Colliers bay to the Northeastward and preferred by me to begin our plantation before the said Colliers bay for the goodness of the harbour, the fruitfulness of the soil, the largeness of the trees and many other reasons ...
The cellar beneath the storehouse at the Cupids site was carefully excavated, revealing the depths of one of the oldest European buildings built on North American soil.
The plantation, near present-day Cupids, occupied throughout the 17th century, was Canada’s first official English settlement. By May 1611 the colonists had cleared the land and constructed several dwelling houses, a work house, storehouse, forge and wooden defense works upon which three cannon were mounted. The need to make money for English investors spurred the colonists to try to establish a fur trade with the native Beothuk, a venture that never succeeded.
The winter of 1612 was challenging, with eight of 62 residents succumbing to scurvy. But on March 27, 1613, a child was born. The significance likely escaped his father, Nicholas Guy, but the boy would go down in history as the first recorded English child born in what is now Canada.
In September 1612 a party led by Henry Crout hiked overland, cutting a trail as they headed to Trinity Bay, 29 kilometres west on the other side of the peninsula, searching for signs of Beothuk. That search was unsuccessful, but when Crout and John Guy approached Trinity Bay by water the following month, they found what they were looking for. Guy wrote in his journal:
At twilight they came to the said place, where they found no savages, but three of their houses, whereof two had been lately used, in one of which the hearth was hot. The savages were gone to the said island, whither we could not go for want of a boat. We found there a copper kettle kept very bright, a fur gown, some seal skins, an old sail and a fishing reel.
The artifacts indicated they were not the first Europeans to trade with the Beothuk. The following month they were able to make personal contact, sharing a meal and trading goods such as knives, clothing and linen.
(Faced with increasing European settlement, the proud but shy Beothuk, known as the “Red Indians” for their practice of painting themselves with red ochre, retreated to the interior, rarely seen. They were decimated by disease, starvation and hunting by Europeans. In 1829 the last known remaining Beothuk, Shawnadithit, died of tuberculosis following six years living in St. John’s.)
Some of the settlers who landed at Cupers Cove in 1610 gradually established other settlements on Conception and Trinity Bays. By 1631 Nicholas Guy had moved his family further up Conception Bay to Carbonear, establishing them as a prominent planter family. Guy wrote to Willoughby in September of that year:
This year I have made by my industry one hundred pounds clear in my purse ... for flesh I have enough and sufficient butter and cheese which part I sell and part I spare to my neighbours.
Nearly 385 years later, guided by the original letters and journals of Guy and his fellow settlers, a team led by William Gilbert, chief archaeologist with the Baccalieu Trail Heritage Corporation, located the site of the original plantation. Among the buildings excavated at the site are the dwelling house and storehouse finished by John Guy’s party in December 1610, two of the oldest European buildings in North America.
Among more than 100,000 artifacts recovered since 1995 are 17th-century clay pipes, an Elizabethan silver four-pence coin minted at the Tower of London between December 1560 and October 1561, a tin-glazed 17th-century apothecary jar, a variety of European ceramics, including a fragment of a Belgian jug dating back to the late 16th century, and hundreds of glass beads intended for trade with the Beothuk.
Archaeological evidence shows that some time between 1680 and 1710 the plantation seems to have met a violent end, possibly destroyed during Pierre Le Moyne d’Iberville’s raids on the English shore in the winter of 1696, on behalf of New France.
Archaeological excavations continue to unfold the early history of Cupers Cove and other settlements in Conception and Trinity Bays, known collectively as the Baccalieu Trail, 240 kilometres of coastline on the Avalon Peninsula. Restoration of the overland route taken by Henry Crout from Conception Bay to Trinity Bay in search of Beothuk camps is preserving Crout’s Way as a heritage trail — one of the oldest European trails in North America.
Evidence of more than 4,000 years of aboriginal activity, including that of Beothuk, Dorset and Maritime Archaic occupations, has been revealed during 12 years of excavations at Russell’s Point, Dildo Island and Anderson’s Cove.
In collaboration with the Cupers Cove Heritage Foundation and the Cupids Historical Society, Gilbert and his colleagues are anticipating that a significant portion of the plantation and related aboriginal sites will be exposed, stabilized and interpreted in time for the 400th anniversary of the founding of Cupids in 2010, an event likely to include a visit from British royalty and a re-enactment of John Guy’s voyage into Trinity Bay.
For more information visit BaccalieuDigs.ca.
This article originally appeared as part of a 22-page special feature in the June-July 2006 issue of The Beaver.
by Katie Dahl
In honour of the 250th anniversary of surveyor Samuel Holland’s visit to Canada’s East Coast, the Confederation Centre of Arts in Charlottetown, Prince Edward Island, will play host to one of his famous maps. The Imperial Designs: Samuel Holland’s 1765 Map and the Making of Prince Edward Island exhibit opens July 4 and runs until December 31, 2015, and is designed to illustrate Holland’s role in increasing the understanding P.E.I.’s geography.
Holland played an integral part in the surveying of the island and the 3.9-metre map he created will be part of the exhibition this summer.
Holland was born in the Netherlands in 1728. He was raised by two of his aunts due to the presumed death of his parents, Johan Holland and Johanna Buikers.
As an adult he spent a brief period in the Dutch artillery before moving to England in search of something better, leaving his wife, Gertrude Hasse, and their child behind. After becoming a lieutenant in the Royal Americans in 1756, he was sent to North America in 1757 to participate in the Seven Years War between the British and French. As assistant engineer to the British, Holland became part of the expedition to Louisburg. This led him to being with the British forces for the final battle of Louisburg in July, 1758.
Following this, he was commissioned to make charts and surveys of the St. Lawrence River to assist with the assault on the French stronghold of Quebec in 1759. At the end of the campaign Holland continued surveying and was promoted again.
With the new title of Surveyor General of Quebec, he returned to North America in 1764 and began an extensive survey of all British land north of the Potomac River, which flows through Washington, D.C. It was during this survey that he created his map of Prince Edward Island.
He divided the Island into sixty-seven sections — called townships — that were given out to wealthy British politicians and military personnel. In 1769, the Island, formerly called Île Saint-Jean, became an independent colony with Charlottetown (named after Queen Charlotte) as its capitol.
With aid from map engraver Thomas Jeffreys, Holland completed a detailed map by 1775 that divided the Island into three counties, named Prince, Queens and Kings, as well as fourteen parishes.
Holland went on to survey Cape Breton, the Gulf of St. Lawrence, and the eastern seaboard from Maine to Rhode Island prior to his death in Quebec in 1801.
For more information about the celebrations surrounding Samuel Holland and the 250th anniversary, visit the website.
by Ann Chandler
When Dr. Reginald Auger teaches his archaeology classes at Laval University in Quebec City, one of the things he always stresses is that if you want to learn about a residence, look around it. For it is here, he tells his students, that you will most likely find your richest source of information.
In 2000, in anticipation of the 400th anniversary of Quebec City in 2008, Auger and his team of archaeologists conducted excavations at the Palais de l’Intendant in the old city. True to Auger’s theory, the team’s richest finds were outside the palace.
The palace was built in 1669 to house the intendant, appointed by the king of France, who along with the governor carried out the administration of the colony. As the centre of official government business it was host to lavish social engagements, reflecting the prestige that accompanied the position of the king’s representative. Devastated by fire in 1713, it was reconstructed in 1716 but destroyed again during the American invasion of Quebec City in 1775.
The site is owned by the City of Quebec, which lent financial and technical support to its archaeological exploration. It had previously been researched by Laval University archaeologist Marcel Moussette, who spent more than 10 years excavating the original palace.
Little remains of the architecture of the palace, but Auger’s excavations have revealed sections of a wooden palisade that surrounded the fortified city. Remnants of its cedar posts, placed in 1690, were amazingly well preserved, and traces of the palace wall and pieces of its flagstone floor were unearthed. But the latrines behind the palace have proved to be the team’s gold mine, providing clues to the complete history of the site from 1725 to the 19th century. It appears from the assortment of liquor bottles found that the latrines were a good place to nip out for a drink. And at least one unfortunate fellow may have pocketed the dice from his card game and lost them in the latrine. Broken glass is abundant, and believed to have been deliberately placed to discourage scavenging vermin. Pieces of ceramics are plentiful, too.
Outbreaks of cholera and other infectious diseases early in the 19th century prompted worried city officials to provide drainage so that run-off from the latrines would head straight into the St. Lawrence River. Following the introduction of a city sewage system in the 1850s, the existing latrines were filled with garbage and layers of ash to prevent odours and bacteria.
Auger, an archaeologist with the Department of History at Laval, will return this spring with his team to see what additional tidbits of Canadian history can be found in the latrines.
The excavation site is open to the public weekdays from May to June, and the interpretation centre is open from late June to early September. For further information, visit Ilotdespalais.ca.
This article originally appeared as part of a 22-page special feature in the June-July 2006 issue of The Beaver.
by Ann Chandler
Prince Edward Island, home to the Mi’kmaq, lay virtually untouched by European settlement until the beginning of the 18th century. Alter the cession of Acadia to England by the Treaty of Utrecht in 1713, a number of Acadians moved to nearby French possessions. Among them were two families seeking a new home on the island then known as Île Saint-Jean. They had similar beginnings, but very different fates.
In 1720, Michel Haché dit Gallant, the orphaned son of an aboriginal mother and French father, arrived in Port-la-Joye, one of the island’s earliest French settlements, with his wife, Anne, and four of their 12 children. A prosperous man, Gallant is believed to have been harbourmaster. He and his extended family eventually occupied nine of the 15 properties in the community near present-day Charlottetown. In his 70s Gallant slipped through the ice of the North River and perished in 1737, never living to see the war with Britain in 1744, which led to the torching of his house in 1745, or the Acadian expulsion of 1758.
While Gallant was settling in Port-la-Joye, an Acadian farmer named Jacques Oudy brought his family to settle in Havre Saint-Pierre, the second French settlement, on the northeast coast of the island, near present-day Morelle on St. Peter’s Bay. Oudy and his wife raised 14 children who eventually comprised the majority of the community. Spared the British destruction of 1745, the farming Oudy clan grew crops of wheat, oats, peas and linseed to supply the occupying forces at the fortress at Louisbourg on Île Royale (Cape Breton Island).
Rob Ferguson, an archaeologist with Parks Canada, set out 141 years later, in 1999, to find the original site of Havre Saint-Pierre. Though the area was known to be the location of an early French settlement previous to British occupation, 200 years of the farmer’s plough had removed all traces, and neither surface features nor air photographs revealed any clues to the location. With the help of remote sensing, local folklore and a 1764 British survey map discovered in Charlottetown by archaeologist Scott Buchanan, Ferguson and his colleagues located three of the nine original Oudy homes, including a rich French midden (refuse pile) discovered beneath the remains of a British cellar, believed to be from the home of the original patriarch Jacques Oudy and his family.
Excavations have unearthed from the three French homesites the remains of a blacksmith forge, rarely seen Chinese porcelain, shards of brightly glazed green ceramic bowls from the Saintonge area of France and a number of seed samples. Scientific examination of the seed samples has revealed some startling information -the presence of a fungus known as sclerota of ergot, commonly found in rye, known to cause convulsions, hallucinations and gangrene.
The Gallant ancestral properties, on the southwest side of Charlottetown Harbour, today form part of the Port-la-Joye-Fort Amherst National Historic Site. Ferguson’s archaeological excavations here, examining the period from 1720 to 1758, have revealed fine kitchenware and fancy ceramics from Germany, Britain and Italy, evidence that the affluent Gallant provided well for his family. Fortunately, Gallant’s family survived the deportation, and Gallant would have been proud to know that his ancestors were on hand to mark the 250th anniversary of the Acadian expulsion in 2005.
Unlike the Gallants, the farming Oudy clan seems to have vanished from the historical record. During the expulsion of Acadians from Île Saint-Jean in 1758, it is believed the entire Oudy clan boarded the ill-fated La Violet for the voyage to France, perishing when the ship went down in the Atlantic. Despite exhaustive searches of Canadian, French and genealogical records by Ferguson and his colleagues, all that remains of the extended Oudy family are archaeological traces in the rich soils of Prince Edward Island.
Visit Port-la-Joye-Fort Amherst National Historic Site online. The entire 1752 census of Île Saint-Jean, including all members of the Oudy family, can be found at IslandRegister.com/1752.html.
This article originally appeared as part of a 22-page special feature in the June-July 2006 issue of The Beaver.
by Ann Chandler
More than 400 years ago, where Nachvak Fjord slices through the mountains rising out of the sea on Labrador’s northern coast, pioneering groups of Inuit established a winter village in an environment vastly different from anything they had known. Driven by the advancement of the Little Ice Age (approximately 1400 to 1900), which disrupted the migration patterns of the bow-head whale, their main food source, some Inuit migrated south from the Central and High Arctic seeking a less tenuous life.
At Nachvak they followed their traditional living patterns, constructing circular semi-subterranean houses with flagstone floors and stone walls. Whale bone or driftwood draped with hides and covered with sod formed the roofs. Inhabitants, traditionally one or two families, entered the house through a sunken tunnel that acted as a cold-trap. Inside were raised sleeping platforms and a raised lampstand to hold their soapstone lamps.
Labrador’s new inhabitants did less whaling, as the migrating bowhead were less accessible from shore and conditions of the late fall whaling season were particularly challenging. Instead, there was a greater reliance on Arctic char, ringed and harp seals, walrus and caribou.
Closer to the mouth of Nachvak Fjord, at a site known as Kongu, evidence shows that 200 years later a significant change occurred in Inuit culture, economy and social habits. Contact with European whalers and explorers became more frequent. In 1771, Moravian missionaries, whose major objective was to lead the Inuit away from their indigenous religious beliefs, succeeded in establishing a permanent settlement further south at Nain. Members of a Protestant sect, the Moravians had sailed from London in a second attempt at settlement following the mysterious disappearance of four missionaries in 1752. This increased European contact caused a substantial shift in Inuit culture.
Peter Whitridge, assistant professor of archaeology at Memorial University in St. John’s, Nfld., has studied the Inuit for years, excavating their village sites and following them from their home in the higher Arctic down to Labrador’s shores. Excavating the 16th-century Nachvak location in 2003, Whitridge and his team found tools, knives and blades made from iron nails, but at Kongu the following year, they unearthed consumer goods, such as pottery, teacups, pipes and bottle glass. Housing foundations at Kongu show a change to larger rectangular structures accommodating four or five families. Trade with Europeans played a much larger role in Inuit life. Kongu’s location closer to the mouth of the fjord afforded greater opportunities for obtaining imported goods. They traded ivory, furs, oil, baleen and fish with Moravian missions and the Hudson’s Bay Company in exchange for firearms, tobacco, tea, sugar, flour and manufactured goods.
Later, with the end of whaling, a result of European overfishing, whale bone roof supports are not as common, replaced by wooden building materials. During the late 1800s the sunken tunnel entrance is gradually replaced by a higher-roofed storm porch, and imported wood stoves are used for cooking, although the soapstone lamps remain. Whitridge’s research also shows gradual change in gender relations, evidenced in the promotion of women’s spaces inside the home.
Men spent more time away from home, harvesting goods to satisfy the Inuit desire to trade for European goods. Lampstands increase in number and move to more prominent spaces in the communal living area — a significant evolution, as the lamp represents a major symbol in Inuit life, providing light, warmth, cooked food, dry clothing and the soot used as pigment for traditional tattooing.
During the 19th century, says Whitridge, Labrador Inuit increasingly converted to Christianity. While many settled permanently around the Moravian missions, others, like the occupants of Kongu, refused to convert or resettle, actively resisting European influence. Diseases such as measles and influenza took their toll, greatly reducing the population of Inuit communities. The influenza epidemic of 1918-1919 so decimated the population of Okak, the largest community on the north coast, that the settlement was abandoned.
As the area continues to be influenced by climate change, the Inuit continue to adapt. A large part of northern Labrador has been named the Torngat Mountains National Park Reserve, an area Whitridge says is on the verge of redevelopment as a cultural, adventure and ecotourism destination.
To learn more about the Moravians in Labrador and their influence on the Inuit, visit the Memorial University website.
This article originally appeared as part of a 22-page special feature in the June-July 2006 issue of The Beaver.
by Ann Chandler
About 5,000 years ago in the Russian steppes, covering roughly 7,000 kilometres east to west across the top of Eurasia, nomadic bands moved across the plains and grasslands with their goats, cattle and sheep. They travelled in carts — at first heavy ones drawn by cattle or oxen, later lighter carts drawn by horses. They slept in the carts along the way, much as people do today in their recreational vehicles.
Stopping in areas suitable for grazing, they set up semi-permanent shelters, known as yurts, constructed by forming a wooden lattice frame and covering it with a thick felt fabric woven from sheep’s wool. The covering provided warmth and resisted moisture. A flap in the domed top allowed smoke to escape. They stayed and tended their herds until the food resources for humans and animals were depleted, then packed up and moved on.
When Ian Dyck, plains archaeologist with the Canadian Museum of Civilization in Gatineau, Quebec, first travelled in the 1990s to the steppes with Russian-Cana-dian colleague and museum research associate Elena Ponomarenko, he was amazed at how similar the landscape was to that of our northern Great Plains, or the prairies. What resemblances, he mused, might be found between the nomadic people who occupied such similar landscapes? Dyck and his colleagues decided to find the answer.
After visiting Russian colleagues and archaeological sites in the Samara region, Dyck and Ponomarenko invited archaeologist Anna Kochkina and her team from the Samara Museum in Samara, Russia to visit Canada in the fall of 2000 and tour sites on the prairies. The groups pooled their research findings, comparing and contrasting the customs, movements, culture and archaeological traces of the nomadic peoples covering the period from about 5,000 years ago to about 300 years ago. Intending to look only at the archaeology of the two areas that share a latitude and similar environments, they soon expanded the project to incorporate ethnographical and historical research.
Like the Russian steppe people, aboriginal people of our northern Great Plains were nomadic, erecting camps in areas with the greatest availability of resources. Unlike their Russian counterparts who had discovered the wheel, the aboriginal people relied on themselves and their dogs to carry their belongings. Their teepees were similar to the Russian yurts: poles covered with hides, with an opening in the conical top for smoke. Like the yurts, the interiors were divided, with storage space inside the door, and sides to roll back in the heat of summer.
Both groups preserved food through drying, but the Russians also used salt as preservative. Both fashioned weapons and tools from stone and bone. Their ceramics show marked similarity in stages and shapes but there is no definite indication of cultural influence between the two groups.
Evidence for an extended trade network in Canada’s northern Great Plains can be seen in the presence of shell artifacts from the Atlantic, copper from the Great Lakes region and exotic materials from as far away as the Caribbean. The Russian steppe people, migrating across an area bisected by the Silk Road, a system of trading routes across central Asia, also had a vast network of rich trade extending thousands of kilometres. Their burial mounds, the source of much of the Russian archaeological finds, were rich with jewellery and other items fashioned from gold, silver and bronze, even preserved leather.
The greatest difference between the two groups, Dyck says, was the food source. With no domesticated herds, nomads of the northern Great Plains hunted for their food, following the bison and other wild animals. With domesticated animals, Russian groups controlled their sources of food, clothing and tools, hunting mainly for recreation. Lack of predictable food sources was a factor that kept northern Great Plains groups smaller than their Russian counterparts.
Although it’s possible that exchanges occurred between the two nomadic groups, Dyck says, resemblances in culture most likely arose because similar environments caused them to adapt in similar ways. The joint research, he says, has provided a valuable exchange of discoveries, ideas and information between the two countries.
The results of the collaboration between the Samara Museum for Historical and Regional Studies and the Canadian Museum of Civilization were revealed in an exhibit at the CMC December 2006 through September 2007, however, you can still find part of the collection online.
This article originally appeared as part of a 22-page special feature in the June-July 2006 issue of The Beaver.
by Ann Chandler
In the soft shadows of an oasis of hills in the northwestern section of the Great Plains, where the wind scorches the grasses during hot summers and bites through the frigid air of long, harsh winters, a nomadic band of aboriginals camps in a protected site near a spring-fed creek that joins the nearby lake. A teepee made of hides shelters an old woman from the afternoon sun. Her lightning-fast fingers hold a delicate bone needle, darting in and out of the elk-skin garment she holds in her lap, securing
Eight thousand years later, in 2004, that fine bone needle is unearthed at the bottom of a deep pit, intact but for a broken eye. Archaeologist Gerry Oetelaar and his team are ecstatic. For Oetelaar, the needle is evidence that the site was not just used as a temporary hunting camp but was a long-term camp where family activities took place. But this archaeological site, nestled in the Cypress Hills in Alberta’s southeastern corner, is revealing much more than Oetelaar expected.
A cluster of hills and grasslands that straddles the Alberta-Saskatchewan border, the Cypress Hills boast the highest elevation between Labrador and the Rocky Mountains. Thousands of years of human occupation around Elkwater Lake have left a rich legacy of archaeological treasures — a legacy that may cause archaeologists to revisit some accepted theories.
A projectile point used for hunting, fashioned from white chert, a naturally occurring flint-like material of silicon dioxide, has been found here in a layer of human occupation that is 6,000 years old. The point strongly resembles the Besant point, a dart tip of specific design normally believed to be in use 1,200 to 2,000 years ago, leading Oetelaar to question the range of dates typically associated with that style of projectile point.
“What’s truly remarkable for these nomadic groups that moved across the landscape,” says Oetelaar, barely able to contain his excitement, “is that they not only set up camp in the same area but set their fireplaces here in precisely the same location as that of their ancestors thousands of years before them, despite layers of sediment from a local landslide and 10 to 15 centimetres of volcanic ash that would have buried any evidence of previous fires.”
As Oetelaar and his team work down through the layers of sediment, they repeatedly find fireplaces surrounded by dense concentrations of household debris laid directly on top of fireplaces from previous occupations. “And,” he says, “we still have not found the earliest occupations, which may be as far as 15 metres below the surface.”
Oetelaar, from the University of Calgary, began the project in 2000 to investigate the unique ecosystem of trees, grasses and plants in the local uplands. Stands of lodgepole pine bend and sway in the wind here. Originating in the Rocky Mountains, and not native to the prairies, the lodgepole is so named because aboriginal groups used it to construct their teepees, or lodges. Though it has long been known that seeds travel great distances carried by animal, human or environmental movement, Oetelaar theorizes that aboriginal groups took advantage of this and encouraged the growth of certain vegetation, like the lodgepole pine, thereby managing resources for personal use in traditional campgrounds.
Today, if you follow Highways 1, 2 and 3 in Alberta, you will be following the traditional trails of the Blackfoot. Oetelaar believes this well-established system of trails not only followed the migration of the bison but moved along a network of sites, like present-day Medicine Hat (known to the aboriginals as Saamis), that specifically provided an abundance of localized resources — berries, plants and animals. At each campsite the oral histories and special ceremonies linked to that site provided a sort of history lesson for the succeeding generations.
Oetelaar says this area, known to the Blackfoot as the Divided Hills, was considered common ground to other aboriginal groups, among them the Cree, who knew it as the Thunder Breeding Hills, and the Nakota, who called it “A warm place in the north that is an island by itself.”
In the new Interpretive Centre, scheduled for completion in late 2006 or early 2007 in Cypress Hills Interprovincial Park, the richness of the finds will be revealed in a slice of Oetelaar’s excavation wall, a sort of “book of sediments” providing an educational centerpiece where one can read the site’s evidence of human use, its unique prairie vegetation and its geological development through sedimentary deposition and erosion.
For further information visit CypressHills.com.
This article originally appeared as part of a 22-page special feature in the June-July 2006 issue of The Beaver.
by Ann Chandler
Along Nova Scotia’s southwestern shores you can walk the saltwater marshes farmed by the Acadians who first settled in the uplands in the mid-1600s. The changing tides of the sea that provided sustenance also saturated the land with salt, rendering it infertile. Dykes were built to hold back the sea, but the salt water seeped in through the soil beneath, leaving behind the salt when the tides subsided. Settlers desperate to grow crops faced a challenge — how to keep the fresh water in and the salt water out?
As a solution, the early Acadians incorporated a technology from their home country of France — a sluice box known as an aboiteau. The simple but highly efficient design consists of two squared timbers laid parallel to form the sides of the box, a roof and floor constructed from planks and a gate at one end that swings open to allow excess fresh water to flow out but swings closed against incoming salt water. The aboiteaux were buried beneath the dyke at sea level. With constant drainage and the dilution of salt content by rainwater, the land was able to sustain crops within a few years of installation. (Before the advent of milled wood, aboiteaux were built from hollowed out logs using axes and adzes.) Use of the aboiteaux allowed Acadians to grow ample crops such as hay, wheat and vegetables.
In 1990, residents walking along the beach of Double Island, West Pubnico, Nova Scotia, noticed several boards protruding from the muddy marsh. Four years later they investigated further and found the remains of an aboiteau dating to the late 18th or early 19th century.
In fall of the following year, staff from the Nova Scotia Museum visited the site and made plans to excavate and preserve the aboiteau. A local excavation crew assisted Ted D’Eon, a local pharmacist with an avid passion for history, and archaeologist Stephen Powell, assistant curator at the Nova Scotia Museum. They removed the covering layers of marsh mud and gravel, photographed the aboiteau and carried it to a trailer to be towed to a nearby garage.
Between three and four metres long and 35 to 40 centimetres wide, constructed of white pine, the aboiteau was severely waterlogged and missing the swing gate and several planks. After cleaning, it was soaked in wood preservative for several months, then dried.
Though existence of the aboiteau is well known in recorded history, few examples of this early Acadian technology survive. Two other restored aboiteaux dating to the early to mid 18th century are on display at the Grand-Pré National Historic Site at Grand Pré and the North Hills Museum at Granville Ferry, both in Nova Scotia.
To get a glimpse of the West Pubnico aboiteau, visit the Acadian Museum in West Pubnico, Nova Scotia, or visit the website MuseeAcadien.ca.
This article originally appeared as part of a 22-page special feature in the June-July 2006 issue of The Beaver.
by Ann Chandler
On the banks of the St. Lawrence, in the Old Port of the city of Quebec, the second-oldest European city in Canada after St. Johns, Nfld., sits the hotel Auberge Saint-Antoine.
The modern hotel with its luxurious rooms, highspeed Internet and spa is an unlikely place to encounter archaeological artifacts. But patrons leisurely sipping a glass of aged Merlot in the hotel lounge can casually contemplate cannonballs fired in 1759, muse over a collection of shoe soles from the 17th century or ponder an array of historic glass bottles. Or they can admire a 150-year-old lantern encased in their night table before slipping under their down duvets and drifting off to sleep.
Tony Price, a fifth-generation Quebecois, acquired the collection of crumbling warehouses and apartment buildings in 1990, transforming them into a luxury hotel. The owners entered into a unique 25-year collaboration with Laval University, the City of Quebec and the Ministry of Culture to incorporate and display the museum-quality artifacts found on the site. Aware that he was developing an archaeological site, Price was enthusiastic and supportive, working with the City of Quebec, from which he acquired the site, to adhere to architectural restrictions and promote the site’s heritage. In 1991, before building began on the open-air parking area, a team from Laval University, headed by archaeologist Reginald Auger, started an archaeological investigation. Though not the first excavation on the site, it revealed a wealth of historical treasures.
Used as a cannon battery in wartime and a thriving centre of merchant trade in peace time, the site, known as Ilot Hunt, yielded a stunning array of artifacts, providing a continuous record of military, commercial and residential occupation since the 17th century. From excavating the ancient latrines and other areas, Auger says, archaeologists have gained insight into the health of the site’s occupants through examination of parasites, learned more about British, French and Irish diets, and acquired information on the sewage system developed in the 19th century.
Intrigued by the excavation in the parking lot, the Price family became avid observers, delighting at the artifacts uncovered daily. They developed the unique idea of incorporating the artifacts and the site’s heritage into the hotel’s design, enlisting museum-trained professionals to preserve and maintain authenticity, and collaborating with archaeologists involved in the excavation. William Moss, archaeologist with the City of Quebec who worked with the Price family on the development of the 25-year agreement, calls it one of the most interesting experiences he has had as an archaeologist.
Of the thousands of artifacts uncovered, hundreds are now elegantly displayed in glass cases built into walls and room features. Each artifact is accompanied by a drawing of the original piece and a description of its use. A section of the 17th-century cannon battery, at one point levelled and used as a wharf but now carefully restored, is part of the hotel lobby. Food in the dining room, which is housed in an early 19th-century warehouse used by a tableware merchant, is served on replicas of an early 19th-century plate excavated from the site. On Saturdays guests are given archaeological tours explaining the history of the site and the significance of the artifacts.
Now run by Price’s son Evan, the Auberge Saint-Antoine offers a window into the Quebec of centuries past, lending new meaning to time travel.
For further information visit Saint-Antoine.com.
This article originally appeared as part of a 22-page special feature in the June-July 2006 issue of The Beaver.
by Ann Chandler
In 2003, Cody Joe, a member of the Champagne and Aishihik First Nations found lying on rocks in the ice fields of southwestern Yukon near Whitehorse two water-logged fragments of hide sprouting a growth of moss. Thinking the pieces were fragments of a leather bag or drawstring pouch, Joe, a field assistant with the Yukon Ice Patch Project who was in the area west of Whitehorse to search for artifacts, brought them to the Yukon government archaeology and conservation laboratory in Whitehorse.
Valery Monahan, a conservator with the Yukon government, painstakingly cleaned the fragments and pieced them together. As the artifact took shape, Monahan realized it was not a bag after all, but an even rarer archaeological find — a moccasin with an ankle tie. Radiocarbon dating showed the footwear to be approximately 1,400 years old, making it the oldest known moccasin in Canada. Monahan spent approximately 240 hours restoring it over the past two and a half years. She believes the moccasin may have been used for lightweight summer footwear, as it was found in a forested area traditionally used for summer caribou hunting.
Previous Canadian finds of ancient hide clothing have been found mainly in tundra regions, left by ancestors of today’s Inuit people. A hunter belonging to the early Atha-paskan people is believed to have dropped or discarded the moccasin. It is only one of numerous artifacts being exposed by the melting ice patches in the Yukon.
The Yukon Ice Patch Project is a joint research effort of the Yukon government and six First Nations communities. The project was born following a sighting of caribou dung deposits in the area in 1997 — in a region where caribou had not roamed for at least 70 years. The dating of a core sampling of the dung showed it to be 2,000 years old.
Greg Hare, site assessment archaeologist for the Yukon government, says the sites they have visited since the project’s inception in 1997 have yielded 185 artifacts, including numerous hunting tools, bones and mummified birds and mammals.
Artifacts beneath ice patches are doubly valuable, Hare says, because a lot can be determined from the context in which they’re found. Unlike glaciers that are constantly shifting, the ice patches don’t move, so artifacts found there are most likely very close to where they were originally dropped or discarded. The oldest artifact found, a section of a hunting dart, is 9,000 years old.
You can visit the Yukon government's website, or read this beautifully-illustrated pdf about the project.
This article originally appeared as part of a 22-page special feature in the June-July 2006 issue of The Beaver.
by Ann Chandler
In 1849, the British government granted the new colony of Vancouver Island to the Hudson’s Bay Company in return for the company’s agreement to bring out colonists. The Songhees people, who spoke a dialect of the North Straits Salish language, occupied the area surrounding Fort Victoria, which HBC chief factor James Douglas began constructing in 1843. Also referred to as Songies or Songish, they had become a vital part of the fort’s bustling new economy. In the years since Douglas, later governor of Vancouver Island and of British Columbia, had steamed into their harbour aboard the SS Beaver, the Songhees had proved themselves to be an industrious people, providing the inhabitants of the fort and surrounding areas with valuable seasonal provisions and labour. The women sold potatoes, clams, fish and handmade baskets, or worked in the employ of colonial households. Men provided game and labour to clear land, build fences and construct houses. In 1852 the Songhees comprised the majority of the construction crew building a new road west to Sooke, earning $8 a month, replacing workers who had moved on to seek their fortunes in the goldfields.
Soon their culture was showing telltale signs of European influence: the woven dog-hair blankets gave way to European-style blankets; by the 1860s traditional shed-roof lodges were being replaced with more European-style houses. Many resided near the fort, but after a suspicious fire in a wooded area in 1844, authorities asked them to establish a village on the other side of the harbour. By the following year about 70 families resided in the village.
The thriving economy in Fort Victoria began attracting large numbers of First Nations groups from the north and south in search of trade. Though the interaction among the tribes was not always agreeable, the broader variety of trade goods supplemented that which the Songhees could provide. Apart from clashes with visiting First Nations groups and the odd local upheaval, the Songhees appeared content. But the growing number of new settlers was bursting the seams of the fort and surrounding areas, increasing the demand for land and pressuring officials to move the Songhees even further away. In 1850, Douglas began the first treaty negotiations. Disparate opinions were heard among the colonists, and newspapers of the day continually monitored the latest development in the “Indian problem.”
After 1860, colonial businessmen rented portions of the village, by then called the Songhees Reserve, establishing businesses and employing Songhees. In 1888 the Esquimalt and Nanaimo Railway Company built a rail line through the Songhees Reserve, providing monetary compensation to any Songhees who were forced to move from the right of way. In the ensuing years, the Songhees refused several offers to purchase their reserve land, unhappy with any lands proposed as replacement.
Finally, in 1911, bowing to pressure from government officials and landowners, the Songhees relinquished the Old Songhees Reserve land in return for money and a slightly larger portion of land (163 acres) in Esquimalt Harbour, four kilometres east.
Following more than 90 years of industrial activity, the waterfront land of the old reserve, which had become known as Victoria West, caught the eye of local developer Westbank Projects Corporation. Planning to erect condominiums on three acres, it hired archaeologist Ian Wilson to examine the site. Wilson didn’t anticipate finding anything of much interest, but he was proven wrong when his excavations began in spring 2005.
Working alongside several Songhees and Esquimalt First Nations archaeologists, Wilson and his crew found a cistern dating to the early 1840s. Deep and waterlogged, it held numerous well-preserved objects, including more than 100 pairs of locally manufactured boots and shoes and northern Tlingit and Haida basketry. One prized artifact, a wooden halibut hook, about two feet long and carved in the shape of a seal swallowing a halibut, is believed to be of Tlingit or Haida origin. Wilson speculates that these objects were thrown into the cistern during a clean-up after an 1856 epidemic of smallpox in the village.
Though several pre-historic Songhees sites in the area had been excavated, this appears to be the largest find of artifacts from the historic period between 1845 and 1855. Modern condos will eventually sit on the land the Songhees once called home, but archaeologists have saved this glimpse into how their culture intersected with the Europeans who arrived on their doorstep.
For more information on the history and traditions of the Coast Salish, including the Songhees, visit The Bill Reid Centre on SFU.ca/brc/virtual_village/coast_salish.html.
This article originally appeared as part of a 22-page special feature in the June-July 2006 issue of The Beaver.
by Ann Chandler
When one thinks of Canadian dinosaurs, Drumheller, Alberta, immediately comes to mind. Prior to 2002 only two findings of dinosaur bones had been officially reported in British Columbia.
Paleontologist Rich McCrea has had the pleasure of changing all that.
McCrea, a doctoral candidate at the University of Alberta, was called upon in 2002 to investigate a sighting of dinosaur footprints in the Peace River district of northeastern B.C. He found not only tracks, but a treasure trove of dinosaur bones — the oldest bones ever found in Western Canada. McCrea called in Lisa Buckley, a paleontologist and specialist in dinosaur bone excavation who is working on her master’s degree, and together they coaxed more than 20 fragmented bones from the site. The following year they discovered and excavated 50 more.
McCrea and Buckley are investigating almost a dozen sites in the region that are yielding footprints or bones, or both. The bones represent an assortment of dinosaur types — such as theropods, ankylosaurs, ornithopods — and marine animals such as crocodiles and turtles. They’ve even found fish scales. The bones, which include limb bones, vertebrae, dermal armour, shoulder spines and a few teeth, date to approximately 93 to 95 million years ago, 20 million years older than the bones from the Drumheller area. The footprints have proven to be an astonishing 75 to 140 million years old. And McCrea says there is much, much more out there. McCrea and Buckley returned to the main site, known as Quality Creek, in May.
The finds prompted the establishment in 2003 of the Peace Region Paleontology Research Centre in Tumbler Ridge, B.C., 160 kilometres northeast of Prince George, funded by the Tumbler Ridge Museum Foundation, a volunteer organization. McCrea and Buckley are creating a Dinosaur Discovery Gallery at the centre, which is scheduled to open this spring.
If dinosaur exploring fascinates you, two sites are open to the public near Tumbler Ridge: Flatbed Creek Site and Wolverine River Site, where you can take nighttime guided lantern tours. For details on these finds visit PRPRC.com.
This article originally appeared as part of a 22-page special feature in the June-July 2006 issue of The Beaver.
by Ann Chandler
Did the Dorset people, who occupied the Arctic between 1000 B.C. and A.D. 1000, have more extensive contact with the Norse than originally thought? Pat Sutherland, an archaeologist with the Canadian Museum of Civilization, is seeking the answer through reinvestigation of some archaeological sites and artifacts. Over the past five years, Sutherland has been investigating four Dorset sites: Avayalik in Northern Labrador, Nunguvik on North Baffin Island, Nanook on South Baffin Island and Willow’s Island in Frobisher Bay. Sutherland believes that artifacts of spun cordage found at these sites will provide some of the answers to the questions of Dorset-Norse contact.
The Dorset people, Sutherland says, wore traditional clothing made from hides, while the Norse were known to fashion textiles and objects from spun materials. Presence of the cordage artifacts, spun from the hairs of Arctic hare, fox and dog, has led Sutherland to suggest that the Dorset may have had more contact with the Norse Greenlanders than previously thought. Some academic theories have the Dorset people disappearing from the Arctic by the 11th century, but Sutherland believes that the presence of the cordage may suggest that the Dorset people survived longer, well into the period of the arrival of the Norse in Greenland in the late 10th century.
To read more about the project and view the cordage read Patricia Sutherland’s essay on the HistoryMuseum.ca website.
This article originally appeared as part of a 22-page special feature in the June-July 2006 issue of The Beaver.
by Ray Argyle
The witnesses called to observe the execution of Cook Teets, a blind man found guilty of killing his wife with strychnine, stamped their feet as they stood at the gate to the Grey County Jail in Owen Sound, Ontario, at dawn on December 5, 1884. A snowstorm was gathering along the shore of Georgian Bay The mixed group of lawyers, doctors, and acquaintances of the condemned man — more than fifty in all — was anxious to have the hanging over and done with.
Just before 8 a.m., Teets, a tall, white-bearded man, emerged from his solitary death cell walking arm-in-arm between two ministers, Methodist Reverend J.E. Howell and Presbyterian Reverend A.H. Scott.
Jailer John Miller led them to the comer of the prison yard where a gallows had been erected.
The doomed man mounted the scaffold with a “firm step,” according to newspaper accounts of the day Dressed in a black broadcloth suit, Teets stood on the trap door waiting to plunge to his death. “Well, gentlemen, this is the fatal board,” he said. Miller would later claim that Teets had intended to confess to the killing. But there was no confession. Church bells tolled a death knell as a black flag was run up the prison’s flagstaff.
The hanging of fifty-five-year-old Cook Teets, the son of a respected family of farmers and furniture makers, was the first ever in Owen Sound. And it left the community divided. The execution followed a long investigation into the death of his bride of six weeks, the former Rosannah Leppard.
She was just twenty-five and pregnant when a doctor examined her body in the shack where Rosannah still lived with her mother — Teets and Leppard never actually lived together as husband and wife. The home was on the outskirts of Flesherton, a small farm town a few miles south of Owen Sound. An autopsy conducted in Toronto revealed traces of strychnine in her stomach. The jury attending her inquest on November 1, 1883, found her death to have been a “willful murder.” Teets was charged and taken to the Owen Sound jail to await trial.
Many in the community could not believe that Teets — blind since boyhood after being hit in the eyes by a rock-laden snowball — was capable of finding a way to administer a dose of the fast-acting, awful-tasting poison to his young wife Rosie. Neighbours agreed that his behaviour was often eccentric. He had endured the taunts of children as he walked along country roads, led by his faithful seeing-eye dog. But there was evidence that he had not been near his wife for at least twelve hours before her death.
Rosannah belonged to an extended and barely reputable family. Teets had given her money to take out a four-thousand-dollar insurance policy on her life. He said she wanted the policy to provide for any children in the event of her death.
The jury heard only circumstantial evidence against Teets. He admitted having strychnine in his possession — but the pesticide was in common use on this western Ontario farming frontier, mainly to control predators and rodents. Teets explained that he had used some to kill foxes; he had even made a cape for his mother from their pelts.
Justice J.D. Armour, the presiding judge, charged the jury “strongly against the prisoner,” according to newspaper reports. After a half hour of deliberation, it returned a verdict of guilty, but with a recommendation for mercy.
A total of 168 people signed a petition urging clemency and sent it to Minister of Justice Sir Alexander Campbell, a senator and former law partner of Prime Minister John A. Macdonald. It pointed to “the character of the principal witnesses, namely the Leppard family.” They added it was “quite possible that the poison was obtained by the deceased elsewhere than from Cook Teets or without his knowledge or consent and that it is quite possible that the said poison was administered by some others than the prisoner.”
The petition, along with a second plea sent in by three Owen Sound barristers, went unanswered.
The day before his hanging, Teets dictated a long statement to Reverend Howell. He denied any complicity in the poisoning of his wife, saying simply, “I go to my death an innocent man.”
Was he innocent?
Teets, like most of the 709 other people who have been lawfully executed in Canada, did not have the benefit of such present-day procedures as judicial reviews, public inquiries, DNA evidence, or the support of the group that has been able to overturn many recent convictions, the Association in Defence of the Wrongly Convicted (AIDWYC).
Many who knew Teets believed he was innocent, and later events seemed to prove them right. Those events involved Rosannah’s mother, Roseann Leppard, who was committed to the Toronto Asylum after having served a jail term for attempting to burn down a neighbour’s barn. An 1891 census entry shows her as a resident of the asylum at the age of fifty-five, of Irish extraction, and a Roman Catholic. Apparently suffering from schizophrenia, she remained at the asylum until her death in 1918.
Ten years before Leppard died, she reportedly began telling a strange tale to anyone who would listen. For years, there had been rumours she had had something to do with her daughter’s death. For a time before the arrest of Cook Teets, she had been under surveillance. She had been alone with Rosannah during her daughter’s last meal and was at her bedside while the girl suffered in the throes of poison. She had even gotten a black eye when her daughter struck out before dying.
Now, according to the Toronto Telegram, Leppard had a confession to make. It was she, not Cook Teets, who had poisoned the young woman. The newspaper headlined its story “HANGED AN INNOCENT MAN — Last Execution in Owen Sound Was a Legal Murder.”
Today, Rosannah Teets’ great-great-niece, April Bell, of Abbotsford, British Columbia, believes there is enough doubt about the evidence that Teets should not have been hanged. Bell found out about the case while delving into her family’s genealogy. She came across a story about the incident in a local history book about Artemesia Township. “I knew when I read the page that something didn’t add up, and I was curious to know more,” Bell said recently in an interview.
She read the trial transcript and even visited the cemetery where Teets was buried in an unmarked grave.
“Everything I learned strengthened my conviction that an innocent man had been hanged,” she says. Even so, what really happened is far from clear in her mind. For one thing, she doubts the newspaper account of Roseann Leppard’s confession.
“Roseann Leppard was quite insane for many years, and I have obtained her medical file,” said Bell. “There is no mention in the file that she was confessing to any murder or poisoning. Other ramblings are mentioned quite specifically, so I hesitate to believe this newspaper article. There likely was a lot of rumour for many years....
“So it remains a mystery.”
James Lockyer, the criminal lawyer who co-founded AIDWYC, says he has “no doubt that many people were executed in Canada for crimes they did not commit. It’s an inevitable consequence of any system of capital punishment.”
Lockyer, a warm, curly-haired man given to dressing casually in T-shirts and jeans, works out of a spartan office in Toronto’s downtown, where he spends eighty per cent of his time investigating possible wrongful convictions. Sitting at a table cluttered with files and law books, he takes a break from his latest case — a man convicted twenty-three years ago of first-degree murder — to explain why it’s important to examine past miscarriages of justice, even if they happened a long time ago.
There is no way of knowing exactly how many Canadians were put to death for crimes they did not commit.
“It’s always right to find out the truth of any miscarriage of justice. It serves as a warning to Canadians not to go back to capital punishment. Leave that to Iran, China, and the United States.”
He added: “People should care about the history of wrongful convictions, even though it is very difficult to prove innocence beyond the grave.”
There is usually little motivation to try to secure reversals for people who are now dead, says Lockyer. One exception is the case of Wilbert Coffin. On February 10, 1956, a death flag flew and a chime sounded seven times at Montreal’s Bordeaux Jail to mark the hanging of the Quebec mining prospector and woodsman. He had been convicted in the shooting death of Richard Lindsay, one of three American hunters he was thought to have killed. Like Teets, the evidence against Coffin was circumstantial.
Coffin went through seven stays of execution before finally being hanged. His fate sparked great controversy that has never been resolved. Journalist Jacques Hebert, later to become a senator, wrote two books on the case and was cited for contempt of court. Hebert and others who were suspicious of the fairness of Coffin’s trial said his lawyer was incompetent and that the Quebec government applied pressure to obtain a conviction in order to protect the province’s profitable American tourist trade.
With the support of Prime Minister Stephen Harper and Justice Minister Rob Nicholson, Parliament voted on February 6, 2007, for a judicial review of the Coffin case. It is one of fifty-two files being examined by Ottawa’s Criminal Convictions Review Group (CCRG) for new evidence that could warrant a fresh trial or an appeal.
Lockyer’s group has been the driving force in righting the most notorious wrongful convictions in Canada. The list includes the cases of David Milgaard, Guy Paul Morin, Steven Truscott, Clayton Johnson, and Robert Baltovich.
Aside from several political cases where there is general agreement that unjustified hangings were carried out — Louis Riel in 1885, and twelve Patriotes in Quebec following the Lower Canada Rebellion of 1837 — there is no way of knowing exactly how many Canadians, possibly dozens, were put to death for crimes they did not commit.
According to the Department of Justice, while the death penalty was in force in Canada, a total of 1,481 people were sentenced to hang on the gallows. But less than half were actually executed. Others had their sentences commuted to life imprisonment, suggesting the authorities either had concerns about their guilt or at least showed sympathy for their circumstances.
Of those hanged, thirteen were women. And some may have gone to the gallows unjustly, according to criminologists and others who have investigated the cases.
F. Murray Greenwood and Beverley Boissery in their book Uncertain Justice: Canadian Women and Capital Punishment 1754–1953, conclude that at least three women, Julia Murdock, Mary Aylward (read about Mary's case), and Marguerite Pitre (read about Marguerite's case), should not have been hanged. Murdock and Aylward figured in pre-Confederation cases, in both of which a man was also charged.
Murdock, companion-servant to Harriet Henry of Toronto, was hanged for poisoning her employer, while Henry’s husband James, also charged, got off. Mary Aylward was convicted along with her husband Richard for the killing of neighbour William Munro during an altercation over a missing hen on their farm in rural Hastings County.
During the fracas, Richard shot and injured Munro’s son Alexander. Mary came running and hit William with a scythe. Alexander recovered, but his father, who refused medical treatment, died ten days later.
The young husband and wife were hanged side by side in Belleville, Canada West, in 1862 before a rowdy crowd of “old men with whitened locks and bent forms and infants nursing on their mothers’ breasts, young men and maidens, boys and girls, of all sizes and ages” according to the Hastings Chronicle.
Marguerite Pitre came to trial in 1950. Along with Albert Guay, she was accused of planting a bomb on a Canadian Pacific Airlines flight from Quebec City to Baie-Comeau on September 9, 1949. Guay’s wife Rita, along with twenty-two other passengers and crew, died when the bomb went off and the plane crashed. Until the Air India crash of 1985, it was the only case of a plane being brought down by a bomb planted at a Canadian airport.
Pitre told police of the plot when she was rushed to a hospital after having taken an overdose of sleeping pills. She said she tried to commit suicide when, after the plane went down, Guay told her the parcel had held the fatal bomb and that she would be blamed for the explosion. The jury convicted both, along with the man who built the bomb — Genereux Ruest, who was Marguerite Pitre’s brother.
All were hanged on January 9, 1953. Pitre was the last woman to go to the gallows in Canada.
One notable case from the 1930s involved Abraham Steinberg of Toronto, a partner with his three nephews in the Goldberg Bros. Monument Works. Steinberg was alleged to have shot his nephew Samuel Goldberg as Goldberg sat at his desk, and then to have poured coal oil on the body and set the premises alight. The gun was found hidden under a cement bag behind the shop, and witnesses testified it belonged to Steinberg. Tests matched the weapon with the bullets found in Goldberg’s body.
However, three witnesses testified that Steinberg was at a nearby store during the two hours in which the crime could have been committed. A neighbourhood boy, Max Milgrim, supported their testimony but also admitted he had seen Steinberg in the vicinity of the Monument Works.
The jury chose to disbelieve the defence witnesses and instead accepted the testimony of a prisoner who had been held with Steinberg in Toronto’s Don Jail. James Creighton, facing charges of procuring false evidence in a lawsuit, claimed Steinberg had confessed to him. The jury was not told that Creighton had been a patient in a psychiatric hospital, or that the charges against him were withdrawn following his testimony.
After two trials, a failed appeal to the Supreme Court of Canada, and the rejection of a petition signed by 40,000 sympathizers, Steinberg was hanged on July 14, 1931.
In 2007, a team of investigators assembled by AIDWYC started looking into the case of Arthur Lucas, who was hanged back to back with Ronald Turpin at the Don Jail on December 11, 1962. Theirs were the last hangings carried out in Canada.
Lucas, an African-American from Detroit, was convicted on circumstantial evidence in the killing of FBI informant Therland Crater and Crater’s prostitute companion, Carolyn Newman. Turpin was found guilty of shooting Constable Frederick Nash while fleeing a robbery.
AIDWYC’s Win Wahrer says the group began its investigation in response to an appeal from Lucas’s son, Larry Conway. She has so far collected seventeen hundred pages of documents and is seeking another twenty pages withheld by the Ontario Archives. “Disclosure is always an uphill fight in these cases,” she said. There is speculation that Lucas’s low intelligence and a questionable defence by Ross McKay, a lawyer given to heavy drinking, may have contributed to a miscarriage of justice.
Debate over capital punishment had been mounting in Canada for years before the Lucas-Turpin hangings. Their executions ratcheted up the arguments.
Parliament had first discussed abolition in 1914. Public revulsion over the unintentional decapitation of Thomasina Sarao — her head separated from her body when she was hanged in 1935 — added emotion to the debate. A moratorium was declared in 1967, and Parliament finally voted to abolish capital punishment in 1976. However, the death penalty was still on the books in the military until 1998.
In recent years, support for capital punishment has surged in Canada, perhaps influenced by a recent spate of federal government anti-crime bills. Approval for the death penalty, at a record low of forty-four percent in 2005, stood at sixty-two percent in a 2010 Angus Reid poll. The same poll showed support for capital punishment in the United States at eighty-four percent.
Most wrongful convictions, according to one analysis, result from mistakes by witnesses or witness perjury, the negligence of prosecutors, or errors in forensic science. Canada has seen too many innocents condemned — to hanging in the past and life imprisonment in the present — for capital punishment to make a comeback in the twenty-first century.
Counting the cost of compensation
Steven Truscott: Convicted in 1959 for the killing of Lynne Harper. Sentenced to be hanged, later commuted to life imprisonment. Served ten years. Received $6,500,000.
David Milgaard: Convicted in 1970 of the murder of Gail Miller. Sentenced to life. Served twenty-three years. Received $10,000,000.
Donald Marshall: Convicted in the death of Sandy Seale in 1971. Sentenced to life. Served eleven years. received $1,500,000.
Thomas Sophonow: Convicted of the 1981 killing of Barbara Stoppel. Sentenced to life. Served three years, nine months. Received $2,600,000.
James Driskell: Convicted of killing of Perry Harder. Sentenced to life in 1991. Served thirteen years. Received $4,000,000.
Guy Paul Morin: Convicted in the 1984 death of nine-year-old Christine Jessop. Sentenced to life in 1992. Served eighteen months. Received $1,250,000.
Clayton Johnson: Convicted of murdering his wife Janice. Sentenced in 1993 to life. Served five years. Received $2,500,000.
These walls can talk
A curator uncovers evidence of a hanged man many believed was innocent. by Wendy Kitts
Like a Maritime Indiana Jones, Don Alward’s passion for history led him on a quest to uncover the secrets of the Albert County Gaol. The manager and curator of the Albert County Museum in southeastern New Brunswick had always wondered what lay beneath the galvanized metal that covered the walls of two of the three cells in the historic jail. One hot day in August 2008 he decided to find out.
The jail, built in 1845, was undergoing restoration. A work crew was about to paint the walls of the largest cell. It was Alward’s last chance. He carefully loosened and peeled back a section of metal and found scratched into ancient plaster an etching of a woman’s legs, along with a date — August2, 1905. He was thunderstruck.
“I stood there and stared,” remembers Alward. “The first thought that went through my head was, ’That was here when Tom was here.’”
Thomas Francis Collins was the jail’s most notorious prisoner — the only person in the history of Albert County ever sentenced to hang.
Collins, of Irish descent, was fresh off the boat from England in 1906 when he was hired by the local priest as the rectory’s handyman. Just days later, the twenty-two-year-old stood accused of the brutal slaying of the priest’s housekeeper, Mary Ann McAuley.
It took three trials to secure a conviction in a case that deeply divided the community.
“A lot of people thought he was innocent even after he was executed,” said Kenneth Saunders, who wrote about the case in the The Rectory Murder: The Mysterious Crime That Shocked Turn-of-the-Century New Brunswick. “No confession. No witnesses. No forensic evidence. So you can always make a case for circumstantial, but the evidence was pretty strong.” Saunders believes the court made the right decision. But there are others who even today question Collins’ guilt. Alward is among them.
“In today’s courts it would have been thrown out because of too many doubts,” said Alward.
The Collins case is believed to be the first time in Canada someone was tried three times for the same murder. His first trial produced a guilty verdict, which his lawyer successfully appealed on the basis of biased instructions the jury received from the judge — a Canadian legal precedent that is still cited today.
His second trial resulted in a hung jury that was seven to five in favour of his innocence. The third sent him to the gallows, a sentence even the arresting sheriff, who had befriended Collins, worked to have commuted. Many people had contributed to his defence fund. Collins proclaimed his innocence to the end. Yet the hanging went ahead on November 15, 1907.
A century later, as Alward stared at the newly discovered historic graffiti, he pondered the implications of uncovering more of the jail’s walls. The old plaster was fragile and could crumble into dust. But, he thought, “What if the next piece I took off had Tom Collins’ name under it?”
Alward decided to risk exposing more of the walls. They revealed a treasure trove of graffiti — dates as early as 1871, digits marking off time, initials, names, and poems. There were also sketches of horses, carriages, and ships at full-mast, as well as multiple drawings of women wearing corsets with garter belts and stockings.
The prisoners used pencil, ink, and even charcoal in the form of charred wood from the cell’s wood-burning stove to leave their marks. Many drawings were carved into the plaster with pocket knives.
However, evidence of Tom Collins remained elusive until one October day, nearly three months after the search began. Working alone, Alward unearthed three initials in the windowsill of the smallest cell — “T.F.C.” Alward could hardly believe what he saw.
“Before this, Tom Collins was just one of the stories that was told at the museum,” he explained. “This made me see that he was a real person.”
No further evidence of Collins was found. All the historic graffiti is now safely under Plexiglas and can be viewed by museum visitors.
Andree C. Godin, a project executive with the heritage branch of New Brunswick’s Department of Culture, calls the find a “diverse and fascinating picture of life in the jail. It reminded me of images I once saw carved inside the tunnels at Vimy Ridge.... In both cases you get a snapshot of their daily life.”
Meanwhile, the hanging of Tom Collins remains an emotional topic in Albert County.
“It still divides those of us who live here,” said Alward.
Wendy Kitts is a freelance writer based in Moncton, New Brunswick.
Suggested reading:
Uncertain Justice: Canadian Women and Capital Punishment 1754–1953 by F. Murray Greenwood and Beverley Boissery. Dundurn Press, Toronto, 2000.
Terror to Evil-Doers: Prisons and Punishments in 19th Century Ontario by Peter Oliver. University of Toronto Press, Toronto, 1998.
The Rectory Murder: The Mysterious Crime That Shocked Turn-of-the-Century New Brunswick by Kenneth Saunders.
by Christopher Moore
As it comes to Canada on its eight hundredth birthday, is Magna Carta simply interesting as an ancient thing we Canadians can gaze upon as a relic of history? Or is it still something to be struggled over?
Magna Charta Libertatum Angliae, the Great Charter of English Liberties, was born in strife and turmoil in 1215. With his barons’ swords not far from his throat, many of King John’s promises were very specific — and soon forgotten: “We will remove completely from their offices the kinsmen of Gerard de Athee, and in future they shall hold no offices in England.” But the document also laid down enduring principles of justice that would echo down the centuries: “To no one will we sell, to no one deny or delay right or justice.”
Today, Canadians can find in Magna Carta and its companion, the Charter of the Forest, declarations about the rule of law, guarantees of security of the person, the promise of environmental stewardship, a statement about the accountability of the Crown, and even an affirmation of women’s rights. Over the centuries, Magna Carta has matured into a venerable declaration of rights and a statement of the principles of justice, hardly posing a threat to anyone living under a government bound by law. In Canada, it seems that the liberties the medieval English fought over have long since been secured. It has become easy to celebrate Magna Carta complacently, as an ancient symbol of long-ago victories and as fodder for Monty Python routines: “We are all Britons. I am your king.” “I didn’t know we had a king. I thought we were an autonomous collective.”
Not everyone finds Magna Carta so safely mummified in history. If governments allowed Syrian-born Canadian Maher Arar to be kidnapped and tortured, where was Magna Carta’s promise of security of the person? If they secretly read our email, where is the promise of accountability? If authorities tolerate and encourage environmental degradation, where are the people’s rights to use the land? Throughout history, in fact, critics and change-makers have continued to invoke Magna Carta as a promise not yet kept. “The controversies through the ages about the meaning of Magna Carta are what keep it alive as a living document,” Peter Linebaugh, a prominent historian of Britain, said in an interview recently. This spring, as Magna Carta and the Forest Charter begin an unprecedented tour of Canada, they bring with them a remarkable heritage — and some debates that are very much alive.
Magna Carta on tour
In the early 1200s, Magna Carta went viral in the best way medieval England could provide. In 1215 — and when it was reissued in 1216, 1217, and 1225 — multiple copies of the precious text were made and sealed with the royal seal. And, since the seal made each one a legal declaration, they were technically not “copies” but each equally valid. These were dispersed across Britain, to the castles of barons, to county seats, to the great cathedrals. Over the centuries, most would gradually succumb to war and flood and vermin. Ireland’s copy, the Magna Carta Hibernae, was destroyed as recently as 1922, in the Irish Civil War. But a few of the originals survive: Just four of the 1215 documents are known to exist, plus another nine from the following decade.
Fittingly, Magna Carta, a statement of the rights of citizens, will tour Canada this year through the agency of two ordinary Canadian citizens, Len and Suzy Rodness, a lawyer and a real estate manager in Toronto. “We knew nothing,” exclaimed Suzy Rodness of the beginning of their quest to bring Magna Carta to Canada. But they knew a friend who had a relative in Durham, England, who in retirement had joined the Friends of Durham Cathedral. With a thousand-year-old cathedral to maintain, the organization was alert to fundraising opportunities, and Durham Cathedral holds three copies of Magna Carta. They were issued in 1216, 1225, and 1300. It also also holds three Charters of the Forest from 1217, 1225, and 1300.
The Rodnesses visited Durham in 2011, met the Friends of Durham Cathedral, and committed themselves to bringing the cathedral’s precious documents to Canada in 2015 for an eight-hundredth-anniversary tour. Originally, the cathedral’s 1225 Magna Carta was to be displayed but it was deemed to fragile to travel; the 1300 version will come to Canada instead.
“It takes time to organize everything, from the government approvals, to the arrangements with Durham, to the Canadian requirements,” said Suzy Rodness. To shoulder those burdens, the couple formed a non-profit organization, Magna Carta Canada, recruited a blue-ribbon board of volunteers and patrons, and set themselves to raise $2 million from sponsors and donors. With the help of Lord Cultural Resources, the Toronto-based world leader in designing museum exhibits, Magna Carta Canada began preparing a fitting presentation of the documents and building a lively multimedia show about the history and significance of Magna Carta for Canada and for human rights and democracy worldwide. Magna Carta and the Forest Charter will go on public display in four Canadian cities during 2015: at the Canadian Museum of History in Gatineau, Quebec, the Canadian Museum for Human Rights in Winnipeg, the Fort York Visitor Centre in Toronto, and the Alberta legislature in Edmonton.
Magna Carta has been in Canada once before. In 2010, a 1217 version from the Bodleian Library at Oxford University came to New York for the North American reunion of Oxford University alumni. At around the same time, the eruption of Iceland’s Mount Eyjafjallajökull disrupted flights to the United Kingdom, delaying its return to Britain. The Manitoba legislature seized the opportunity to negotiate a loan of Magna Carta for a three-month exhibition.
As it happened, the Queen was in Winnipeg at this time to unveil a stone from Runnymede, where Magna Carta had been endorsed. Appropriately enough, that stone became the cornerstone of the Canadian Museum for Human Rights.
Why should Canadians see Magna Carta? To see the thing itself, for one thing: Four thousand words of medieval Latin, written on a single crammed sheet of animal-skin parchment with an ink made of dust, water, and powdered oak-apple (tannic acid extracted from galls that grow on oak trees). For another, because Magna Carta is, in the words of British historian Linda Colley, “one of the most iconic texts not just in British history but in global history.” For Suzy Rodness, the appeal is simple and powerful: “Doing this, we are learning about our country, learning what made Canada Canada — human rights, parliament, the rule of law. Our sons, now in their twenties, perhaps they never knew how fortunate they are to live in this country in this time. Now they get it, I think. Magna Carta influences all the things we take for granted.”
John soon reneged on his charter commitments, but in just over a year he was dead.
Magna Carta becomes iconic
“King John had a knack for bringing people together in animosity to him,” said Carolyn Harris of Toronto, a recent graduate in British royal history and the author of Magna Carta and its Gifts to Canada, a companion volume for the charter’s Canadian tour. King John, desperate for funds, had been plundering England, lunging after any source of money that might prop up his lands and his throne. The barons who were among his targets — their wives and children held hostage, their castles seized, their wealth extorted — considered killing John and putting a more pliable relative on the throne. Instead, they put forth a set of rules to bind the king. At Runnymede in the Thames Valley, not far from Windsor Castle (and today’s Heathrow Airport), King John acceded to the barons’ demands. On June 15, 1215, they agreed on a guarantee of due process of law, limits on royal exactions, the people’s right to use the common lands, and a council of the barons to ensure that the king fulfilled his promises.
John soon reneged on his charter commitments, but in just over a year he was dead. His young son, Henry III, would go on to a remarkable fifty-six years on the throne and (for a king) a placid family life — “so of course he is forgotten!” laughs Harris. But Magna Carta was reissued with Henry III’s seal, and Henry later agreed to annual sittings of parliament, with more than just the barons represented. The Magna Carta concept — that an English monarch was bound by a contract with his people — endured.
The fame and reputation of Magna Carta itself waxed and waned, Harris says. “It has been reborn and reinterpreted so many times!” After the Wars of the Roses, England looked to strong kings, and monarchs like the Tudors Henry VIII and Elizabeth I were happy to let the old charter of liberty become forgotten.
When Shakespeare wrote his play King John in the 1590s, Magna Carta did not rate a mention. When English parliaments of the 1600s began to battle the Stuart monarchs and their exalted notion of the rights of kings, however, the great jurist Edward Coke excavated Magna Carta from the obscurity of ancient legal tomes. It became again a symbol of liberty. Coke helped to draft charters for the first American colonies of England, too, and Magna Carta became part of the constitutional underpinning of British colonies and settlements.
Representative government and the rule of law became entrenched in the Anglo-American world after England’s Glorious Revolution of 1688 and the American Revolution a century later. Magna Carta began to seem safe, and tamed. Any orator could roll out praise of Magna Carta as the first statement of liberty. Muralists painted Runnymede scenes in courthouses and civic halls from London to Cleveland, and in Canada, too. Just what it stood for seemed less important, when it seemed mostly to affirm the status quo. For Britons and Canadians, Magna Carta meant constitutional monarchy, though for Americans it meant no monarchy at all. American courts repeatedly affirmed that property rights were the key point of Magna Carta, and before the Civil War property included slaves, who had no liberties and no due process. In an era of national and racial stereotypes, Magna Carta was often claimed as the unique heritage of English-speaking peoples, something peoples of other colours and continents could not achieve.
Still dangerous? Magna Carta's protest heritage
Peter Linebaugh, the veteran historian of eighteenth-century Britain, found himself reading the Charter of the Forest, the 1217 document that expands on the land-use guarantees of Magna Carta. King John’s Norman forebears had asserted that they owned the forests and unoccupied lands of England. John sought to deny his subjects access to them or, better still, to charge them fees. For the barons and the commoners alike, however, the forests were precious: hunting grounds for the barons, and for ordinary people a vital source of firewood, plants, honey, pasturage, and game for the food pot. When he agreed to Magna Carta, John agreed that the vast royal forests would be “disafforested” — they would become common ground again, once more open for the use of all who needed them. After reading the Forest Charter, Linebaugh began to reconsider “his” eighteenth-century Britain, when respect for the commons was repudiated by the Enclosure Acts that transferred lands from common use to private ownership. He considered the great famines of nineteenth-century India, after common land was converted to commercial cotton plantations; the manifesto of the Chiapas rebels of southern Mexico of the 1990s, which defended the village commons against industrial agriculture; and even the protests of Nigerian women in recent decades who have seen the oil industry destroy their only sources of firewood and clean water. The protection of Magna Carta can be invoked in protest wherever justice is subverted, government becomes tyrannical, and liberties are trampled. “It became a pillar of Anglo-Saxon racism in the nineteenth century, yet it was also cited by national liberation movements — by Nelson Mandela at his trial,” said Linebaugh.
In his book The Magna Carta Manifesto: Liberties and Commons for All, Linebaugh aligns the Forest Charter with a deeper radicalism: that of indigenous peoples all over the world, striving to protect their livelihoods and their lifeways when the very lands on which they depend become state property and then private property from which they are fenced off. Magna Carta has indeed become iconic around the world — surprisingly often in ways that can still make crowned heads uneasy. For, as Linebaugh notes, the barons wrote a right of resistance into Magna Carta.
Magna Carta in Canada
Canada inherited from Britain the Magna Carta principles along with constitutional monarchy, the rule of law, and other foundations of government. Are there other Canadian aspects to these documents that were drafted centuries before Europeans colonized the Americas?
John Borrows is Canada Research Chair in Indigenous Law at the University of Victoria law school. He is one of the scholars advising Magna Carta Canada about the meaning of the great charter for Canadians. And he is a member of the Ojibwa nation. He talked recently about the 1973 Supreme Court of Canada case called Calder, a key precedent in Canadian treaty law, in which a judge described the Royal Proclamation of 1763 as “the Indian Magna Carta.”
The Royal Proclamation required the Crown in Canada to negotiate treaties with Aboriginal nations, a duty that cannot arbitrarily be shirked. The history of treaties suggests that the First Nations understood those treaties as sharing agreements, a plan to hold the land in common for the benefit of all, somewhat as the Forest Charter provided for England.
“Magna Carta is imperfect and it is early,” said Borrows, “but it does restrict the Crown vis-a-vis the citizens. Now we have Article 35 of the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms, which affirms Aboriginal rights.
“Again, the state cannot just do what it wants. Magna Carta carries the understanding that concentration of power can be corrupting,” Borrows continued. “We are imperfect humans, and we are never going to get there, but Magna Carta can be seen as a statement of goals — because goals are never realized. They point us toward our better selves. And they suggest why we need law — to set our better natures against our worst.”
Go see Magna Carta, just to gaze on something so ancient and so enduring. You may find yourself also engaging with ideas that still drive people engaged in fundamental struggles for justice and for rights around the world — and also here in Canada.
MAGNA CARTA BY THE NUMBERS
On June 15, 1215, King John became the first English monarch to accept a charter of limits on his power as imposed by his subjects. Neither the king nor his rebel barons expected the agreement to last for very long, but Magna Carta inspired future generations and provided the foundation for English common law, which spread throughout the Englishspeaking world, including Canada. In 2015, a surviving copy of Magna Carta and a companion document, the Charter of the Forest, will tour Canada.
— by Carolyn Harris

Years of King John's reign when he affixed his seal to Magna Carta.

Number of barons who stood surety for the enforcement of Magna Carta.

Number of clauses scholars find in the 1215 version.
Number of the clause that sets a precedent for trial by jury, stating, “No free man shall be seized or imprisoned ... except by the lawful judgment of his equals or by the law of the land.”

Months that passed between John accepting and then repudiating Magna Carta.

Number of surviving copies of Magna Carta that date between 1215 and 1300.
by Desmond Morton
The Aylward case is forgotten now.
The sight of a young married couple hanged together for a murder must have stuck in the memory of the thousands who jammed into Belleville, Canada West, on that bitterly cold Monday morning, December 8, 1862. But those people are all dead now. So is a society that could hang Mary Aylward, a young woman mad enough to convict herself with her own tongue, abandoning her three small children, one of them still a babe in arms. As for Richard Aylward, her husband, what precisely was the crime that brought him to the gallows and turned his children into orphans?
At the time, few were convinced that the death sentence pronounced at their trial would actually be carried out. Petitions from neighbours and fellow Catholics claimed perjury and falsified evidence. The jury had strongly urged mercy. Even the convicted couple refused to accept their imminent death. On the weekend before the scheduled execution, rumours circulated in Belleville that the gathering throngs would be denied the spectacle they were travelling for miles to see. In their separate cells in the Hastings County jail, the Aylwards took heart.
True, their judge, William Henry Draper, was the perfect symbol of a High Tory, Family Compact politician in Upper Canada. In the trial on October 20, Draper had been implacably on the side of the Crown. Before he pronounced sentence, Mr. Chief Justice Draper solemnly warned the couple to expect no reprieve. They must devote themselves single-mindedly to seeking God’s mercy, for they would find none on this earth.
Far away, in Quebec City, was a new government, elected in the very month that the Aylward family had been caught in their own tragedy. Fed up with George-Étienne Cartier and his partner, John A. Macdonald, and by indifference to their demand for a voice equivalent to their burgeoning population, voters in Canada West had taken a chance on a moderate Reformer from Cornwall, John Sandfield Macdonald. A Catholic at the head of a largely Protestant bloc in the Legislative Assembly, Macdonald held the post of attorney general. The Aylwards presented the kind of dilemma all politicians fear. The legal and factual details of the case hardly mattered. In a Canada more cruelly divided by religion than by language or culture, backers of the former government would exploit whatever Sandfield Macdonald did for whichever denomination felt aggrieved. And Belleville’s Catholic parish priest had left no doubt that the Aylwards’ conviction for murder was a cruel injustice.
What had the Aylward’s done to risk the supreme penalty of the law? Mary O’Brien had been born in 1834 in Toor, a little village in the southeast corner of County Limerick in Ireland.
At the age of twelve, her parents sent her and her brother to join her older sister Ellen in Lakefield, Connecticut. Nine years later, she met Richard Aylward, who had emigrated from Carlow in Ireland in 1850 at the age of fourteen. Richard and Mary married at Poughkeepsie, New York, on August 15, 1855. The young couple had decided to move in with Richard’s aunt, Mary Ann McRae, at Puslinch, near Guelph, in Canada West. In 1856, they moved 275 kilometres east to Kaladar in Addington County. Five years later, they again moved, to property seventy kilometres north, near the village of Bancroft, in Hastings County, on the edge of the Canadian Shield, where free grants of hundred acres were offered to anyone willing to build a house of at least twenty-by-twenty-three feet and keep at least twelve acres in cultivation for five years. Richard’s aunt had settled nearby. By July 1861, the Aylwards were established on Peterson Road with two daughters, a third about to be born, and very little else to show for their time in Canada. Richard
When the constable taking the Aylwards to jail in Belleville stopped for refreshment in Madoc (shown here in the 1860s), two of the prime pieces of evidence, the scythe and the shotgun, were taken by an unknown person.
Aylward set to work clearing a field and earning a few dollars by working for better-off settlers in the neighbourhood. Mary was left to manage alone. By her own account, two days after her baby was born, three men attacked her and her husband, knocking her unconscious with a handspike but failing to kick Richard Aylward to death.
The Aylwards’ neighbours on the other side of the road had been there since May 1861. William Munro and his wife, Chrystina Margaret, were Protestants, a lot older than the Aylwards, and relations never seem to have been very cordial. Having sold Munro some hens, the Aylwards were dismayed that the birds were free to cross the road and forage in their brand new wheat field. This became an explicit source of bad relations. Later, Mary Aylward claimed that when she tried to drive the hens from her farm, Munro threw stones at her and shouted abuse. When Munro was busy, his son Alexander (Alick) echoed his father’s behaviour. For several days Aylward was summoned home to protect his anxious wife.
On May 16, 1862, Aylward came in from his day’s work, sat down to await dinner, and was playing with the baby when he and his wife heard visitors in their yard. Munro, too, had come home, and his wife reported she had heard a shot from across the road. She also claimed one of their hens was missing. Munro and Alick decided to visit the Aylwards’ property. When they crossed the road, Mary Aylward appeared with her babe in arms while the two other girls played in the yard. Mrs. Aylward recalled telling Munro to get off her property, to which the older man had replied: “I will not until I get ready, come out and put me from the door if you dare, you d--d w-h-e.” Next, Mary’s husband appeared. Richard told Munro to get off his property. Munro refused to leave without his hen. Aylward replied that he had not shot the bird, but wished he had. Next the Munros headed west toward Aylward’s wheat field to hunt for their hen. Richard picked up his shotgun and followed them.
According to the younger Munro, at the wheat field, Richard turned and levelled his shotgun at the older Munro, who promptly grabbed the muzzle. Richard then pulled a two-barrelled pistol from his shirt. William Munro knocked the weapon out of Richard’s hand and told his son to pick it up. Alexander turned his back on the two older men and found the pistol nine or ten metres away. When he rose with the weapon in his hand, Aylward turned his gun toward the boy, who dropped to his knees. Richard fired. The buckshot hit Alexander in the back over his left shoulder. The boy rose and ran for home, streaming blood but carrying the pistol. Later, he claimed, twenty-nine pieces of lead were extracted from his back. Aylward and Munro were left wrestling for control of the shotgun when Mary Aylward appeared, carrying a scythe. She slashed at Munro, as hard as she could, striking his head and then his arm. It was William Munro’s turn to stagger home, collapsing inside his doorway in a pool of his own blood.
A week before, Richard’s cousin, Isabella McRae, recalled seeing Richard and Mary using the McRaes’ grindstone to sharpen the Aylward’s scythe. She recalled that Richard had claimed to be getting ready for haying. Since snow was still on the ground, this had struck her mother, Mrs. McRae, as odd. On the evening of May 16, she remembered, Richard and his wife had returned. This time Mary Aylward loaded the shotgun from the McRaes’ supplies while her husband carried the scythe. “She said she had cut the head off the old man,” Mrs. McRae later recalled in court, “and that Richard had shot Alick.” When Mrs. McRae expressed some skepticism, Mary Aylward showed her the blood on the blade. At that point, McRae’s son told the Aylwards to leave, and they did. Mrs. McRae hurried to the Munros’ cabin and found William still lying on his floor in a pool of blood and unable to speak. Three days later, Mrs. McRae visited again. This time she found him in bed and able to talk, but so weak that, two days later, Munro confessed that he did not think he would live. He was right. William Munro died on May 28, 1862.
In frontier settlements, distances mattered. A neighbour named Finlayson set off for Madoc, 110 kilometres away, to summon Dr. Augustus Yeomans, the nearest coroner. On the way, he notified the reeve of Tudor Township, a Mr. Jelly, who summoned his neighbours and set off to arrest the murderers. At dawn on Saturday, May 31, Dr. Yeomans set out on horseback. He reached Munros cabin at ten o’clock Monday morning. Examining the corpse, he found a large wound that had penetrated the left side of the skull down to the membrane, and another wound above the elbow of the left arm that had penetrated through half the bone. “The injury of the head must, I think, certainly have occasioned death,” Yeomans concluded. Both blows had required great force. Still, Munro had lived for twelve days after his injury. He had initially refused medical attention, but another neighbour, John Rous, had persuaded him to let an Indian doctor tend to the wound. There were no details of any resulting treatment, but the native healer seems to have removed the dressings, exposing the wounds and, local opinion agreed, hastening death.
On Saturday, Mr. Jelly’s posse arrested Mary Aylward. On the following Monday, after William Munros funeral, William Edes, the Hastings County constable, arrested both Aylwards. He asked for and secured the pistol, shotgun, and scythe, and carried them with him as he escorted his prisoners 100 kilometres south to the jail in Belleville. Stopping for refreshment at a tavern on the way, some person “I don’t know who” took the scythe and shotgun. Despite offering a reward, Edes confessed, “I have not been able to recover it.” The Aylwards were brought before a magistrate and lodged in separate cells to await the Hastings County autumn assizes, the Hon. W.H. Draper, chief justice for Common Pleas of Upper Canada, presiding.
Crimes, especially murder, fascinated Victorians, and they were a staple for pioneer newspapers. Reporters exploited their drama, mystery, and moral messages. Publishers recognized that they were cheap to cover. A journalist simply had to sit in the court and take notes. The first-ever trial of husband-and-wife murder suspects was an easy draw.
Mr. Chief Justice Draper was not quite the jurist that a judge-shopping attorney might have chosen for his clients. Draper had been the leading figure in Upper Canadian Toryism, an upholder of the Family Compact, and a politician who had tried in vain to defend the power of Canada’s most austere British governor, Sir Charles Metcalfe, against the proponents of Responsible Government. Defeated but unrepentant, Draper had retired to the judicial bench.
“If every man is to be permitted to take the life of his neighbour with impunity in defence of a bottle of whiskey we might as well reside in California as in Canada."
The Aylwards were also hapless enough to follow a trial that had deeply offended Draper’s stern sensibilities. After an affray over liquor near Belleville, Lorenzo Taylor, nineteen, had been left stabbed to death. Witnesses identified the killer as another young man named Maurice Moorman. After deliberating for half an hour, the Belleville jury returned a not-guilty verdict. Moorman’s supporters “raised a cheer” in the courtroom, and a disgusted Draper scribbled in his desk book: “A strange verdict. I expected at least a verdict of manslaughter.” So did the Belleville Chronicle. “If every man is to be permitted to take the life of his neighbour with impunity in defence of a bottle of whiskey, we might as well reside in California as in Canada. We trust that another verdict like this will never be recorded in Belleville.” Even before their trial began, word in the streets of Belleville was that the Aylwards were “doomed.”
Draper’s next trial, of course, featured Richard and Mary Aylward. By the time of the trial on October 20, several witnesses had been assembled for the Crown, represented by the solicitor general of Canada West, the Hon. Adam Wilson. The Aylward defence team, financed by Belleville’s Roman Catholics, included James O’Reilly, a Kingston lawyer, and John Finn, a local man. The defence began by challenging fifteen of the jurors assembled by the sheriff, and ensuring that some of the twelve remaining members were Catholics. After the Crown had laid out its narrative of events, Wilson summoned Alexander Munro, the sole independent eyewitness of the events in the Aylwards’ field. Calm and restrained, the young man made a good impression. He testified about the altercation, but he had not seen the blows to his father’s head and arm. He also confessed that he had never been on good terms with Aylwards, that he had said nothing during the afternoon, and had taken home the Aylwards’ pistol. Mary Ann McRae was the Crown’s star witness. Her claim to have seen the Aylwards sharpening their scythe was evidence of the premeditation the Crown needed to prove murder rather than manslaughter.
Mrs. McRae was not shaken by O’Reilly, and she denied that she had ever said “I would wait in town and see these people hanged, or anything like it.” Her daughter, Isabella, then testified that Mary Aylward had told her of a plan to tempt the deceased over their fence and into their house. Once Munro was at her door, she planned to shoot him and fetch male witnesses, including her husband, to see that Munro had pursued her into her own dooryard. “She would talk in this boasting style of what she would do,” claimed Isabella.
Several witnesses testified to Mary Aylward’s desire to share the details of her crime. William Johnston, a neighbour on the same side of the road as the Aylwards, remembered seeing the couple coming along the road, Mary with the gun and Richard trailing the scythe. “William Munro’s dead,” Mrs. Aylward had declared, adding, “I did not mean to hit him on the head. I meant to hit him on the neck and cut his head off.” Johnston had followed the accused to the McRaes’, where Mary had learned that Munro was still alive. “God Almighty increase his pain” was her response. Richard, as usual, said nothing. Mary Aylward persuaded Margaret Glen to visit the scene of the fight. The sight of Munro’s damaged hat on the field was evidence enough for her: “I said it would give her a great deal of trouble. She said it would give her no trouble, that if it was to do she would do it again” — a claim Mary repeated to another witness, Theophilus Golder, who lived farther down the Peterson Road.
Why was there such hatred? George Selby, a more distant neighbour, had called on the Aylwards after Munro’s funeral. “Prisoner Mary told me [the] deceased was in the habit of coming opposite the house abusing her, and calling her improper names,” Draper’s notes recorded, “and that she had given it to him for now, and she wished she had given him another blow, and finished him off at once.” At the time, Mrs. Aylward was under arrest, and someone might well have advised her that she was incriminating herself. In the absence of a murder weapon or an uninvolved eyewitness, Mary’s own mouth provided the Crown’s chief evidence. Later, in a letter to her youngest children, she would deny the evidence and insist that Mrs. McRae had perjured herself, but the variety and solemnity of the witnesses obviously convinced the jury and particularly Judge Draper. Mary’s conduct may have reflected her belief that any wife protecting her husband’s life on their own property would be immune from condemnation. That was not James O’Reilly’s theory. Instead, his interpretation was that Mary’s ravings were an insane reaction to her horror at being driven to homicide to protect her endangered husband. Nonsense, responded the Crown. By sharpening the scythe and following her husband to the wheat field, Mary Aylward had carried out her part in a murderous conspiracy.
In less than a single day, the testimony was complete. Except for John Rous, who had advised Munro to have the Aylwards arrested and reported the unexpected reply from Munro that he “had no business interfering with them,” the defence rested its case. O’Reilly had promised more witnesses than he produced, perhaps because Aylward sympathizers were too poor to make the long journey south to Belleville in early winter weather. After O’Reilly addressed the jury, so did Adam Wilson for the Crown. Then the chief justice summed up the case in terms that left little room for another Moorman verdict. Draper had obviously been horrified by testimony that Mary Aylward had wished added pain and an early death for “Old Baldy,” as she had called Munro. If the jury believed that her self-incrimination was due to insanity, he warned, every hardened criminal would make the same claim. If the jury had doubts, they must give the benefit to the accused; Draper obviously had none. After deliberating for two hours, the jury returned. Its foreman, Richard Bird, announced the verdict: “guilty with a strong recommendation for mercy.” Having jotted in his casebook that the jury had offered no reasons for its recommendation, Draper promised to pass on their views to the Executive and turned to the accused:
I must tell you that the law allows me no discretion in the matter. I will lay the case before the proper authorities but I deem it my duty to warn you not to spend the short time which outraged humanity yet allows you in the world in vain hopes and useless endeavours for mercy.
The Aylwards would be “taken to the place of execution and be there hanged by the neck until you are dead.” The Aylwards did not soften the judge’s heart. “You may hang away,” shouted Richard. “I am not guilty.” His wife echoed him, “Yes, they may hang away, we are innocent,” adding a little mysteriously, “Doyle and Rowdy committed the murder and laid it on us.” Far from looking downcast or penitent, the Chronicle’s reporter observed “the prisoners spoke to one another and laughed in an unfeeling manner. Having seen each other only during the short trial, the couple was again separated and despatched to their cells to await their fate.”
In fact, “vain hopes and useless endeavours for mercy” would preoccupy them and their growing number of friends and allies. Father Michael Brennan of Belleville’s St. Michael’s Church, also an Irish immigrant, and his nephew and curate, Father John Brennan, had befriended the Aylwards as soon as they were imprisoned, helped find them counsel, and encouraged parishioners to petition on their behalf. The Brennans insisted to the congregation and to anyone else who would listen that Mary’s conviction should be reduced to manslaughter and that Richard be unconditionally released. John Finn, their lawyer, took a petition north to Madoc and to the settlers of Hastings Road. James Kennedy tried to compensate for the humble circumstances of the Aylwards by claiming that his forty signatures were from “gentlemen of the greatest intelligence and highest standing in this county.” He noted the influence of the Moorman case, and also insisted that the killing had occurred far from law and magistrates, “where every one thinks it is proper to defend his supposed rights by the strong hand.” Signing such a petition was hard to resist. It cost nothing and retained a neighbour’s good will. To refuse, as a Toronto Globe article noted, imperilled friendship and threatened the immense guilt that would follow if a condemned person were suddenly proved innocent. However, petitions also undermined a justice system that was assumed to be among the glories of English civilization — except, of course, among Irish Catholics who had felt the heavy hand of Anglo-Protestants since 1688 when Catholic James II was deposed as king of England. Mary Aylward had made statements in moments of passion and excitement “not knowing what she was doing or saying” argued a petitioner. Another insisted that Munro and his son had “irritated them in a most provoking manner” by coming unbidden on the Aylwards’ land and remaining there.
Another argument was that Munro’s death was due to “an Indian ‘quack doctor’, at a time when the patient was progressing favourably.” Above all, the prisoners were parents of three small children, one of whom, an infant in arms, shared her mother’s jail cell. John Finn even forwarded a petition from Alexander Munro and his mother Chrystina, “her mark (X),” asking that the Aylwards’ sentence be commuted to a life sentence.
The religious dimensions of the Aylward case caused John Sandfield Macdonald’s government obvious embarrassment. As a Catholic, Macdonald’s sympathy was demanded by his coreligionists; as the head of a fragile, Protestant-dominated coalition, it could not be given. As a man of principle, could the attorney general for Canada West let politics control his judgment? Chief Justice Draper certainly saw no reason to soften the sentence:
Taking this woman’s whole conduct through the whole case, we find nothing but the most cold-blooded barbarity, and not an act committed in the heat of passion. The sharpening of the scythe, the showing Johnston how she intended to cut his head off — her conduct at Mrs. McCreas [sic] showing the scythe yet reeking in blood, when she is ordered out of the house.
The Aylwards had ignored Draper’s advice. Confident of commutation, they showed no signs of humble repentance. On the Saturday before the execution, Mary Aylward issued a statement denouncing “the calumnious fabrication” that she and her husband were actually brother and sister. A final petition from John Finn appealed for a month’s delay for the prisoners “owing to the fact that they are not spiritually prepared” arrived in Quebec almost too late to be considered. Father Michael Brennan passed on a claim that Mary Aylward was pregnant. From Quebec, the government directed that Mary Aylward be examined by the prison doctor and one or two of the prison’s matrons. On December 2, Dr. Hope and Ann Dafoe, the jailer’s wife, reported that “by examination” and “her own statement” the prisoner was not bearing a child. The law was left to take its course on December 8.
The Aylward’s execution was covered in detail by the Hastings Chronicle and the Belleville Intelligencer. The reports were reprinted in papers across the Canadas. By dawn, close to a thousand people, “a moving tide of humanity,” covered the courthouse square in front of the gallows. Ultimately more than five thousand stood in the bitter cold: “There were old men with whitened locks and bent forms, and infants nursing at their mothers’ breasts, young men and maidens, boys and girls of all sizes and ages.” There were cases of frostbite in the crowd, and the Chronicle deplored the fights, wrestling matches, and public drunkenness among young men in the throng. When the promised deadline of ten o’clock passed, there were “cries of ‘Get them out here’, ‘Hang them’ and the like filling the air.” Someone had forgotten to sew up the linen caps that would cover the victims’ heads.
At 11:25 A.M. the procession finally appeared, led by a couple of deputy sheriffs and bailiffs and a hooded hangman, followed by Mary Aylward “with deathly pallor on her countenance” and a trembling Richard Aylward. “Mary was dressed all in white, with a crepe shawl covering her shoulders,” and both prisoners wore a noose, ready to be hooked to the gallows. Since Victorians often believed that criminality was evident in a villain’s appearance, the Aylwards were a disappointment. Richard, at twenty-six years of age, was “rather well-proportioned,” with prominent cheekbones and a low forehead, but Mary, at twenty-eight, did not look her part at all. “Her appearance is prepossessing,” claimed the Intelligencer, “and few would believe, judging from her countenance, that she could commit the fearful crime.” The reporter continued: “About medium height, dark hair, fair complexion, a bright eye, features well proportioned, and an intelligent look, the impression of her character upon the casual observer, is a favorable one.”
On the scaffold, the Aylwards fell to their knees to pray with Father John Brennan. When he lifted them to their feet, the hangman, “a short, thick-set men, dressed head to toe in a face-covering white gown,” hooked on their nooses and covered their heads with the newly made hoods. The priest looked to Richard, but not Mary, for any final words. “The young man was too distraught in emotion, too broken in spirit to speak,” claimed a reporter, so Father Brennan begged the crowd to seek God’s mercy on the Aylwards’ souls. The crowd, noted the Chronicles reporter, neither heard nor cared. “They were there to see the Aylwards hang.” They got their wish.
As the priest stepped back, he collapsed in a faint and was carried unconscious from the scaffold. The hangman jerked back the bolt that held the two trap doors under the Aylwards, and the two bodies fell into the void. Spectators strained to see the results: “Mary's frail body contorted like a grotesque puppet on tangled strings for a minute and a half until life deserted her. Richard continued to struggle for a further minute ... before he too found final peace.” The bodies were left hanging for a further twenty-five minutes “for the satisfaction and pleasure of those who came to witness their death.” Later, at 3 P.M., a horse-drawn wagon took two simple caskets a few hundred metres down Church Street to St. Michael’s for the funeral.
The Catholic church was filled to capacity. Barely recovered from his collapse, Father Brennan mounted to the pulpit to proclaim the Aylwards’ innocence. The jury, he complained, had committed the folly of seeking mercy where there was no mercy to be found, a state of affairs that the Irish could recall from the days of Oliver Cromwell. Frequently he broke down in tears, and his sobs brought echoing sobbing from his congregation. A sympathetic family soon adopted the Aylwards’ two older daughters; another family took the baby girl. The younger Father Brennan took his convictions to Montreal, to the Irish communities of Canada East, where he interpreted the Aylward case as Protestant malevolence against Catholics worthy of Cromwell, hyperbole for which George Brown’s Globe later delivered a stern scolding:
The Government’s refusal to revise the judgement pronounced by the court and forthwith a “feeling” was put up against them. Party machinery was set to work, party orators denounced the law officers as murderers; party newspapers labored to present evidence clearly proving guilt into positive proof of innocence; all contrived to make it appear that the wretched beings who ended their lives upon the scaffold were martyrs to political hate. Simply for his refusal to assist in obtaining a commutation of sentence, the present speaker of the Assembly, Mr. Wall-bridge, was denounced in partisan papers as the vilest of living things.
Lewis Wallbridge, the Assembly member for Hastings South, a moderate reformer, had been elected as Speaker of the House in the summer of 1862, while Cartier and other Lower Canadian bleus denounced his refusal to sign an Aylward petition as proof of his anti-Catholicism. Though a convert to John A. Macdonald and Confederation in 1867, his memory of the vilification helped persuade him not to run. In 1878, when Wallbridge sought election again, his Dictionary of Canadian Biography contributor claims, Catholics were still waiting for him and he was again defeated.
Until 1893, the accused could not be called as a witness. Mary Aylwards version of events became known only after her death, when two letters to her children, dictated to Mrs. Grant on the Saturday before her execution, appeared in both the Chronicle and the Intelligencer. To Ellen, her eight-year-old daughter, Mary Aylward left the care of her two younger sisters and a bitter account of repeated provocation and brutality by the Munros, father and son, culminating on May 16. She had, she insisted, come to her husband’s aid after she heard the older, stronger Munro “swearing by his Jesus that he would shoot him with his own gun in place of him shooting the hens.”
Then she saw Alick pointing the pistol at her husband. “I saw the old scythe lying on the ground a few rods ahead of me. I took it up and ran up towards him; your Pa was down and I ran up and hit Munro one stroke.” She did not know which man she had struck nor, until she saw Alick’s “back on fire,” had she any idea who had fired the shot.
Mary’s other letter, to her “dear little Infant Daughters,” begged them to remember her and her love for them, and left them with one wish, “as coming from the deathly lips of your mother, namely that you will attend to your religious duties. ... O what a cruel fate to be taken away from my infant children so young. God forgive those who are the cause of it.” Forgiveness was mixed with a lively memory of those who had done her wrong, from Isabella McRae, who had lied about her, to three men, John and Martin Reddy and Michael Doyle, who had attacked her two days after her confinement with her baby, and had tried to kick her husband to death. Presumably these were “Rowdy and Doyle,” whose names she had uttered after her sentence had been pronounced. Mary Aylward concluded the letter with forgiveness for more of Munro’s villainy: “I suspect that Munro did throw a dead dog in my own well or where I was taking water, and asked how I liked the soup of it.” Both letters were co-signed by her husband with “I concur in the foregoing statement.” J.P. McDonnell, Mrs. Grant, her jailer, Zenas Dafoe, and his wife witnessed the signatures.
Mary Aylward had persuaded Father Brennan of her innocence of murder; she had not convinced her defence counsel. Instead, her repeated self-incrimination had burned the memory of both judge and jury. In his summation, Draper had dismissed as absurd the proposition that Mrs. Aylward had conveniently found a scythe lying in the wheat field. Yet not even Alick Munro remembered seeing her with it or wielding it. On the other hand, Dr. Yeomans had found two deep and distinct cuts on Munro’s head and his arm. Too many witnesses had testified to Mary Aylward’s bloodthirsty boasting to easily undermine the verdict or even to see her as a wronged and frightened woman.
A later generation may be appalled at Mary Aylward’s fate and still wonder why her husband, who had killed no one, should be hanged beside her. A seemingly hapless cipher, Richard paid in full for the Victorian assumption that a husband was responsible for his wife’s behaviour. “The past is a foreign country,” claimed British novelist L.P. Hartley. “They do things differently there.” Canada West in 1862 was a country in which we would prefer not to live.
Desmond Morton is Hiram Mills Professor of History at McGill University and author most recently of Fight or Pay: Soldiers’ Families in the Great War (UBC Press, 2004). This article originally appeared in the June-July 2006 issue ofThe Beaver.
First Couple Hanged in Canada: The Tragedy of Mary and Richard Aylward by Paul Kirby. Littlebrickbookhouse, Belleville, 2004.
Uncertain Justice: Canadian Women and Capital Punishment, 1754–1953, by F. Murray Greenwood and Beverley Boissery. Dundurn Press, Toronto, 2000.
by Danelle Cloutier
Canadians take their margarine seriously. Until 1948, the inexpensive butter substitute was banned because it was seen as a threat to the dairy industry. Even after 1948, there were many restrictions. The laws around margarine don’t end there, though, and neither do other weird rules. Check out our list of wacky laws in Canada.
You can't kill Sasquatch
This one might be a myth, but legend has it that it was illegal in British Columbia to kill Sasquatch. A report from Nanaimo in the late 1800s says a man’s request to shoot a “wild man of Home Lake” was denied because it was unlawful to shoot "Mowglis" (an early name for Sasquatch).
No duelling allowed
Make sure you don’t quote “I challenge you to a duel” from Robin Hood: Men in Tights to any authorities or you might get arrested. Duelling is armed combat between two people in front of a witness who will settle the conflict. The first recorded duel in Canada was in a 1646 report explaining that two men settled a dispute with swords. The last official duel in Canada is believed to have happened around the mid-1800s. It’s against the law to both challenge someone to a duel and accept an invitation to duel.
The reason you can't believe it's not butter
Although margarine was illegal in Canada from 1886 to 1948, the ban was lifted from 1917 to 1923 because there was a dairy shortage around the time of the First World War. In 1950 margarine laws became a provincial jurisdiction and laws varied around the country. Some provinces required margarine to be bright yellow to distinguish it from butter. In other provinces, it had to be white. In 2008, Quebec became the last province to drop its margarine colour law.
Skating around the law
There was no winter fun allowed in Toronto on Sundays from 1912 to 1961. For instance, it was illegal to toboggan in Toronto’s High Park on the Sabbath. Police were reportedly posted at the hills to enforce the ban. Law officials felt limiting entertainment, business, and activities would encourage church going. There was a public outcry when the tobogganing ban was first enforced, but Torontonians quickly adjusted and took up skating instead.
Your money is no good here
Don’t bring your coin jar to the store. Under the Currency Act of 1985, Canadians couldn’t pay for something over twenty-five cents using only pennies. Now that pennies are obsolete, you still can’t pay for an item that costs more than five dollars with five-cent coins, or something that costs more than twenty-five dollars with one-dollar coins.
Drinking, it's serious stuff
In 1928, drinking was a focussed task. Beer parlours were only for drinking — eating, standing, singing, dancing, gambling, and music absolutely weren’t allowed. From 1928 to 1957, the sexes even had to be separated in drinking establishments. If cocktail lounges, beverage rooms and restaurants wanted to serve men and women, they were required to have a separate beer parlour for each sex with separate entrances and no communication between the rooms. Women weren’t allowed to sell or handle beer in a parlour.
TFO, a French-language educational channel based in Ontario, has aired a six-part series about Samuel de Champlain, the founder of Quebec.
The series is based on the book Champlain’s Dream, a sweeping biography of the great explorer by Pulitzer-prize-winning American author David Hackett Fischer.
The French-language video series stars Quebec actor Maxime Le Flaguais as Champlain.
Producers aim to air the series on English TV later in 2015.
The entire series can be viewed, in French only, by requesting a link through this website.
Also on the site are a variety of trailers, short educational videos, and games available in French and English.
by Paul Jones
In my student days I roomed with an actor who practised elocution with the aid of a road map. “Now loading on platform four,” he would intone in a voice reminiscent of a bus-terminal PA system, full of explosive consonants and vowels lengthened dramatically or eliminated altogether, “Straathroyyyyy, via Leam’ngt’n, Flesh’rt’n, Ferrrrg’s, aaand Peff’lawwww. Allll a-bud.” Then it was on to his next farcical itinerary.
That’s when I first realized place names could be fun for adults. Why should it only be schoolkids who get to laugh out loud at names like Medicine Hat, Alberta, and Chibougamau and Saint-Louis-du-Ha! Ha!, in Quebec?
Almost fifty years later, place names once again feature in my life. As a responsible genealogist, I’m acutely aware that pinning down the location of an ancestor is essential to the identification of the correct person and the study of the appropriate records. Research rigour demands that we take these things seriously.
Certainly our forebears did. At least until Elizabethan times, local history and geography studies were solemnly and inextricably linked in what is now known as “the chorographic tradition.” To William of Malmesbury, writing in the twelth century, the depiction of the land and the tales of its inhabitants were inseparable. William Camden’s county-by-county Britannia, published in Latin in 1586 and English in 1610, was reprinted, reissued, and gravely repurposed for the next quarter of a millennium. Everyone understood that this was capital-S-serious subject matter.
The scholarly study of place names took hold in the nineteenth century. The biggest challenge was to identify and clarify the folk etymologies that had cheerfully and haphazardly modified European place names over many centuries, even millennia.
For example, the English town of York had been known by broadly similar-sounding names in several different languages (Celtic, Latin, Anglian, Old Norse, and every era of English) with shifting meanings to accommodate each successive tongue.
In North America we do not have these accretions of language to the same degree. Sometimes we’re not entirely sure what a word meant in a First Nations tongue, such as Chibougamau. And there are conflicting legends as to how a place originally got its First Nations name, as in Medicine Hat (a literal translation into English). Usually, though, we have at most one layer of linguistic confusion to deal with, not the four or five that are possible in the Old World.
In fact, many Canadian place names are rather easily traced to a specific source, especially honorifics that celebrate royalty, aristocracy, saints, soldiers, politicians, or community founders. Among the less exalted ranks, pioneer farmers, railway officials, Matthew Yathon and postmasters often lent their names to their communities.
These days, the naming of places is a bureaucratic business.
The Geographical Names Board of Canada oversees approximately 350,000 official place names, and the board and its provincial counterparts require exceptional circumstances before commemorating a person. So don’t get your hopes up if you’re not a monarch, a prime minister, or Rick Hansen. Descriptive names, perhaps Aboriginal in origin, will do nicely.
If you need to identify a Canadian place, Natural Resources Canada operates the Canadian Geographical Names Data Base with an online query tool that “provides many ways to search for a current or former official name.” Prospective merriment is not one of the search criteria.
No discussion of Canadian place names would be complete without mention of Alan Rayburn, the doyen of his field, author of the book Place Names of Canada, and contributor of the article “Place Names” to the Canadian Encyclopedia. Few could match his erudition in authoritatively describing the chaste origins of the placename Dildo, in Newfoundland and Labrador, while maintaining the prose equivalent of a poker face.
From Rayburn we learn that many places almost adopted different identities.
Regina, for example, might well have been Wascana or even Pile of Bones. Would schoolchildren around the world know Medicine Hat today had it become Smithville instead? And would the recreational allure of Kenora, Ontario, be quite as appealing to sporty types if it had continued with the moniker Rat Portage?
Then there are the Ontario communities once known as Berlin, Stalin township, and Swastika, but today called Kitchener, Hansen township, and — really? Are you sure? Still Swastika? Oh, my.
I don’t suppose Swastika’s residents were less passionately anti-Nazi than other Canadians. Yet they couldn’t see why they should cede their forefathers’ benign heritage to a vanquished, Johnny-come-lately evil. Don’t hit people where they live. Even the oddest of names may be no joking matter.
Paul Jones, a former publisher, is a writer, consultant and avid genealogical researcher. This article originally appeared in the June-July 2015 issue of Canada's History.
The waters off the Magdelan Islands have always struck fear in the hearts of sailors.
Over the centuries, hundreds of shipwrecks have been reported off this tiny but remote archipelago in the Gulf of St. Lawrence.
In November 1871, a violent snowstorm drove a brig loaded with grain into the shoals near the islands.
The ship broke apart and left only one survivor, who washed up on shore. Three or four days later, the sailor was found encased in ice. Remarkably, he was still alive.
As result of his ordeal, Augustin Le Bourdais lost both legs legs below the knee. However, he went on to live out his life on the islands as a telegraph operator. His story is just one of many of the remarkable stories connected to this unique string of sandy islands.
Indeed, many of the people who live on the islands today are descended from shipwreck survivors.
Wood salvaged from wreckage was used to build many of the island’s homes. And Madelinots today continue to find relics washed up on their shores.
One man, Leonard Clark, created hand-drawn maps of over 300 19th-century shipwrecks.
The documentary Legends of Magdelan, a co-production of Gregory B. Gallagher and Parafilms, follows the efforts of divers and amateur archaeologists as they search for shipwrecks using Clark’s maps.
The film also explores the haunting legends of the islands.
Read the whole story about Augustin Le Bourdais.
At the outbreak of the First World War, motorized vehicles were still a relatively new development.
And the idea that women could drive these vehicles — let alone drive them around the shell holes at the front lines — was even more revolutionary.
But in this case necessity drove out nicety. With men needed in fighting roles, it became more acceptable to train women in jobs normally relegated to men.
Many Canadian women signed up to join organizations such as the First Aid Nursing Yeomanry in Britain.
The FANYs did the dangerous work of removing the wounded from the battlefield and transporting them to field hospitals.
Their brave efforts in the line of fire eventually earned them the respect of the British War Office, which officially approved the organization in early 1916.
Furthermore, the war office established the British Women’s Army Auxilliary Corps (WAAC) a year later.
The WAAC included women drivers and mechanics. But it was still an uphill battle for the women to gain proper recognition, especially when it came to pay.
Women were still paid less than men for the same work.
Watch archival film of WAAC drivers and mechanics from the Great War Archive of the University of Oxford.
And, read the story “Angels Behind the Wheel” by Christa Thomas in the June-July 2015 issue of Canada’s History magazine. Subscribe now.
In April 2015, Parks Canada archaeologists returned to the Arctic to further explore a famous wreck discovered in 2014. The Erebus was one of two ships from Sir John Franklin’s lost expedition of 1845. Franklin was seeking the Northwest Passage.
The discovery of the Erebus near King William Island in Nunavut last September created quite a stir. Among the artifacts recovered was the ship’s bell. The ship, which rests on the ocean floor, was further explored in the spring.
In this video, Marty Magne, director of the Archeaology and History Branch at Parks Canada, says archaeologists are now trying to determine how the ship got to its current location. Did it drift there and sink? Or did the ship’s crew place it there?
by Jessica Knapp
Cut from the union suit — a full-bodied undergarment for men — the T-shirt remained hidden for years before finally taking centre stage as a fashion staple. In 1913, American sailors adopted T-shirts under their uniforms. In Canada, the navy made the T-shirt official garb for sailors in 1939; the army and air force didn’t follow suit until 1963, when the armed forces introduced a unified uniform. The popularity of the garment exploded in 1951 in both Canada and the U.S. when actor Marlon Brando wore a basic white T-shirt in A Street Car Named Desire. In 1965, plastisol ink for fabrics was patented, allowing screen printing. T-shirts were no longer expected to remain a blank canvas.
Fast Facts
The T-shirt was named in the 1920s in reference to its shape when laid out.
T-shirts were typically made of cotton because it was cheap.
Early T-shirts featured a round neckline — the crew neck. The V-neck came later.
Greasers of the 1950s often rolled packs of cigarettes in their T-shirt sleeves.
Canadian soldiers today wear green T-shirts, while sailors wear black, and air force personnel wear blue.
T-shirts were soon adorned with decals that sent messages or sold brands.
By the 1970s, T-shirts were popular with both men and women.
by Patricia Kirby
In March 1959, my mother came across an article, entitled “The Living Snowman of Grindstone Island,” in Coronet magazine. The article told of a violent snowstorm in the Magdalen Islands in the Gulf of St. Lawrence in 1871. For days, local folk were terrified by tales of a seven-foot-tall monster wandering around and growling at anyone who ventured outside.
Finally, one evening, the parish priest formed a search party that found and followed giant footsteps in the snow. They led to a hulk lying still under a thick blanket of snow. When the priest leaned over to see what sort of beast this was, his crucifix glinted in the lantern light. A weak voice whispered, “Père” (Father).
The “monster” was actually a man encased in ice.
My mother recognized this man because she had seen his photo in family albums. He was her great-uncle Augustin Le Bourdais.
The magazine story soon became family lore, at least among the members of my close family. But was it completely true? We lived then on the other side of the continent, in Portland, Oregon, and no longer had a connection to our French-speaking relatives in Quebec. Decades later I mastered French — the only one in my family to do so — and I felt compelled to learn more about my great-great-uncle.
I googled his name and came across a book entitled Auguste Le Bourdais, naufragé en 1871 aux Îles-de-la-Madeleine (1979) by Azade Harvey. Harvey, who passed away in 1987, wrote a book based on equal parts fact and legend, including fictionalized conversations and anecdotes. I also contacted the Magdalen Islands Musée de la Mer, which put me in touch with Guy Le Bourdais, Auguste’s grandson in Quebec City. Guy Le Bourdais has his grandfather’s journal, as well as a letter Augustin wrote to his parents about the shipwreck. After communicating with Guy, reading his book on Le Bourdais’ genealogy containing the definitive version of events, and visiting the Magdalens in 2013, I pieced together this story:
Eldest son of twelve children, Augustin Le Bourdais, dubbed Auguste, was born in l’Islet, Quebec, in 1844. He developed into an exceptionally strong young man, well over six feet tall and two hundred pounds. Inspired by sailor cousins, Le Bourdais went to sea at the age of fourteen. By the time he was twenty-seven, he had sailed as far as India and had worked his way up to first mate — second only to the captain. In November of 1871 he signed on to the brig Wasp. His youngest brother, françois-assise, was also part of the crew.
As many as 450 ships have been wrecked off the islands, often leaving only a single survivor.
The ship sailed east from Quebec City just before midnight on November 24, loaded with wheat and oats destined for Belgium. Violent winds forced them to anchor in Gaspé until November 27.
The next day, the ship set sail despite vicious ninety-kilometre-per-hour winds laden with snow. The Wasp was driven toward shoals off the Magdalen Islands between Pointe-aux-Loups and L’Étang-du-Nord. Le Bourdais described the ensuing ordeal in a letter to his parents: “We ran aground on a Tuesday night, November 28 ... the weather was so terrible that I don’t even know what happened.”
Repeated attempts to launch lifeboats failed; huge waves several metres high battered the ship all night long. Le Bourdais used a long woven belt — a ceinture fléchée — to lash himself to the base of the bowsprit, where he was somewhat sheltered from the pounding waves. In the terrifying dark the sailors called out to one another after each huge wave. One by one the voices were silenced during the night, including that of François-Assise.
As the soaked cargo swelled, the sides of the ship’s hold began to give way. Late the next day, Le Bourdais realized the ship was breaking up, so he attached himself to a section of deck. His foot caught between two boards of this makeshift raft, and waves washed him ashore, unconscious.
His letter goes on: “The snow was so thick I couldn’t see where I was or which way to go. Out in sleet, ice and driftwood with frozen clothes, consumed by thirst and hunger, my strength was nearly gone. The violent storm continued from Wednesday until Sunday. I was completely alone.”
Wet and exhausted, Le Bourdais saw a pile of dune grass, which the people of the islands would gather every fall to use as spring fodder. He dug out a partial shelter at the base of the stack and fell asleep. By the time he woke up, his feet were frozen. There he stayed from Thursday to Sunday, “getting weaker... unable to move... waiting for death which would not come.”
The weather finally cleared on Sunday. Alone and grief-stricken, he had literally frozen in a storm that howled for five days and wrecked two other ships, adding five deaths to the ten who died on the Wasp.
“I saw a man very far off, too far away to hear me call,” Le Bour-dais said in his letter. “I began to move toward him and saw smoke from a hut some distance away. That gave me courage and I succeeded in dragging myself over that way.” A number of men eventually saw him crawling toward them and came out to rescue him.
He was no longer alone, but the next part of his ordeal had just begun. Le Bourdais’s feet were indeed frozen right through and had to be amputated. Solomon Riopel, an Anglican priest who also practised medicine, performed the surgery with a handsaw and some shoemaker’s tools. The only anaesthesia available was a great quantity of rum, and it took eight men to hold him down during the operation. To make matters worse, Le Bourdais later contracted gangrene.
When the ice broke up the following spring, he was transported in excruciating pain to Quebec City, where a second double amputation was performed just below the knees. After more than a year of convalescence in hospital, he could walk with the help of crutches and homemade wooden prostheses strapped on above and below the knee.
Le Bourdais then went on to learn Morse code and telegraphy. But it was not easy for him to find work. He had to petition his Member of Parliament for employment. Finally, in 1879, he was hired to operate the Magdalens’ first telegraph station.
The coming of the telegraph was a momentous event for people on the islands because ice choked off navigation for six months of every year, leaving them completely isolated from the rest of Quebec and the Maritimes. Being connected at last to the outside world during the long winters greatly changed islanders’ lives.
As a telegraph operator, Le Bourdais had a position of some prominence. He eventually became district supervisor on the Magdalen archipelago, overseeing the building and operation of the islands’ ten telegraph stations and offices.
Having become settled in his work, he also established a home life. He married island schoolteacher Émilienne Renaud and fathered six children.
Today, nearly every Madelinot knows the name of Augustin Le Bourdais. Not a “monster,” but extraordinarily robust, he was a key player in island communications. He also held a special place in islanders’ hearts because, not only was he shipwrecked there — as many as 450 ships have been wrecked off the islands, often leaving only a single survivor — he returned to the Magdalens to live.
Despite having been robbed of his seafaring future and his lower legs, Le Bourdais had a presence in the Magdalen Islands that was larger than life.
Most of all, in an archipelago that knows shipwreck and fatality all too well, my great-great-uncle’s extraordinary tale of survival also made him larger than death.
This article originally appeared in the June-July 2015 issue of Canada’s History.
by Richard Macfarlane
Ned Hanlan sat in his single scull, muscles tensed, anxiously awaiting the starter’s signal. It was September 1876 and the wiry, upstart little rower was about to begin his meteoric rise to international fame. The Canadian sculler had entered the prestigious Philadelphia Centennial Regatta as the underdog. Sure, he had won a few races up north. But this was the United States — and this event was a very big deal. The race was part of the Philadelphia Centennial Exhibition — a world’s fair held to celebrate the one-hundredth anniversary of the founding of the United States — and the Americans were showcasing their best, including their top professional single scullers.
So when young Ned, the twenty-one-year-old son of Irish immigrants, came down from the Toronto Islands to compete against America’s finest, many laughed at his ambition. But jaws soon dropped when Hanlan — rowing like “a small steam engine hissing through the water,” according to Toronto’s Globe — breezed past his brawnier American competitors to capture the five-kilometre course on the Schuylkill River in a record time of twenty-one minutes, nine-and-a-half seconds. Then, to add insult to injury, it was two Canadians — Hanlan and Alex Brayley of Saint John, New Brunswick — who ended up battling each other in the finals, effectively shutting the Americans out of their own competition.
Meanwhile, on the amateur side, a man named Charles Courtney, from Union Springs, New York, emerged as the single sculls champion. Destined to become America’s next great one — he turned professional two years later — Courtney would go on to become one of Hanlan’s more controversial rivals in years to come.
Hanlan’s victory at America’s centennial celebrations gave Canada its first international sports hero. He would go on to dominate his sport, becoming a household name in places like Paris, London, and New York.
Despite his achievements, it’s likely that many Canadians are not aware of Ned Hanlan.
Hanlan’s triumphant return from Philadelphia caused a sensation in his hometown of Toronto. Scenes of patriotic pandemonium greeted the champion as he approached the waterfront aboard the SS City of Toronto. Martial bands played patriotic tunes and tugboats blasted their horns as thousands of people crowded the dock, shouting: “Hurrah for Ned! Hurrah, Hurrah! You did it, boy!” The line of watercraft awaiting his arrival was almost two kilometres long; it was said the harbour was so thick with boats, a person could step from one craft to another and never get their feet wet. A torchlight procession followed, with thousands of fans marching up Yonge Street.
“Had Hanlan been a victorious general returning with a brilliant military record, ‘the hero of a hundred fights,’ he could not have received a greater or more hearty reception,” proclaimed an 1876 Globe newspaper editorial.
Hanlan and his wife, Mary Gibbs. The family lived at the western tip of the Toronto Islands — a place that would one day be renamed Hanlan’s Point in the rower’s honour. Young Ned grew up watching men scull on Lake Ontario and took to boating as a child, rowing to the mainland every day to attend school.
Known as the “Boy in Blue,” from his racing colours, Hanlan grew up during the golden age of Canadian professional single scullers.
In 1873, Hanlan won his first singles event, the Championship of Toronto Bay. He went on to win a string of victories on the local and national levels.
People soon began taking notice of the man dubbed the “little Canuck.” Most rowers were big men, but Hanlan stood just under five feet, nine inches, and weighed no more than 150 pounds. Yet he could row circles around his much larger competitors.
A key to his success was the way he mastered what was then an innovation in rowing — the sliding seat. The sliding seat, which most of Hanlan’s competitors also used, allowed for a greater angle in the water and the use of much more leg drive, resulting in significantly faster race times.
Hanlan developed a powerful, long stroke through the water. He trained almost thirteen kilometres per day and seldom raced at more than thirty-two strokes a minute, while his opponents rowed at a stroke rate approaching forty. To the chagrin of his competitors, he rowed with little apparent sign of fatigue or exertion.
His early victories on Toronto Bay persuaded a group of local businessmen that Hanlan was worth supporting. By 1876, they had established “The Hanlan Club,” which arranged matches, drew up contracts, and negotiated prize money. Their efforts helped the young Hanlan focus on rowing — and steered him away from the youthful indiscretions he had gotten himself into.
Local newspapers described Hanlan as “unreserved, gracious, kindly, clean, humorous, honest and sporting... with those two sterling qualities: friendliness and cleanliness of mind.”
However, he wasn’t a saint. There were temptations on the island; it’s known, for instance, that the young Hanlan sold liquor without a permit to guests outside Hanlan’s Hotel, his father’s establishment. (A story is told of one incident in which Hanlan, with the Toronto constabulary in hot pursuit, ran out the hotel door, jumped into a skiff, and rowed furiously until he caught a steamer headed for the U.S.)
Hanlan was a natural showboat. When leading a race, he would often slow down, pausing to chat with the crowds along the shore. Sometimes he would feign collapse, only to restart and take the lead again. These pranks made Hanlan a crowd favourite, but angered many of his competitors.
Spectators at the time bet heavily on the races. Hanlan’s antics were good for business, because they kept bettors guessing. In some of his biggest races, the amount gambled was the equivalent of what today would be worth between $10 million and $20 million.
The rivalry between Hanlan and the famed American rower Charles Courtney in particular fuelled rumours and scandal. The two had first crossed paths at the Philadelphia Centennial Regatta of 1876, although they did not compete against each other at that event.
As the top single scullers of their respective countries, their rivalry was heightened by the extensive coverage newspapers of the day gave to professional rowing. Race stories were often filled with jingoism and chauvinistic flair, and peppered with gossip and innuendo that fired public interest to a fever pitch in the weeks and days leading up to competitions.
In Hanlan and Courtney, the press had found its perfect story: The plucky little Canadian, dubbed “Mighty Ned,” versus the powerful American eagle. It was the newly minted Dominion of Canada versus the vaunted United States of America.
The first race between Hanlan and Courtney took place in Lachine, Quebec, in 1878 — the year Courtney turned professional.
It was a tight race until they neared the finish line of the eight-kilometre course, which was crowded with private boats and barges filled with spectators. With only five hundred metres left, barges suddenly drifted between the oarsmen and the finish line, forcing both scullers to pause. Hanlan won by only one-and-a-quarter lengths. Could Courtney have won if the barges had not interfered?
The crowd was angry and newspaper reporters were divided in their views. The New York Times claimed that Courtney was bribed $4,000 to lose the race. “Nonsense,” screamed Toronto’s Globe, with a large block headline: “Great American Eagle Screeches Fraud.” Rumours and accusations went back and forth between the handlers of each sculler, the spectators, and the press. Hanlan himself wrote a letter to the editor in the Globe, backing his backers.
In a telegraph to the Montreal Herald, dated October 4, 1878, Hanlan had this to say about Courtney and accusations of race fixing and bribery: “Mr. Courtney is a very honourable man... There is no reason why we should not row a square and honest race. Once and for all, let this be the last of it, if there has been any arrangement to insure my winning, I know nothing of it, and I feel confident that Courtney rowed to win if he could.”
On October 16, 1879, they staged a rematch known as “the Hop Bitters Race.” Held on Lake Chautauqua in Mayville, New York, it attracted 100,000 spectators to a town with a population of just a thousand. More than one hundred reporters flocked there to cover the event, which was meant to settle the issue, once and for all.
Then, on race day, it was discovered that someone had sawed Courtney’s boat in half. Newspapers called it a heinous act, one of the worst sports crimes in history. Officials asked Courtney to race in another boat, but he refused, forcing officials to cancel the race. Hanlan decided to row the course alone. Meanwhile, furious gamblers wanted their money back. It was said that Hanlan labelled Courtney a coward, while Courtney accused Hanlan’s entourage of plotting to destroy his boat. Allegations emerged that $2,000 was promised to Courtney, win or lose, and $3,000 was promised to Hanlan if he allowed Courtney to win. The race was not re-rowed. As for the mystery of the sabotaged boat, the prevailing view was that Courtney’s handlers were responsible.
The now-bitter archrivals would go on to clash in a third race in May 1880, on the Potomac River in Washington, in front of more than 100,000 delirious spectators. The year before, Hanlan had achieved new heights of fame, winning the English Championship by eleven lengths on the Tyne River in England. Now Hanlan was back in America, ready to settle his old score against Courtney. The event was such a sensation that the U.S. Congress recessed so politicians could place their bets and watch the race.
With a staggered start, Courtney grabbed the lead, but he was soon overtaken by Hanlan. The American sculler began rowing erratically, his boat running down the lane markers. Courtney then started back down the course too soon, without having reached the turning stake. Hanlan overtook the American with ease. Courtney later claimed he had suffered heat stroke. In dismay, American reporters pocketed their stubby pencils and shuffled home.
In Hanlan and Courtney, the press had found its perfect story: The plucky little Canadian, dubbed “Mighty Ned,” versus the powerful American eagle.
One more race would make Hanlan world champion.
On November 15, 1880, the Boy in Blue found himself on the Thames River in England, the centre of the rowing universe. Hanlan’s opponent was Edward Trickett, a powerful six-foot-five-inch Australian.
Before the race, Trickett’s trainers had publicly mocked Hanlan, infuriating the Canadian. Hanlan in turn vowed to embarrass his opponent — and he was as good as his word.
Several times during the race Hanlan built a lead, then stopped rowing, allowing Trickett to catch up, only to sprint ahead again. At one point, Hanlan appeared to collapse. The scene is described by writer Frank Cosentino in the book The Canadians — Ned Hanlan:
“He had slumped forward, his oars drifting his boat slowing down under the burden of his weight and drag of the oars.
Trickett turned to see his competitor and, filled with new hope, began to pull harder.... As Trickett pulled even with Hanlan, he cast a glance over to the motionless challenger. At that moment, Hanlan raised his head and flashed a smile at the champion. Trickett was shattered.
Hanlan gave a wave to the crowd and pulled away once more...”
Trickett fared worse in a rematch held two years later. Hanlan pulled the same stunts; he even crossed the finish line, rowed back to pull alongside Trickett, and raced to the finish line again, effectively beating him twice in the same race.
Hanlan's victories captured the imagination of the world. Canada’s Parliament paused to praise his successes. Theatres and operas stopped, and even the London and New York stock exchanges halted momentarily to celebrate his achievements. And a hundred years later, in 1980, Canada Post would put out a stamp commemorating Hanlaris world championship achievement Hanlan held the world title for four years.
Then, on August 16, 1884, Australian William Beach, a two-hundred-pound blacksmith, defeated the twenty-nine-year-old Hanlan on the Paramatta River in Sydney, Australia. In the Dictionary of Canadian Biography, Bruce Kidd writes: “Hanlan’s friends put the blame for the loss on a second bout with typhoid, the debilitating effects of almost eight months of foreign travel, and a near collision during the race with a chartered steamer, but the muscular blacksmith was an exceptional opponent. Unlike Hanlan’s other challengers, Beach had mastered the use of the sliding seat; he also outweighed the defending champion by fifty pounds. Hanlan stayed another seven months for a rematch, but Beach beat him then, and again in 1887.”
In 1894, Hanlan retired from competitive rowing. He went on to coach and run a hotel, also serving briefly as an outspoken alderman for the Toronto Islands. Hanlan, who had married Margaret Gordon Sutherland in 1877, had six daughters and three sons, one of whom died in infancy. On January 4, 1908, Ned Hanlan, the greatest of the world’s single scullers, died of pneumonia. He was fifty-two. His funeral cortege, with about ten thousand mourners, stretched for about a kilometre along Toronto’s King Street.
Today, a symbol of his legacy stands at Hanlan’s Point, near his childhood home on the Toronto Islands. It’s a bronze statue of Hanlan, created by noted Canadian sculptor Emanuel Hahn. At its dedication in 1926, Joseph Ned Hanlan E. Thompson, Speaker of the Ontario Legislature, and his declared: “If the Battle of Waterloo was won on the playing sliding-seat scull, fields of Eton, then I can safely say that Vimy Ridge was date unknown. won on the rowing courses and stadia of Canada.”
Hanlan won some three hundred races in his lifetime, losing only about six. He achieved world record times over long distances that have yet to be broken. But more than that, he gave Canadians a reason to be proud.
At the height of his fame, some American newspapers tried to adopt Hanlan as one of their own. Hanlan was quick to set the record straight with trademark Canadian politeness: “There’s no harm in them calling me an American,” he told the press on one occasion. “But I am not an American in the sense that they want to have it. I was born in Canada and I am a Canadian.”
It’s been one hundred years since Hanlan’s death. His legacy was expressed by J. P Fitzgerald of the Toronto Evening Telegram, who wrote on September 3, 1926, that Hanlan “...dazzled the world as has never been done before, or since, and never will be again by any single figure.”
Richard MacFarlane is a writer, a thirty-five-year rowing veteran, and a member of the Hanlan Boat Club in Toronto. The author would like to thank Edward “Ned” Hanlan, grandson of Ned Hanlan, for his research contribution.
SLIPPERY SEATS
Ned Hanlan was known as the “father of the sliding seat.” While he didn’t invent the contraption, he is said to have perfected its use in rowing. The knowledge that one could row faster and with more ease if the seat moved was known as far back as ancient Greece. Some early racers tried to gain the advantage by greasing the seat and wearing leather pants to reduce friction. John Babcock of the Nassau Boat Club of New York is credited with inventing the first working mechanical version in 1857. It had a run of 30 centimetres and was mounted on metal rails using wooden runners. He admitted it was difficult to master: “The tendency for a beginner is to slide too much and at the wrong time — to use it improperly is easy and pleasant, while to use it properly is difficult and fatiguing.”
By the 1870s, the sliding seat was in widespread use among competitive rowers in Europe as well as North America. However, traditional rowing with a fixed seat did not completely disappear — fixed-seat rowing competitions are still held.
This article was originally published in the December 2007-January 2008 issue of The Beaver. Subscribe to Canada's History today!
Et Cetera
Fire on the Water by Wendy A. Lewis, James Lorimer & Company Ltd., 2007.
The Boy in Blue, a movie starring Nicolas Cage, directed by Charles Jarrott. Canadian Broadcasting Corporation, Toronto, 1986.
by Charlotte Gray
On the first Sunday of May 2008, an ear-splitting sound rang out over the little Yukon community of Dawson City 280 kilometres south of the Arctic Circle. A siren’s wail blasted along the muddy streets, then echoed off the steep hillside behind the town.
At the time, I was staying at a small, one-storey clapboard house — the childhood home of author Pierre Berton, which he generously donated to the community as a writers’ retreat. I was there to research and write a book on the 1890s’ gold rush, the last and most northerly gold rush in a century when gold was as important as oil is today.
In August 1896, only a handful of people from the Hän First Nation lived on the cramped mud flat at the confluence of the Klondike and Yukon rivers. Then seams of gold “as thick as cheese in a sandwich,” according to one observer, were discovered on a creek that flowed into the Klondike River, twenty kilometres from that mud flat.
Tens of thousands of people from all over the globe caught “Klondicitis” and headed north towards the Klondike goldfields. Hundreds were drowned, killed, or injured as they made the brutal journey up the Chilkoot or White passes, over the ice-capped St. Elias Mountain Range, and through the Yukon’s lakes and rapids towards creeks that boasted names like Eldorado, Bonanza, and Gold Bottom.
Within two years, the mud flat had become Dawson City — world-famous for whisky, women, and wealth — and the Hän people had been banished from their ancestral fishing grounds. Meanwhile, the Canadian government was struggling to impose law and order in the boisterous, crowded, squalid, noisy frontier town of 30,000 residents.
Fast-forward to 2008. The siren continued to pierce the thin, clear air. It had been joined by other sounds: dogs howling, trucks bouncing over Dawson’s potholes, the faint sound of human cheering. What was going on?
Then I realized what had caused this commotion, and I was abruptly yanked backwards into the gold rush era. There were no trucks or sirens in the 1890s, but in those days screaming steam whistles, howling dogs, and loud cheers had greeted the same annual event. This was ice-out. The ice on the Yukon River, which in the dead of winter can be more than three metres thick, had finally broken up.
Along with half of Dawson’s population (today, a year-round total of about thirteen hundred people and two thousand dogs) I ran down to the bank of the Yukon River. The mighty 3,185-kilometre watercourse flows from British Columbia to within a few kilometres of the Arctic Ocean, then curves westward through Alaska until it finally empties into the Bering Sea.
Only days earlier there had been a large expanse of yellowing, potholed ice sufficiently solid to support cars. Open water had sparkled in the smaller Klondike River, but at the rivers’ confluence the Klondike’s flow was sucked under the Yukon’s frozen surface. Now huge chunks of ice and gallons of icy water surged down the wide Yukon.
Gold rush veterans left vivid descriptions of the excitement that took hold when winter’s grasp on the northern landscape loosened. With the end of seven long, dark months of isolation, old-timers could look forward to fresh supplies and the next surge of stampeders, eager to stake their claims on the Klondike’s creeks and in Dawson’s casinos.
In May 1897, William Haskell, author of Two Years in the Klondike and Alaskan Gold-Fields 1896–1898: A Thrilling Narrative of Life in the Gold Mines and Camps, stood on the riverbank, watching the “swift current ... result in such pressure that [ice] cakes stand up almost perpendicularly, sometimes ten feet high.” Bill was one of about a thousand prospectors on the bank that day most wearing the miner’s uniform of rubber boots, patched pants held up by suspenders, grubby neckerchiefs, and battered slouch hats.
All winter, these men had lived on the three Bs — bread, beans, and bacon, with the occasional taste of game if there had been a successful hunt. Steak had replaced sex as Bill’s favourite fantasy, and now his mouth watered for a piece of fresh, juicy beef, with a pile of buttery potatoes on the side. “The thought uppermost in [my] mind was something more than that of the piece of moose ham which tasted as if it might have been cured during the late War of the Rebellion.”
Today ice-out is a spectacle that everybody enjoys; we stood for hours on the riverbank, watching the powerful flow. But it made little difference to our day-to-day existence, since Dawson now has all the links to Outside (as stampeders called the lands below the Saint Elias Mountains) that it lacked in Bill’s day — a telegraph wire, telephones, a road, an airline, and even WiFi. A planeload of fresh produce arrives each week. The two Dawson supermarkets carry items such as eggs, fresh pineapples, and pork chops year-round. But reminders of another way of life are never far away. Stubble-chinned prospectors still load vast quantities of canned and dried goods into pickup trucks, so they can disappear for another three-month sojourn in the bush.
For a writer of popular history, the opportunity to see where events actually happened is precious. By the time I arrived at Berton House for my residency, I had read dozens of stampeders’ memoirs with titles like God’s Loaded Dice, With My Own Eyes, and Cheechako into Sourdough. I wanted to explore the Klondike gold rush by interweaving within one narrative the experiences of six individuals who had left first-hand accounts in letters, books, short stories, journals, or diaries.
The six included Father William Judge, a selfless Jesuit; Belinda Mulrooney, a feisty and ruthless businesswoman; Jack London, a tough youngster desperate to make his mark on the world; the imperious and imperial Flora Shaw, special correspondent for The Times of London; Superintendent Sam Steele of the Mounties, the barrel-chested lion of the North; and the engaging adventurer Bill Haskell. Had they not made the journey north, these six people would never have met. Each of them sought riches—although the wealth they found was not always the yellow metal itself.
This would be history from the ground up — the roles individuals play in the larger story of events. But I needed context. I had not yet glimpsed the vastness of the North, felt the giddy sleeplessness triggered by the midnight sun, dabbled my fingers in the Yukon’s chilly waters, nor met anybody who had chosen to live in what Dawsonites still describe, often with grim triumph, as “the end of the road.“
Dawson shares with other small, resource-based towns studded across northern Canada a hostility to the south and a sense of its own uniqueness. But Dawson is truly unique, thanks to the gold rush. Today, it feels like a shabby film set — a pale version of the raucous rough-and-tumble frontier town of the 1890s. Original buildings give silent testament to past glory. Some of them, such as the Palace Grand Theatre, have been restored by Parks Canada and look infinitely more grand than they did when first built. Others have been preserved as poignant reminders of the risks of construction on permafrost: St. Andrew’s Church is today a ramshackle wooden structure with a bulging door, lopsided roof, and collapsing walls. Then there are contemporary recreations of gold rush entertainments, staged during the summer for tourists. Today’s cancan dancers in Diamond Tooth Gertie’s Saloon are as energetic and exuberant as their predecessors, such as the famous sisters Jacqueline and Rosalind (nicknamed Vaseline and Glycerine) who held crowds in thrall in the summer of 1898.
There are more subtle echoes of the past in the local culture, including a whiff of subversion in the air and a resistance to Outside rules. While I was in the North, talk of smoking bans and seat-belt laws elicited guffaws. The heirs of Swiftwater Bill, a legendary gambler during the gold rush, still party prodigiously, especially in the dark winter months. There were twenty-eight saloons open year-round during the height of the gold rush, giving Dawson its reputation as “the city that never sleeps.“ Today the only bar open year-round is the Pit, which has two rooms. One, the Armpit, is open during the day; the other, the Snakepit, opens at night.
My months in Dawson gave me a sense of place. I saw why even the most hardened gold digger found the landscape mesmerizing. Belinda Mulrooney who was twenty-five years old when she climbed the Chilkoot Pass in 1898, would end up as one of the richest entrepreneurs in the Klondike. Yet even this tough little Irish-American woman, who snapped at any man who got too close to her, revealed a romantic streak when she contemplated the Yukon landscape. “The beauty ... you can’t possibly overdo it. It seems to me that every day and every night is different. You just feast on it. You become quite religious, seem to get inspiration. Or it might be the electricity of the air. You are filled with it, ready to go... You couldn’t keep your eyes off the heavens.“ Belinda’s words resonated with me at 2 a.m. on the longest day of the year, as I watched the last rays of the sun paint the undersides of high drifting clouds a delicate rosy pink.
The mountains and rivers and sky were far larger than I had imagined before my arrival in the North. In contrast, some spaces were far smaller. Most of the cabins that lined Dawson’s streets and the gold-bearing creeks in the late 1890s have dissolved back into the bush, with only a few rotten logs or discarded cans hinting at the lives they once contained. But a few have survived, with their sod roofs, makeshift windows, and claustrophobic dimensions. Along the road from Berton House is the Jack London cabin — a reconstruction of the cabin on the Stewart River on which the young writer is said to have carved “Jack London / Miner Author” during the bitter winter of 1897.
The Dawson cabin contains half of the logs from which the original Stewart River cabin was built; the other half were shipped to Jack’s hometown of Oakland, California, where another Jack London cabin sits on the waterfront. Jack himself nearly died of scurvy during his year in the North, and he never struck gold. But during his slow recovery he hung out in Dawson’s bars, gathering anecdotes. Those stories of macho survival would be the basis for many of the stories that, only a few years later, would make him the highest-paid author in North America. To a modern visitor, the idea of spending five months cooped up with three or four other men in this cramped and squalid space is suffocating. London himself described the experience as spending “weeks in a refrigerator.”
The most dramatic change between then and now is the status of the local First Nation. The unvarnished racism expressed in memoirs and stories by stampeders like Jack London and William Haskell shocks a modern sensibility. Raised to disparage strangers who did not look or talk like Anglo-Saxons, hungry prospectors showed nothing but contempt towards the people who for centuries had fished and hunted all over this hostile landscape, had learned the migration patterns of caribou and medicinal properties of vegetation, and knew how to survive the cruel winters. So what if they were canny traders who had dominated the commerce in fox, bear, and lynx furs with the Hudson’s Bay Company for years? When a Hän fisherman tried to talk to Haskell, the latter hooted with laughter because the Hän language sounded to his untrained ear as though the speaker was “doing his best to strangle himself with it.”
Within a year of the gold strike on the Klondike, the local Hän had been brutally ejected from their ancestral homeland and robbed of the land’s mineral treasures. Only the Jesuit priest Father Judge regarded Indians as fellow members of the human race. But he was helpless to avert their expulsion to a small reserve known as Moosehide Village, about five kilometres downstream from Dawson. Hän elders spent the next eighty years watching southerners plunder their hunting grounds, pollute their rivers, ship their children off to residential schools, and destroy their way of life.
By the late twentieth century, such actions were recognized as unethical and cruel violations of human rights. Land claims have been settled with most of the Yukon’s First Nations and compensation paid for the traumas of recent history. Since the early 1990s, the Hän people from the Klondike regions have called themselves the Tr’ondëk Hwëch’in, and today they constitute about one-third of Dawson’s residents.
One of Dawson’s only modern buildings is the Dänojà Zho Cultural Centre, based on traditional Hän construction methods. There, the 50,000 tourists who visit Dawson each summer can learn a history that is quite different from what is presented in Diamond Tooth Gertie’s Saloon.
Residence in Berton House made circa 1905. me acutely aware of the challenge I faced. Fifty years ago, in his magnificent Klondike: The Life and Death of the Last Great Gold Rush, Pierre Berton caught the national imagination and revived interest in the Dawson City of the 1890s. Berton’s grand entertainment teemed with heroes and villains, and whatever I produced would inevitably be compared with his classic. However, narrative history is a multi-layered project, reflecting the priorities and preoccupations of the era in which it is written.
Since Berton’s day, attitudes toward women, First Nations, and the fabric of history itself have changed.
I explore the Klondike story for a new generation, to whom diversity and psychological depth are important.
But my three months in Dawson reminded me that in one respect, Pierre Berton was right. Those who got rich in the Klondike gold rush would always recall it as an epic adventure.
This article originally appeared in the December 2010-January 2011 issue of Canada’s History magazine. Subscribe now. Charlotte Gray’s book Gold Diggers: Striking It Rich In The Klondike is available for purchase.
by Pamela Klaffke
Getting from Fort Simpson in the Northwest Territories to Crow Wing, Minnesota, is a forty-one-hour, 3,329-kilometre trip. And that’s if you drive. Now imagine making the journey on snowshoes.
That’s exactly what Hudson’s Bay Company clerk Robert Campbell did in the winter of 1852. He was fuelled by revenge. Campbell was determined to convince his HBC bosses to allow him to return to Fort Selkirk to rebuild his Yukon trading post after it had been pillaged by Chilkat natives, who had forced his departure by sending him away in a canoe on the Yukon River. Two days later, surveying the damage the coastal natives had inflicted on Fort Selkirk, Campbell quickly set his mind on revenge. Now, if only he could persuade the powers that be to see things his way.
But Campbell’s request was turned down — first by the chief trader at Fort Simpson, then at the HBC hub in Fort Garry, Manitoba, and finally by HBC Governor Sir George Simpson himself, to whom Campbell paid a personal visit at Simpson’s headquarters in Lachine, Quebec, not far from Montreal. Travelling from Minnesota to Lachine, Campbell decided to abandon his snowshoes and opted for less demanding modes of transportation, namely stagecoaches and steamers.
The tenacious clerk recorded his efforts. He wrote of his appeal to Governor Simpson and his desire for revenge on the Chilkats in his personal diaries as well as company journals kept by himself and assistant clerk James Green Stewart. Campbell dismissed the suggestion that he take a short hiatus when Simpson, in an attempt to distract his focus, reminded him of his repeated requests to visit his native Scotland. But Campbell was a man with a one-track mind. “I told him I had no desire to see home, not any desire to realise, but the one all absorbing passion to have revenge on the Chilkats,” he wrote in his personal journals.
In time, Campbell did take Simpson up on his offer to holiday in Scotland. He never saw Fort Selkirk again, and it was eighty-six years until the HBC opened another trading post at the site.
Established by Robert Campbell in 1848 and named for Hudson’s Bay Company stockholder and fifth Earl of Selkirk, Thomas Douglas, Fort Selkirk has been at the centre of exceptional drama, the stories of which are often eclipsed by tales of the Klondike gold rush. Fort Selkirk is also distinctive in its repeated revival. Every time it seems to have been abandoned for good, Fort Selkirk rises again — and again.
Even its geography is dramatic. For generations, native elders have told stories of a volcanic eruption some seven thousand years ago that carved the striking basalt lava bluffs situated directly across the river from the fort. Indeed, geologists have confirmed that there are several volcanic centres in the vicinity. Archaeologists date human occupation in the Fort Selkirk area back at least three thousand years, and evidence of a camp at nearby Victoria Rock is more than five thousand years old.
For thousands of years, the Northern Tutchone people — a tribe now known as the Selkirk First Nation — hunted, fished, and lived in the region, which today marks the approximate halfway point between Whitehorse and Dawson City, about sixty kilometres west of the Klondike Highway.
Standing on the bank of the Pelly River at the original Fort Selkirk site, it is difficult to imagine selecting this particular spot to set up a trading post. The land is low, marshy, and subject to spring flooding. Robert Campbell’s original Fort Selkirk was built here, at the confluence of the Pelly and Yukon Rivers. Campbell and Stewart called it “The Forks,” and it stood in this location for four years before Campbell ordered the post moved to the more advantageous site where it remains, more than three kilometres down the Yukon River, on flat, high banks.
In correspondence with his superiors, Robert Campbell wrote that the second, and current, location of the fort was, in fact, his first choice, but that he was unsure of how the local natives would react to the HBC presence. As a result, he chose a more secluded spot; heavily treed, it would have been partially hidden from the view of river travellers. Though well shielded, perhaps the first Fort Selkirk location was too low-key. After all, engaging in trade may be difficult when no one knows how to find you. This hindrance, however, was the least ofCampbell’s problems. More pressing was the fact that his outfit was woefully lacking (he once went for eighteen months without receiving any new goods for trade). Above all, there was the constant threat of the Chilkats.
A Tlingit people based in and around the northwest coast of the Alaska panhandle, the Chilkats had become susceptible to Western vices and ways. Seeing a worthwhile opportunity, they were the first to introduce European goods, such as tea and sugar, tobacco and guns, wool blankets and beads, to the natives of the Yukon interior. They acquired these goods regularly from the HBC steamer, Beaver, and were not very pleased when Campbell and his men started trading at Fort Selkirk with the Northern Tutchone. In retaliation, the Chilkats taunted, intimidated, and stole from the HBC traders repeatedly. In July 1851, while Campbell was away, the Chilkats paid a week-long visit to the fort. Four days into their stay, assistant clerk James Stewart wrote in the company journals: “This day has been nothing but a scene of quarreling, disputing & fighting, but God be praised no lives have yet been lost. But I am afraid the night will not pass without something or other.”
Stewart made it through that night, but the Chilkats continually returned and harassed the traders. Then, in late August 1852, this time while Stewart was away, the Chilkats threatened Campbell with guns and knives, ultimately forcing him into a boat and pillaging the fort.
Northern Tutchone Chief Thlingit Thling and his successor, Hanan, frequently played peacemakers between the HBC traders and the Chilkats. According to native oral history, it was Hanan who rescued Campbell after he had been cast down the Yukon River by the Chilkats, and, as a gesture of his gratitude, Campbell gave him his name.
By the late 1800s, all that remained of Campbell’s Fort Selkirk were the crumbling basalt chimneys, but that changed with the arrival of American entrepreneur Arthur Harper, Anglican missionaries, and, of course, with prospector George Carmack’s discovery of gold near Dawson City in 1896.
Arthur Harper, who moved to Fort Selkirk with his native wife and their children, set up a trading post not far from Campbell’s short-lived HBC site in 1889, hoping, undoubtedly, to take advantage of the steamboat traffic that commenced the same year (it was along the trade route used for transporting goods to posts along the Yukon River). In 1892, Reverend T.H. Canham came to Fort Selkirk and erected St. Andrew’s Anglican Mission, beginning what would become a long-standing Anglican presence.
But it was the gold rush that would turn Fort Selkirk into a thriving town, a crucial stop along the way to Dawson City; it was a place to stock up on supplies and take advantage of other local amenities. The Catholic Church arrived in 1898, as did 202 Yukon Field Force men, who put up twelve buildings (and blasted two giant holes in the basalt cliffs across the river that they used for target practice). That year, the Yukon became a territory of Canada and there was serious talk of Fort Selkirk being named its capital. By 1899, there were hotels and saloons, post and telegraph offices, a sawmill, and the Catholic Church had set up a mission.
It was around this time as well that the historic native fish camp known as Victoria Rock was so designated by steamboat crews for Queen Victoria. (This was not intended as a compliment; rising from the Yukon River just downstream from Fort Selkirk, Victoria Rock is squat and wide, and for those reasons it is said that steamboat crews designated the fish camp Victoria Rock for Queen Victoria.)
Just as quickly as the town boomed, it went bust.
The Yukon Field Force left after only a year when they were called on to help the North-West Mounted Police retain order and protect Canadian interests from gold-crazed Americans in Dawson City. The Catholic Church closed. While Fort Selkirk remained a common stop for steamboat travellers en route to finding their fortunes in Dawson City, the town’s revival had peaked. The drama, however, had not.
On Christmas Day, 1899, three vacationers went missing in the area and Fort Selkirk’s lone NWMP officer, Constable Alex Pennycuick, was called on to help in what would be become one of the territory’s most notorious murder cases. A ruthless, long-time con named George O’Brien had killed the vacationers as well as his partner in crime, Tommy Graves. Along with Philip McGuire, an American private investigator, Pennycuick cracked the case and found the remains of those missing. His perseverance paid off; the evidence he provided at O’Brien’s trial was vital. O’Brien was tried, found guilty, and executed — thanks in large part to the intrepid constable.
Pennycuick was posted at Fort Selkirk until 1911, when the NWMP closed the detachment. Still, a smattering of European-Canadian settlers and native people remained at the fort throughout the first half of the twentieth century, including Big Jonathan Campbell. The son of Hanan, Big Jonathan was made chief in 1916, a position he held until his death in 1958. It was at Big Jonathan’s house that much of Fort Selkirk’s social life revolved. The town had been traditionally divided in two, with the native members living in the east end and the settlers on the west side of the one-kilometre-long townsite. But at Big Jonathan’s, the community came together at frequent dance hall parties and potlatches (ceremonial and social custom of giving away of property and exchanging of gifts).
The same year Big Jonathan became chief, another of Fort Selkirk’s most celebrated citizens arrived. Anglican missionary Kathleen Martin moved to Fort Selkirk in 1916, where she taught local children at the mission school and was admired by the white newcomers and the Northern Tutchone alike. She learned to speak the Northern Tutchone language and tried her best to curb the locals’ gambling habits. In 1929, she married widower Alex Coward, although she disliked the implications of his last name and refused to take it, preferring to go by Kathleen Cowaret. She was one of the town’s most dedicated champions and maintained the Yukon’s longest-running church mission until 1953.
By the late 1920s, the quiet town started bustling again thanks to increased river traffic. At the time, the rivers served as highways, and Fort Selkirk had an ideal “roadside” location. Speaking to interviewers as part of the “Fort Selkirk Oral History Project — 1984” former Selkirk resident George Dawson described the scene on the river in the 1920s, when the boats came in.
We used to call this city Dog City because there [were] a lot of dogs in this village and when they’d hear the steamboat coming upstream, all the dogs go down [to] meet the boat and follow the boat up to the landing here and when the boat tie up for a few minutes and the cooks are always throw out lots of leftovers like meat and everything and you should see the dogs when they’re out there fighting in the water just to get a little bit of something to eat.
Individuals routinely had ten or more dogs, and photographs taken at the time confirm that dogs did certainly abound — and within a few years, so did business. In 1931, a new Anglican Church was built using materials from the long-abandoned Yukon Field Force buildings. In 1932, the RCMP came back and in 1938 — eighty-six years after Robert Campbell was forced out by the Chilkats — the Hudson’s Bay Company returned. Then, in 1942, the Catholic Church returned after a forty-three-year absence, during which, the story goes, a local trader used the church to store dynamite.
With churches, stores, a school, and steady steamboat traffic, the outlook for Fort Selkirk was good — until the late 1940s when construction began on new roads to Mayo and Dawson City. The highways meant the end of steamboat travel and, subsequently, the end of Fort Selkirk -again. Most of the fort’s residents moved to Minto, an hour-long boat ride up the Yukon River, and later, many settled in Pelly Crossing.
But one family stayed: Danny Roberts, his wife, Abby, and their daughter, Lois. Danny Roberts was known, until his death in 2000, as the “Mayor of Selkirk.” He’d greet canoeists and kayakers who happened upon the site. He was also instrumental in piecing together and protecting Fort Selkirk’s history.
Today, piecing together and protecting that history means restoring the fort’s buildings, collecting stories from Selkirk elders, and digging, quite literally, into the past. In July 2006, University of Alberta Ph.D. candidate Victoria Castillo led her second archaeological dig in the Yukon. Her first, at the current Fort Selkirk in 2005, proved disappointing, yielding only a few trade beads. This latest dig, however, has turned out to be a great success. At the original site, Castillo and her crew of eight found the foundation of what they believe to be Robert Campbell’s house, as well as artifacts such as pipe stems, a butter knife, and pieces of blue-and-white transfer print pottery.
All of the finds of this exploratory dig are surely to have come from Campbell’s era, as the site has remained virtually untouched since he abandoned it for the second Fort Selkirk in 1852. “It’s a terrible spot [to build],” concedes Castillo, who adds that there’s no site plan or drawings to work from, just Campbell’s journals and fifty pages of account records. She hopes to be back next summer to continue her work.
Castillo’s 2006 crew included four Selkirk native students. “By doing this work, the students are learning part of their heritage,” says Castillo. They’re part of Fort Selkirk’s next generation, who come to Fort Selkirk to explore their ancestry, whether by working summers in the area or simply making day visits.
Preserving Fort Selkirk’s history for future generations is a priority of Government of Yukon’s Heritage Resources Unit, and a passion of the department’s Historic Sites Project Officer, Bruce Barrett. He first discovered Fort Selkirk on a canoe trip vacation in 1981, and even then he was impressed. “I first saw Fort Selkirk as a typical canoeist who didn’t even really know it was there. I was on a canoe trip down the Yukon River and suddenly I discovered this oasis in the wilderness,” he says. “Most of the buildings were somewhat derelict, but there was still a lot in them and they were definitely in much better shape than most of the cabins we had seen up to that point.”
Barrett took a job with the Government of Yukon in 1985, the same year that marked his first summer working on the Fort Selkirk restoration project, which was still in its infancy.
Just a year earlier, the Selkirk First Nation and the Government of Yukon took the first steps toward formalizing a unique co-management and co-ownership arrangement. Twenty-two years later, the buildings that remained at the fort after its abandonment have been stabilized, restored, or rebuilt. The oldest standing building in the territory — the Anglican schoolhouse, built in 1892 — is at Fort Selkirk, the original desks still lined up in rows facing the chalkboard. A native-staffed work camp spends the summers maintaining and improving the site, and elders often act as interpreters for the two thousand visitors Fort Selkirk welcomes from June through August. Elders are also working toward transferring traditional knowledge to a younger generation of interpreters who will keep the stories of Fort Selkirk alive.
Time and again, those stories have survived and Fort Selkirk has risen from near-extinction. The site inspires an unwavering determination in its champions — both past and present — that may be best illustrated by a short poem Robert Campbell entered in the HBC company journal on December 31, 1850:
Campbell & Stewart will ne’er despair
As long as our health will stay
All danger brave & all perils dare
Till the Forks are in a fair way.
Childhood recollections
In 1935, RCMP officer Gordon Irwin Cameron arrived at Fort Selkirk with his wife, Martha, and their one-and-a-half-year-old daughter, Ione. Seventy-one years later, lone Christensen (ne lone Cameron) has served as the Yukon’s only representative in the Canadian senate since 1999. She retired at the end of 2006.
Christensen lived in Fort Selkirk until 1949, when the family moved to Whitehorse. She recalls her years at Fort Selkirk fondly. She remembers the purple carpet of crocuses that covered the ground each spring, the bitterly cold winters, and how, in 1947, the thermometers at Fort Selkirk registered -66 degrees Celsius, three degrees colder than the record-breaking cold recorded that year at the weather station in Snag (near Dawson City). Keeping Senator Christensen warm are the cherished memories of her Fort Selkirk childhood, and the sense of community it instilled.
Anybody who ever lived in Fort Selkirk always loved it. It was a very happy place. It has a wonderful ambience about it. It was always considered a very good luck place by the First Nations people — they used to make contracts there and have their annual meetings and gatherings there way back when. They always said it had "good medicine.” Some places on earth, there are certain longitudes and latitudes that [are] supposed to be good and Selkirk seems to be — whether it’s the magnetic forces of the basalt, I don’t know.
In her youth, Christensen was often the only white child living in Fort Selkirk. She spent much of her time playing alone (due to frequent outbreaks of tuberculosis among the native children, her public health nurse mother wouldn’t allow her to play indoors with them), exercising her imagination, and even running her own trap line. “I usually [trapped] rabbits and squirrels, but sometimes I’d get ermine and the odd fox, and I’d skin them and dry them and take them and sell them to the Hudson’s Bay store. I’d get my pocket money that way,” she says.
These days, the senator tries to make it back to her hometown at least every second summer and has been impressed with the restoration work. “It’s really the only truly historic site that is not being lived in,” she says. “Dawson City has a lot of historic buildings, but while the outside is authentic, the inside has certainly been modernized, whereas Fort Selkirk is really as it was. It’s a steamboat community as it was during that era. It’s the only one that’s left, there’s nothing like it.”
Pamela Klaffke is the book review editor for the Calgary Herald and the author of Spree: A Cultural History of Shopping (Arsenal Pulp Press, 2003). Her first novel is set in the Yukon and is scheduled for publication in 2007.
This article appeared in the April-May 2007 issue of The Beaver. Subscribe now!
by Blair McBride
Just outside of Brantford, Ontario, Garden Avenue leads south off Highway 403. Industrial parks, warehouses, and gas stations dot the landscape between long stretches of farmer’s fields. Garden Avenue passes through Henry Street, Johnson Road, and then Ewart Avenue — all unremarkable names in southern Ontario.
Then the European names on the signs begin to change. Old Onondaga Road intersects Garden Avenue. Then Oneida Street. Then Tuscarora Street. The road curves, and the Grand River comes into view. Another turn south and the road leads through Ohsweken, the main village of the Six Nations of the Grand River reserve.
In a geographical sense, the place names on the reserve reflect its heritage. The six Aboriginal nations of the old Haudenosaunee (Iroquois) Confederacy — the Mohawk, Oneida, Cayuga, Onondaga, Seneca, and Tuscarora — settled here after the American Revolution.
But, in another sense, the place names, and the road leading through the reserve, mark a journey back to a time before Europeans arrived in this area. A sign reading “Thank You/Niaweh for Visiting Mohawk Trading Post” sits beside the road, hinting at a time here when niaweh was uttered more often than thank you.
The road continues through the mostly rural reserve, past forests, simple two-storey homes, and cars rusting in fields. One can picture the scene as it was two hundred years ago: a dirt road, horse-drawn carts rolling along, and residents conversing in Haudenosaunee tongues.
An imposing, three-storey building appears on the left — the Iroquois Lacrosse Arena. Outside is a sign for Kawenni:io Private School. Inside, visitors are greeted by a colourful mural depicting three figures in traditional buckskin clothing holding hands. Along the top is written She:kon/Sge:no — which means hello in Mohawk and Cayuga.
Kawenni:io is a Mohawk and Cayuga language immersion school where students are taught the fundamentals of Haudenosaunee culture. For instance, posters on a wall depict wildlife considered sacred to the Haudenosaunee. Mohawk names are printed underneath the pictures: a’no:wara (turtle), ohskennon:ton (deer), ohkwa:ri (bear), and kentson (fish). Kawenni:io’s curriculum isn’t just an exercise in specialized education; it’s an attempt to address a cultural crisis.
Aboriginal languages in Canada are rapidly declining. A 2011 census by Statistics Canada lists fifty-seven distinct First Nations languages. The majority of those have less than a thousand speakers, most of whom are elderly. In British Columbia, a 2010 report described all of the province’s thirty-two indigenous languages as endangered, with three having no known living speakers. Of the Iroquoian language family to which Ontario’s Six Nations languages belong, Mohawk has 545 speakers, Cayuga has 240, and Oneida has only 180.
There are many reasons for the decline, including the legacy of Indian residential schools, where Aboriginal children were not allowed to speak their own language and were sometimes punished for doing so. The government-funded, church-administered schools operated across Canada from the mid-nineteenth century until the 1990s. In 2008 the federal government apologized for the significant harm done to children who were separated from their families and exposed to abuse.
“When you think about how the language was taken from us from residential school, it just put the fight in us to save the language,” Kawenni:io school principal Isabel Jacobs said in an interview. Jacobs, a Mohawk, described herself simply as “old” when asked her age. She recalled the effort it took to open the school in 1986: “The driving force was the parents,” said Jacobs. “They started without any money. Not knowing where the money would come to pay the teachers, the parents would take money out with their credit cards just to pay weekly.”
Today the school is funded through the federal department of Aboriginal Affairs and Northern Development Canada (AANDC). It has about a hundred and forty students from kindergarten to Grade 12. Until Grade 6, the students receive all their education in either Cayuga or Mohawk. From Grade 7 onwards, half of their classes are taught in English and half in a Haudenosaunee language.
Gerrard Smith, a tall teenage student with buzz-cut hair, said his grandmother was the only person in his family who spoke Mohawk. “It was my decision to come to Kawenni:io,” Gerrard said. “I was always interested in the language. I liked hearing how different words are pronounced.”
Outside of school classes, Gerrard uses Mohawk for rituals at the longhouse, where religious ceremonies are held among the Haudenosaunee. “It feels pretty good,” he said. “When we’re conducting ceremonies it feels like we’re doing it for the Creator.”
But Gerrard has yet to become fully fluent in the language. His parents raised him to speak English, and he faces the same challenges that Haudenosaunee languages present to any student. Simply put, they are tough to learn. Most Aboriginal languages in North America are known in linguistic typology as polysynthetic. Words and concepts are formed by adding on prefixes and suffixes, which mark things like person, gender, and number. One word in Mohawk would be an entire sentence in English. It can result in very long words.
For example, Skennenko:wa ken? looks like two words but is divisible into three words — Skennen (peace), ko:wa (big), and ken? (question marker). It is often translated as “How are you?” but the accurate translation is closer to, “Are you at peace?”
Even though he has been studying Mohawk for years, Gerrard acknowledges that its structure can be complicated. “It’s hard breaking the words down into parts, and remembering all the different prefixes, using little words here and there — just keep building it and building it.” After he graduates from Kawenni:io he plans on continuing with his Mohawk studies at a school for older learners. “Maybe [I’ll] teach and make sure the next generation knows our stories and ceremonies.”
A two-and-a-half-hour drive north of Brantford’s Six Nations territory brings a visitor to the shores of Georgian Bay on Lake Huron. The names here also point to the history of the region. There is Nottawasaga Bay — Nottawasaga in Algonquin means “Iroquois at the mouth of the river.” There is Wendake Beach — Wendake means “land of the Wyandot” in the old Huron/Wyandot language. And there is Ossossane Beach — named by the French to denote a large Wyandot ossuary that was excavated just east of the beach. East to Midland, the road leads to the historical site of Sainte-Marie Among the Hurons, a reconstructed Jesuit village from the seventeenth century. It is an outdoor museum where visitors can learn about the first European settlement in Ontario — a settlement located in the heart of Wyandot country.
Disease — and war with their distant cousins the Haudenosaunee — scattered the Wyandot people from this area in the mid-seventeenth century. Some of them fled to Loretteville, near Quebec City, where their descendants live today at the Wendake reserve. Others migrated south into the United States. Today there are three Wyandot communities in Kansas, Oklahoma, and Michigan.
But along the roads to those four Wyandot communities something is missing: their original language. Its last native speakers died a century ago. Its last fluent speaker, Sarah Duchene of Oklahoma, died in the 1960s. When Duchene died, a road stretching back thousands of years hit a dead end. And beyond was a gaping, dark pit. Songs, poems, jokes, oral histories, and stories disappeared and went silent.
The road is gone, but the tools to rebuild it remain. Some people are using those tools to build a new pathway to an ancient language.
Richard Zane Smith is a Wyandot artist and potter who lives in Oklahoma. He is also a part-time teacher of the language. “Of course we don’t really use that word “extinct”; we’ll say dormant or sleeping,” he explained over the phone.“It turns out we have an amazing amount of material that was recorded. We have some recordings from wax cylinders, to give an idea of what the sound of the language was like.”
Jesuit missionaries spent years living among the Wyandot and Haudenosaunee in the seventeenth century, and they left behind translations of Wyandot, including word lists and grammars. The diaries of Jean de Brebeuf and Gabriel Sagard are not only linguistically rich but also fascinating descriptions of Aboriginal life before European influences intensified. Often the Jesuits studied the languages under the grim conditions of war, epidemics, and religious persecution.
Smith’s own journey with the language began in the late 1980s. He discovered word lists of Wyandot with English translations. “I gathered as much as I could, but I wanted to be able to do my own prayers in the language, and I was in sweat [lodge ceremonies], and I wanted to speak as much Wyandot language in the sweat lodge. So in a way it kind of started by wanting to do prayers,” he said.
Over the phone, Smith sang something that sounded like a Wyandot prayer:
Skat tinde shek ndako weesh
Skat tinde shek ndako weesh
Skat tinde shek ndako weesh
Waja setere entere entran ahsen!
But it wasn’t a spiritual chant. It was a one-to-ten numbers song for children. It’s one of the basic ways to get them started in a language that has no speech communities, no speaking environments in which students can be taught to interact.
“We start them with songs, and I do puppets and do body parts,” he said. “They learn the songs, they learn what the puppets are doing, and then we do a body parts song and we’re pointing and we stand up and sit down and we spin around.”
The Chinese philosopher Lao-tzu said, “A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.” The road to resurrecting Wyandot will indeed take a thousand proverbial miles.
The task seems overwhelming. All four Wyandot communities are surrounded by English and French speakers. And, even if each community managed to raise the next generation speaking fluent Wyandot, what then? They would eventually need to leave the community to work and enter a world of European languages. It would be difficult to keep Wyandot strong if the language was spoken only at home and not in the larger world. In Ontario, the Six Nations community faces the same challenges.
The field of language revitalization is tiny and lonely. Success stories are very few despite many efforts to revive endangered languages around the world. But there are encouraging initiatives afoot. Cornish, a Gaelic language that was spoken in southern England, has undergone a slow revival after its last native speaker passed away in the eighteenth century. Today, several hundred people claim to be fluent in Cornish, though there are few reports of children being raised as native Cornish speakers.
There is, in fact, only one example of successful revitalization: Hebrew. Its status as a spoken language faded away thousands of years ago, but it remained a written language for religious purposes. In the late nineteenth century, as the Zionist movement expanded in Europe, Jewish scholars adapted written Hebrew into a spoken language. They borrowed new words from European languages or Semitic languages like Arabic and Aramaic to compensate for gaps in the ancient language.
Jewish immigration to Palestine increased in the twentieth century, and Hebrew unified the multinational migrants into one speech community. By the time Israel became a state in 1948, Hebrew was already the language of Jewish institutions there. Today Hebrew is the national language of Israel and has over five million fluent speakers.
Thirty years down the road, it’s possible that young people at Six Nations could be fluent in a Haudenosaunee language.
Will the Wyandot road reach a destination like Hebrew? Craig Kopris, a professional linguist, thinks it’s possible but that the chances are slim. Kopris is a language consultant at the University of Maryland Center for Advanced Study of Language. He has studied several Aboriginal languages and wrote his PhD. dissertation on a descriptive grammar and dictionary of Wyandot. He sometimes travels to the Wyandotte Nation reservation in Oklahoma to help its members to develop language materials. Over the phone from Washington, D.C., he explained that there are only some parallels between Hebrew and Wyandot.
“Hebrew was used as a liturgical language. There were plenty of people who could essentially speak it, like Latin, even though not a lot of people understood it.“
The literary resources of Hebrew were vast compared to those of Wyandot. “With a liturgical language there is at least a core of the community that knows the language. But with Wyandot there isn’t that core,” he said. “I can imagine Wyandot being learned well enough by people to reach the status of a liturgical language, and then there would be people who could pass it on to a wider community. But it’s one step at a time.”
Kopris said Wyandot may be starting to wake up at the Wendake reserve at Loretteville. “In Quebec, I was originally pessimistic. But I started seeing the results and the number of people interested in learning the language and how much time and effort they were putting into it. Just seeing how people were using greetings and even more complicated phrases with each other, I’ve become more of an optimist,” he said.
In Ontario, the concrete-and-glass buildings of Toronto’s Humber College seem an unlikely place for the revival of an ancient indigenous language. But Humber could be hosting the beginnings of a developing Wyandot liturgical core.
On a rainy Monday morning in March, the staff lounge at Humber is quiet. Only a few teachers sit and chat over coffee. The dullness is interrupted when a man with a puffy white beard marches in. In one hand he is carrying a black briefcase, in the other a sheaf of dog-eared documents. He wears a black T-shirt printed with images of trees, mountains, and the words “Get Lost.”
John Steckley is a social studies professor who has written five books on Wyandot, including A Huron-English/ English-Huron Dictionary, the first dictionary of the language written in over two hundred and fifty years. The Wyandot nation recognized him for his efforts, adopted him, and gave him the name Tehaondechoren (“he who splits the country in two.”)
Steckley was first drawn to Wyandot in 1973 by grammars written by Jesuit missionaries. “I saw that all this stuff was written in and about the language,” he explained. “The whole irony struck me — dead language but more written in it than most of the other Aboriginal languages. So, I figured, why not learn it?”
The dictionary he published in 2007 was the result of thirty years of study. He spent a lot of time breaking Wyandot words down into verb and noun roots, and he compared them with words from other Iroquoian languages.
Gesturing dramatically with his hands and grabbing at invisible words in the air, he gave an example of how he split a word into its two parts: “There are verbs like oot, which means “to stand.’ So if you say hill or mountain in Wendat you’d say ohnontoot, which is “standing hill.’ You wouldn’t say onanta [the noun for “mountain’].”
By the looks of it, Steckley could be ready to publish a second edition of his dictionary. His own copy is filled with revisions of his translations, with French, Seneca, and Mohawk notes scrawled in blue pen.
Though Steckley rarely speaks Wyandot because of a lack of opportunities to converse in the language — he laughs at the claims of a 2007 Toronto Star article that said he was the “sole speaker of Huron” — he has contributed a great deal of knowledge about this language. “I’m trying to create a literature for the language so that when someone grows up in Wendake and they have a feel for the language they will have a literature that they can go to. I want to create a literature for the next generation.”
Linguists say that of the fifty-seven Aboriginal languages spoken across the country only three — Cree, Ojibway and Inuktitut — have a healthy chance of long-term survival. The 2011 Statistics Canada census on Aboriginal languages states that 83,145 people speak Cree, 19,275 speak Ojibway, and 34,110 people speak Inuktitut.
Those languages are strong for least three main reasons. One is population size. Cree, Ojibway and Inuktitut all have large populations spread across several territories and provinces. In the case of Cree, “it’s just sheer numbers” of speakers, said Neal McLeod, a Cree and an associate professor in the indigenous studies department at Trent University in Peterborough, Ontario.
McLeod, who grew up on the James Smith reserve in Saskatchewan and teaches literature and Cree language courses at Trent, said a second reason the languages have endured is because they are written in a distinct syllabic alphabet. English missionary James Evans devised the syllabic script in 1840 while studying Ojibway and Swampy Cree. A number of Aboriginal languages from the Algonquian, Inuit, and Athabaskan language families have since adopted the phonetic writing system.
A third explanation, although less quantifiable, is that those language groups have large numbers of speakers living in rural or northern areas, far away from the influence of mainstream urban centres. Compare that to where Mohawk and Cayuga are spoken at Six Nations, a community close to major cities like Brantford, Hamilton, and Toronto. And the Haudenosaunee, like the Wyandot, have had longer contact with European Canadians than most other Aboriginal groups.
Another development helping to keep Aboriginal languages alive is that over the past several decades there has been an increase in the number of post-secondary Aboriginal language programs. Today, most universities in Canada offer indigenous studies programs, and language instruction is often a component of those programs. For instance, at the First Nations University of Canada in Regina, classes are offered in Cree, Dakota, Dene, Nakota, and Saulteaux, and students can obtain a bachelor of arts in Cree, Saulteaux, and/or linguistics. At the University of British Columbia, students can learn Salish. Carleton University in Ottawa offers Inuktitut, while Cape Breton University in Nova Scotia includes Mi’kmaq in its curriculum.
McLeod acknowledges that the number of speakers with whom students of indigenous languages can converse is small. But there’s still value in learning the languages. “If you have a small core of people that are dedicated to reviving the core of the stories of a people, you don’t need tens of thousands of people. You need at best maybe three hundred people, if they’re highly motivated.“
Steckley offers a similar view: “I think every language should dedicate several people to being fluent. And everybody else [can] have a certain amount of the language. But every generation needs to have X number of fluent speakers. There are people in South Asia who know Sanskrit, and they have a religious role, and their knowledge of Sanskrit is passed down. We need that for Aboriginal languages.“
It is late afternoon, and back at the Six Nations reserve, just south of Hamilton, the hallways of Kawenni:io are quiet now that classes are done. Teacher Connie Johnson sits at a desk in her classroom and prepares a lesson for the next day. She teaches the Grades 5 and 6 Mohawk classes. She was one of the original students to attend Kaweni:io after it opened, graduating in 1999.
On her whiteboard is written a short conversation in Mohawk about jobs. “Oh naho:ten ni:se saio’te?” — “What is your job?” Arithmetic charts are attached to one wall and include the Mohawk words for each number and mathematical function.
Johnson thinks the school has improved its teaching. “I think that these kids in here now know more than I did when I was their age. That’s because second-language learners here know more of the grammar than I did.“
She points at two pictures of men drilling holes in maple trees to attach a sap spout. “They’re learning how to say “I am drilling it,” “Te’s drilling it,” “we’re drilling it.” The kids in my class can pick out prefixes and verbs,” she said.
Thirty years down the road, it’s possible that young people at Six Nations could be fluent in a Haudenosaunee language. Johnson said some steps would be needed for this to happen. “We need to start them even younger at two and a half years old, where they’re immersed in the language all day long. We need more teacher training, and we need that support.”
Soon she will drive home to her family, and then she’ll come back to Kawenni:io the next day to work. Each day she works here she travels a road, a road she is slowly building and extending, however tentatively, into the future.
Will her road — the road of the Haudenosaunee — stretch further out where the language and culture are strong again? Or will the languages pass into history? Not if Johnson can help it.
Johnson closes her notebook, puts on her jacket, and leaves her classroom. She walks through the front lobby towards the stairwell that leads down to the parking lot.
“Niaweh,” I say to her. “Niaweh,” she answers.
Editor’s Note: Kawenni:io school principal Isabel Jacobs passed away after this article was written. Canada’s History offers its condolences to her family and community.
This article originally appeared in the December 2015-January 2016 issue of Canada’s History as “The Unpaved Road.” Subscribe today!

When discussing the Fathers of Canadian Confederation, the conversation most often turns to the alliance between John A. Macdonald and George Brown. But without the support and persuasiveness of George-Étienne Cartier, Quebec might not have united with the rest of the Dominion.
Among Cartier's many achievements is instituting the Civil Code in Quebec and establishing provinces. Politically astute, he wielded great influence in the area of urban and economic development, not only in Montreal but all across Canada. However, few Canadians are aware of the legacy we received from George-Étienne Cartier. Lauded by some, vilified by others, Cartier led a fascinating life.
As part of commemorating the 200 years since his birth, CPAC broadcasted this special video profiling Quebec's "Lion of Confederation" in 2014.
by Ron Verzuh
During the Second World War Canada played a role in producing heavy water for the Manhattan Project.
This highly clandestine enterprise took place in a mountainous region of British Columbia’s West Kootenay region. Named Project 9 (P9), it was led by one of Canada’s great mining and smelting industrialists, Selwyn Gwillym Blaylock.
Blaylock was the president of the Consolidated Mining and Smelting Company of Canada (CM&S Co., renamed Cominco in 1966 and since 2008 known as Teck Resources Ltd.). Blaylock’s plant in Trail, B.C., was, during the early years of Second World War, the only operation in North America that had the capacity to produce heavy water that could be used to moderate nuclear fission.
Blaylock, who was born in Quebec in 1879 and studied mining and metallurgical engineering at McGill University, started with CM&S as a surveyor in 1899. While at McGill, he was influenced by the work of Cambridge researcher Ernest Rutherford, a pioneer in nuclear research who had been chair of the McGill physics department.
Blaylock, a brilliant chemist, in 1932 pulled together a company research team to experiment with heavy water. By late 1942 the company had reached an agreement with the American government to produce heavy water.
As a bonus, the plant was already quite secure. Blaylock went to great lengths to protect the company’s operations from sabotage. The company even had an armoured vehicle — nicknamed “Seabiscuit” — outfitted with four machine guns and six rifles.
In the end, the heavy water produced at Trail was never used to produce the bombs that were dropped on Japan, or even the Trident test bomb that was detonated in the New Mexico desert in July 1945. The Americans ended up finding a cheaper alternative for the needed neutron moderator — hard graphite. But heavy water was sustained as a backup.
The Trail plant continued to produce heavy water until 1956. It drew little attention other than a 1951 Maclean’s article by journalist Pierre Berton, who suggested — mistakenly — that the P9 plant was being run by communists led by union leader Harvey Murphy.
The current owners of the smelter, Teck Resources Ltd., demolished the heavy water plant tower in 2008. A plaque now commemorates the “Champions of Innovation” who worked in the tower.
This article is an abbreviated version of a story that appeared in the August-September issue of Canada’s History magazine.
by Keith Foster
In 1903, Rev. Isaac M. Barr led a colony of British settlers near what is now the town of Lloydminster on the Saskatchewan-Alberta border. Known as the Barr settlers, they were lured by the prospect of obtaining a 160-acre homestead for a $10 registration fee.
Most of the 1,962 colonists who came over were from cities and towns. Some were veterans of the Boer War. But few had farming skills.
The journey alone was an ordeal. After sailing to Canada in extremely cramped quarters on a crowded ship — a trip that took two weeks — the colonists arrived in Saint John, New Brunswick. From there they boarded a train to Saskatoon, then travelled by ox-drawn wagon to Battleford.
The journey was so poorly organized that the colonists eventually rejected Barr as leader and replaced him with his able assistant, Rev. George Exton Lloyd. The centre of the “promised land” they settled on would be known as Lloydminster in honour of Lloyd.
Just like any other settlers, they had to break the land and erect shelters. Getting through the first winter was extremely difficult for some and some went bankrupt.
Letters written by colonists to their friends and relatives back in England describe some of the challenges they faced.
Despite the difficulties, most stayed and many eventually prospered. One of the most significant things the Barr colonists did was to arouse interest in immigration. Europeans and Americans became aware of the potential of what was then known as the North-West Territories.
Other British settlements established on the Prairies included:
• The East London Artisans Colony, was established near Moosimin in what is now Saskatchewan, in 1880. Sponsored by philanthropists, the colony was composed of people from poor areas of London who had no farming experience.
• Cannington Manor, also near Moosimin, was established in 1882. It was set up like an English manor and attracted young men from aristocratic English families.
• Coal Creek Colony, was established near Rockglen, Saskatchewan, in 1930 by thirty-eight English families. Because of drought and other hardships, only six families remained by 1937.
This article is an abbreviate version of a story that appeared in the August-September 2015 issue of Canada’s History magazine.
It’s said that the first casualty of war is the truth.
This was certainly the case in Canada during the First World War.
The War Measures Act was drawn up around the time the war was declared.
The act allowed for censorship of newspapers and all forms of correspondence.
The legislation also permitted authorities to round up people who were considered enemy aliens and intern them in remote camps — a situation that went largely unreported in the press.
Propaganda posters that glorified the sacrifices made for “king and country” were designed to encourage enlistment.
Eventually, however, it became hard to hide the reality of the massive numbers of men who were losing their lives in the trenches.
For more on this topic, read “The War on Truth” by Jeffrey A. Keshen in the August-September issue of Canada’s History magazine.
by J.R. McConvey
One day in October of 1873, Rev. Moses Harvey opened his front door in St. John’s, Newfoundland, to discover that monsters exist.
Before him was a six-metre length of ropy tentacle, severed from a living giant squid. Dusky red and tough as leather, it was about the thickness of a man’s wrist. As a man of science, Harvey knew the value of his prize. He would later describe it as “the veritable arm of the hitherto mythical devilfish.”
Stories of gigantic sea monsters had been around for centuries, but they were difficult to verify. What had come into Harvey’s possession was apparently the first conclusive evidence of the existence of Architeuthis — the giant squid.
The squid was found by local fishermen, who had to put up quite a fight to keep the creature from pulling them under.
A few weeks later, fishermen in a neighbouring community grappled with another giant squid. This one also ended up with Harvey, who was known to take an interest in the creatures.
Harvey measured the squid at about fifteen metres. He had it photographed from an iron crossbar in his sponge bath and later shipped it to a researcher at Yale University. The creature’s existence was now scientifically confirmed, and its fame spread worldwide.
While not common, quite a few giant squid were sighted in Harvey’s time. Dozens of giant squid were reportedly washed ashore or seen floating on the surface in Newfoundland waters from 1871 to 1881.
Giant squid remain elusive today. It was only a few years ago that an underwater camera captured remarkable footage of the animal.
This article is an abbreviated version of a story that appeared in the August-September issue of Canada's History magazine.
by Nelle Oosterom
In the early 1750s, the French state was an established presence in North America. It controlled towns and cities from Louisbourg on the Atlantic coast to Montreal on the St. Lawrence River and to New Orleans on the Gulf of Mexico, as well as in dozens of outposts in the continental interior.
By 1763, however, the French state had been expelled from mainland North America. Due to the outcome of the Seven Years War, the only possessions it had left were the two islands off the coast of Newfoundland, which were valuable because of the fishery, and the Caribbean island of Gaudeloupe, which produced sugar cane.
Today, the islands of Saint-Pierre and Miquelon are surrounded by Canada but remain a part of France.
The islands have had a tumultuous history:
• 1690s: Saint-Pierre was by this time a thriving seasonal settlement for fishermen from France. Largely unprotected, it was frequently raided by the British.
• 1763: The Treaty of Paris established the islands as a shelter for the French fishery. Refugees from Acadia soon arrived.
• 1778: Britain captured the islands and expelled the inhabitants because of France’s support for the American War of Independence.
• 1783: The Treaty of Versailles brought the islands back to the French.
• 1793–1815: War with the British and upheavals in France led to another expulsion of the inhabitants as France lost control of the islands.
• 1816: Former inhabitants returned to the islands, which were once again under French rule. The French fishery expanded, which led to conflicts with the Newfoundland fishery.
• Early 1900s: Customs tariffs and poor fishing seasons led to the departure of about 2,000 of the islands’ 6,500 inhabitansts.
• 1919: Prohibition in the United States gave the islands new economic life as rum runners turned Saint-Pierre and Miquelon into bases for smuggling.
• 1935: The end of American Prohibition and a clampdown on the illegal alcohol trade led to economic depression.
• 1940–45: The Second World War and the fall of France led to the islands being under the control of Vichy France. Inhabitants supported the invasion of the island by Free French forces in late December 1941.
• Postwar to the present: Conflicts between Canada and France erupted after 1977 when both countries extended their territorial rights to 200 miles offshore. The dispute was settled by an international tribunal in 1992. The population today is just over 6,000.
“Empire Lost” by D. Peter MacLeod in the August-September issue of Canada’s History magazine explains how France lost its North American possessions.
His paintings have the power to move — and to unsettle — viewers. Now, Alex Colville’s rich art legacy is the subject of a major exhibit at the National Gallery of Canada. The Ottawa exhibit, a collaboration between Art Gallery of Ontario and the National Gallery, opened in April and runs until September 7, 2015. It features more than 250 paintings and sketches by Colville, a WWII war artist who went on to become of one Canada’s most celebrated painters. Colville, who painted in the realism style, died in 2013.
by Mark Reid
Between 1975 and 1994, Canada accepted more than 130,000 “Boat People” from countries such as Cambodia, Laos, Thailand and Vietnam.
To mark the fortieth anniversary of the immigration influx, the Canadian Immigration Historical Society has launched a new website that offers photographs, memoirs and other information providing insight into Canada’s role during the humanitarian crisis.
Here is a timeline of events during the crisis:
Early 1975: Pathet Lao and Khmer Rouge take over Laos and Cambodia.
April 6 1975: Indochinese orphans arrive in Canada.
April 1975: Effort to evacuate relatives of Canadian Vietnamese thwarted by strict exit controls.
April 24, 1975: Staff of Canadian Embassy in Saigon evacuated.
April 30; 1975: Saigon falls to Communist forces. 130,000 people rescued by US Navy.
May 1, 1975: Canada will accept 3,000 Indochinese refugees plus all sponsored by relatives.
May – Dec 1975: Canadian teams processes 1,401 Vietnamese refugees from Guam and thousands more from military bases in southern USA. Small Boat Escapee movement starts in June.
October 1976: Canada to accept 180 “boat people”.
1977: Almost 21,270 boat people have fled to surrounding countries.
August 1977: Cabinet authorizes resettlement of 450 “Small Boat Escapees”.
January 13, 1978: Canada will accept 50 “Small Boat Escapees” families per month.
July 20, 1978: Cabinet approves monthly program for 20 overland refugee families in Thailand. Initiation of Private Sponsorship program.
October 1978: Instructions to immigration officers emphasize importance of keeping families united.
November 1978: Freighter, Hai Hong, with 2,500 refugees arrives Malaysia. Canada takes 604.
December 7, 1978: Indochinese Designated Class Regulations simplify selection rules.
December 20, 1978: Canada’s first Annual Refugee Plan will admit 5,000 Indochinese.
1975-1978: Admissions = 9,080.
March 1979: Mennonite Central Committee signs refugee sponsorship agreement. Forty churches and organizations follow.
April to June 1979: Boat arrivals in SE Asia escalate: April 26,602, May 51,139, June 56,941.
May: Federal matching centre opened to match refugees with interested sponsors.
June 1979: Clark government increases 5,000 target to 8,000. Voluntary sector to sponsor 4,000.
Late June 1979: ASEAN governments announce they will not accept new boat arrivals.
July 20 – 21, 1979: At United Nations conference in Geneva Canada announces 50,000 refugees: 8,000 from June plus 21,000 sponsored privately matched by 21,000 govt. assisted refugees.
July 1979: New organizations to promote sponsorship – Project 4000, Operation Lifeline etc.
August 1979: Reception centres established at DND bases, Montreal and Edmonton. First flight August 8.
November 1979: Sponsorships by private groups surpass government’s target of 21,000.
December 1979: Government abandons pledge to match privately sponsored refuges with equal number of government assisted. Diverts savings to Cambodian refugee relief.
December: 23,583 refugee arrivals in Canada. Some 5,456 groups have applied to sponsor 29,269 refugees.
April 2, 1980: Liberal government adds 10,000 government assisted refugees. New total 60,000
December 8, 1980: Charter #181 arrives with the last of 60,049 refugees.
June 1989: The international community adopts the Comprehensive Plan of Action. Only those found to be Convention refugees would be eligible for resettlement and all others would be returned, under UN supervision, to Vietnam, Laos or Cambodia.
Totals: Privately Sponsored 32,281; Government Assisted 25,978; Relative Sponsored 1,790
1994: Canadian program for Indochinese refugees terminates but a small number of residual cases continued to arrive until 1999 for total of close to 130,000.
Statistical Source: Employment and Immigration Canada: The Indochinese Refugees: the Canadian Response, 1979 and 1980 (1981, Department of Supply and Services )
by Allan Britnell
The time-etched film begins with an overhead shot of a white triangle moving down a grey, tire-streaked runway. the viewpoint then cuts to a camera on the ground, showing a rapidly approaching airplane, with flames bursting from its exhaust, the jet shoots past the camera and into the blue sky. Moments later, viewed through a chase plane, we follow the fighter jet as it roards through the air and then comes in for a landing.
Suddenly, a voice cuts into the mix.
“This is the Avro Arrow,” narrator Lou Wise says proudly. “Canada’s entry into the supersonic era.”
This was the Arrow’s maiden flight, as seen in the introduction to Supersonic Sentinel a twenty-three-minute film documenting the creation of the historic aircraft.
Produced by A.V. Roe Canada Limited’s photographic department, the film is a valuable record of the CF-105 Arrow, an aircraft that is seen by many as the high-water mark in Canadian aviation. It was, after all, on its way to becoming, at the time, the fastest plane that ever flew. And today, fifty years after the project’s cancellation, the Arrow remains a subject of considerable fascination to the public — a source of seemingly endless debate on what Canada’s role in world aviation might have been had the aircraft not been scrapped.
What has possibly helped keep the debate alive is the fact that people today can watch films and see photos of the remarkable-looking plane, with its delta wings, needle nose, and sleek profile. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Early on, there were official attempts to wipe the Arrow from public memory.
Lou Wise, the head of Avro’s film and photo department, remembers clearly the order that came down a few weeks after the federal government announced the cancellation of the project on February 20, 1959.
“The order was that everything was to be destroyed,” recalls Wise, who, at eighty-seven, still conveys a sense of disbelief about what happened. “Not just airplanes, but drawings, photographic reproductions of drawings, all photography that related to the Arrow — and we had made a large number of sixteen-millimetre films in addition to thousands and thousands and thousands of still camera negatives.”
For a man who had spent a good part of his career recording the progress of the Arrow — and was intensely proud of it — the order was devastating. With a heavy heart, Wise pondered what to do.
It didn’t take him long to make a decision. He called his staff together and gave them his carefully worded instructions. His orders would ultimately impact how future generations would remember this pivotal moment in aviation history.
In 1953, with the Cold War heating up, the Canadian government commissioned A.V. Roe (later known simply as Avro) to build a supersonic, missile-carrying jet interceptor to patrol the skies for Russian bombers. Avro had already built Canada’s first jet fighter — the CF-100 Canuck all-weather interceptor — which went into service in 1953. But the Royal Canadian Air Force felt it was already obsolete, as the Russians were developing faster aircraft. A.V. Roe, a subsidiary of the Hawker Siddeley Group — whose origins stemmed from Victory Aircraft, manufacturer of the famed Lancaster bomber — was up for the challenge.
Soon, the company had five aircraft, arguably the most advanced jet fighters of the day, ready for test flights. The test flights were conducted at the company’s facility in Malton, Ontario, in the northeast corner of what is today Toronto Pearson International Airport. People who lived in the area were often treated to impromptu air shows at a time when jet aviation was very new.
Avro’s photo department documented every step of the way.
“There was literally nothing that went on without one or two of our cameramen being assigned to cover it,” says Wise, seated in a room of his Toronto home that’s filled with Avro memorabilia. The photography department was part of Avro’s engineering division. Its job was to take X-ray photos of aircraft components, shoot stills of complex details, and document the various stages of testing.
The Avro project showed great promise. However, out-of-this-world events were unfolding elsewhere that had ominous repercussions for both the aircraft and its parent company.
In a strange stroke of coincidence, the day the Arrow was first publicly unveiled — October 4, 1957 — also happened to be the day the Russians launched Sputnik I, the world’s first satellite. It was extremely bad timing for what was supposed to be Canada’s proudest aviation moment to date — the public rollout of a flashy new aircraft. With Sputnik orbiting overhead, there was little room for the Arrow in the next day’s newspapers.
Yet Avro’s staff had much to be excited about. Test flights of the first five planes showed great promise. A sixth plane, the first to be equipped with the Orenda Iroquois, an advanced turbojet engine designed to exceed a then-record speed of Mach 2, was just weeks away from flight. (Mach is the speed of sound, so Mach 2 is twice the speed of sound.) The Arrow seemed on target to deliver on a promise to speedily intercept and shoot down invading Soviet planes armed with nuclear bombs.
But the launch of Sputnik sent the Arrow’s relevance into a tailspin. Sputnik opened up the possibility of a new kind of war, one that, with the push of a button, could see atomic missiles launched from satellites in space.
Canadian politicians saw trouble. The nation’s technological triumph was threatening to turn into a great white flying elephant.
Making matters worse, costs for the Liberal-launched program were rapidly rising; early estimates of $1.5 million to $2 million per plane had spiralled to more than $10 million each. One reason for the increased per-unit cost was that the governing Conservatives had reduced the number of Arrows to be built to 100 from the 500 to 600 that were originally anticipated. This meant that the huge research and development expense would be spread over fewer planes.
With soaring costs and the superpowers now focusing on missile warfare, John Diefenbaker’s Progressive Conservative government came to a momentous decision. At 11 a.m. on February 20, 1959, a day that would become known as “Black Friday,” Diefenbaker rose in the House of Commons to announce that “the government has carefully examined and re-examined the probable need for the Arrow” and ultimately determined “the development of the Arrow aircraft ... should be terminated now.”
The decision immediately put more than 14,000 Avro employees out of work and directly affected thousands more who worked for outside suppliers.
Not only was the program to be terminated, the planes were to be cut to pieces and sold off as scrap metal. The destruction of the planes has long fuelled conspiracy theories, such as that Diefenbaker was pressured by a U.S. administration that had conspired with the American aircraft industry, which was lobbying to sell its own planes. However, there is little evidence for this view. The official word was that the planes were destroyed to prevent advanced technology from getting into the hands of the Soviets.
Like everyone else connected with the Arrow, the photography department went into shock when the cancellation was announced.
“I don’t think that any of us truly believed that the project would be cancelled, because we had so much faith in the aircraft,” recalls Wise. “I suppose we all went home with long faces and told our wives we were laid off, which was about the same as being fired. The program had been cancelled and we had nowhere else to go.”
It turned out that Wise and a few others in the photo department were asked to stay on as the project wound down. A few weeks after Black Friday, word came down from Ottawa to destroy the aircraft and all traces of it, including film and photos.
Wise knew this was the wrong thing to do.
“I figured it was too valuable a collection," he said of the Arrow’s film and photo record.
“An awful lot of work on the part of a lot of good people had gone into it, and I guess I just didn’t see the sense in destroying it all.”
Quickly considering his options, Wise called a meeting of the remaining photo staff. He told them what they had been ordered to do. And then he told them they weren’t going to do it.
“I said, ‘We’re not going to junk all this stuff. We’re going to go through it and pick out some to cull.’” They did in fact destroy hundreds of images, but they were mostly duplicates of existing ones. “This was so I could look people in the eye and say, ‘Yes, we’ve destroyed negatives.’ I never did say we destroyed all the Arrow negatives. Just that we’d destroyed negatives.”
Some of what remained ended up in the private collections of staff, but the bulk of it was quietly filed away in company drawers and filing cabinets.
With his job on the line in any case — although he remained with Avro for a few more years, his job disappeared when the company went defunct in 1962 — Wise was not overly worried about the consequences of disobeying orders.
“I didn’t anticipate that anybody would come around and say, ‘Show me all the empty drawers.’”
When Wise left and Avro went out of business, the photographic material was still in the defunct company’s filing cabinets.
That material was moved to the offices of Hawker Siddeley, which had taken over Avro’s assets. Eventually, officials at Hawker Siddeley passed the collection on to the National Archives in Ottawa, where it has remained ever since.
Given the public’s ongoing fascination with the Arrow, the images have not been gathering dust. Many of the photos have been used to illustrate the dozens of books that have been written about the Arrow. Supersonic Sentinel — the film narrated by Wise that helped earn him the nickname “Voice of Arrow” — continues to be popular.
“That film is seen by so many people,” says Wise. “I’ve got it on DVD. And I’ve used it at a lot of meetings over the years. There’s a great host of people out there who won’t let the Arrow die.”
The film got a new life when clips from it and other Avro productions appeared in the 1997 docudrama The Arrow, which starred Dan Aykroyd as Avro president Crawford Gordon. Wise even makes a cameo of sorts. One early scene uses clips from The Jet Age, an overview of prior Avro accomplishments, complete with the unmistakable, measured, baritone voice-over work of Wise himself.
Wise eventually moved on to a twenty-two-year career in the Toronto Board of Education’s media department, and after “retirement” he took off on a third career as an aerial photographer, flying a Piper Cherokee.
But his heart is still close to the Arrow. Today, fifty years after Black Friday, he, like many others who’d worked for Avro, continues to lament the company’s demise. “I still believe it was a great misfortune for this country, ” he says. “Avro was a long, long way ahead of any competition in the States and U.K.” The cancellation virtually “wiped out” Canada’s aviation industry, he contends.
The planes are long gone, but thanks to Lou Wise and the staff of Avro’s film department the images and memory of the Arrow live on.
“Jetographic” Moments
Avro had one of the largest industrial photo and film departments on the continent, and its photographers had access to the most advanced cameras and equipment of the day.
The original role of the photographers and filmmakers was to work side-by-side with engineers testing the functions of the aircraft. Their state-of-the-art high-speed film could, for instance, capture the action of explosive bolts forcing open a cockpit’s ejection canopy.
Ron Northcott joined the firm in 1954 and become one of a half-dozen photographers in the country trained in high-speed photography. He used a Kodak camera that shot as many as 3,000 frames per second on one-hundred-foot-long rolls of film (a modern movie camera typically shoots twenty-four to thirty frames per second).
To get the camera up to speed, Northcott had to start filming long before the actual event. “All the action was on the last bit of film,” said Northcott. “You’d have ninety feet of build-up and ten or twelve feet of action.”
The detail captured by the high-speed camera was essential and exceptional. “You could actually read the writing on the side of the rocket crystal-clear,” said Northcott, recalling some work he had done on Avro’s earlier CF-100 rocket pods. With no Photoshop software available in those days, department staffers painted out dust motes and other imperfections in the final prints by hand.
Later, the department expanded into public relations, shooting images to impress both their RCAF client and a curious, patriotic nation. Its success in this played a large part in the Arrow’s long-lasting mystique.
“Avro was very, very good at PR. They knew how to film product, says Paul Cabot of the Toronto Aerospace Museum. Given the volume of PR material distributed, it’s somewhat surprising to learn that one man, Verne Morse, was responsible for most of those images.
“No exaggeration — virtually every picture that was released for publication was taken by me, I’m proud to say,” Morse said from his Orlando, Florida, home. (Like many Avro staffers, Morse moved on to a job in the U.S. after the program was cancelled.)
With most of the original blueprints long-since destroyed, Morse’s photos were essential in helping the Toronto museum’s volunteers accurately construct their full-scale Arrow replica, unveiled in 2006. The replica, which does not fly, is on display at the museum. — A.B.
Allan Britnell is a freelance writer and editor based in Toronto.
More reading;
Shutting Down the National Dream: A.V. Roe and the Tragedy of the Avro Arrow by Greig Stewart. McGraw-Hill Ryerson, Toronto, 1997.
Avro Arrow: The Story of the Avro Arrow from its Evolution to its Extinction by Richard Organ, Ron Page, Don Watson, and Les Wilkinson. The Boston Mills Press, Erin, Ontario, 1980.
It was a car with wings that never took flight and eventually became an albatross around the neck of the provincial premier that promoted it.
The New Brunswick-produced Bricklin SV–1 was the brainchild of Premier Richard Hatfield and American car manufacturer Malcolm Bricklin, a millionaire best known for introducing Subaru cars to North America.
Flush with provincial funding, Bricklin launched his new sports car in 1974 amid much fanfare and partisan hoopla. Indeed, during the 1974 provincial election, Hatfield included an orange Bricklin at some campaign stops, drawing the ire of his opposition.
Alas, Hatfield’s dream of transforming his forestry-driven province into Canada’s version of Motor City wasn’t to be; after producing only 2,854 cars, Bricklin’s company went into receivership — while still owing nearly $23 million to the good taxpayers of New Brunswick.
While many today consider the Bricklin a costly lemon, collectors prize it for its then-futuristic lines and gull-wing doors and its odd backstory.
In 2010, a Fredericton theater company staged a highly popular musical comedy titled, The Bricklin: An Automotive Fantasy. You can still watch the trailer.
You can also listen to the CBC Digital Archives podcast from the program Five Nights where reporter David Folster interviewed Bricklin and Hatfield about the car.
by Graham Chandler
When Mary Lynas was in Grade 6 she and her classmates would race down to Canadian Pacific’s train yard on the eastern fringes of Calgary to watch a spectacle that still captivates her as she remembers that early-1930s scene.
“That train came in at terrific speed,” recalls the granddaughter of Colonel James Walker, one of Calgary and Alberta’s most influential early citizens. “They stopped only to put water in, change crews and go again.”
The pit-stop action Lynas is talking of was to service Canada’s special silk trains that roared out of the port of Vancouver between 1887 and the late 1930s through the Rockies, across the prairies, through the Canadian Shield to Montreal and Buffalo, N.Y., loaded with precious cargoes of raw silk from the Orient. Bound for the National Silk Exchange in New York and the mills of the eastern seaboard, the perishable silk, used to make luxury items like scarves, ties, shirts and dresses, was given the ultimate priority over all rail traffic, even express trains and, some said, royal trains.
Adding to the rush was the exorbitant cost of insurance. A bale of raw silk could easily fetch more than $800 in the 1920s. With about 470 bales to the car, a full trainload was worth upwards of $6 million, a lot of money in the days when a brand new Ford cost less than a bale of silk. Insurance companies started the clock as soon as the bales were unloaded — rates were charged by the hour from the time the cargo left the boat until it was unloaded at its eastern destination.
The silk business was so lucrative for both Canadian National and Canadian Pacific railways that every minute counted. Nothing was left to chance. Freight agents would often board a ship in Victoria and feverishly complete their paperwork so unloading could start the second they docked at Vancouver. There, as soon as the ropes cinched the ship tight at the wharf, the race was on. The captain was on the megaphone shouting orders. Silk bales were streaming off by conveyor belt even before passengers stepped on the gangplank. Stevedores whipped into action manhandling the 90-kilogram bales onto the dock and into the warehouse for waiting customs agents, who would clear them on the spot. Then the burlap-wrapped 12-inch by 24-inch by 36-inch bales were wheeled onto specially built rail cars, which were sealed and panelled with wood.
These special cars were built shorter than normal boxcars, to take curves at higher speeds. “They were totally different from the other freight cars, they had to be lightweight and fast,” says Jonathan Hanna, Canadian Pacific Railway’s corporate historian. Mounted on passenger car trucks [suspension and wheel systems], “they were solid, so they could put up with high speed,” says Hanna. At Vancouver, well before the ship approached, 8 to 15 of them were already coupled to an engine fired up to full steam, an engineer’s hand poised on the throttle.
Loading crew action was measured by the seconds per bale. For one eight-car train, a typical regimen reported by CN was: ship docked at 15:42, commenced unloading at 16:13, train loading completed by 17:45 and train left dock at 17:52 — total time from ship tie-up to train departure of 1 hour 39 minutes. Another reported an average time of 2.45 seconds per bale; anything less demanded an explanation to management.
Train loaded, a couple of armed railway police jumped aboard (although no robberies ever occurred) and with a blast of the whistle the engineer pushed the throttle forward. Smoke belching and steam hissing, they’d roll out toward Hope. It was more than an express train. As the Vancouver Daily Province reported on Jan. 10, 1903, the silk train “makes the regular express time appear as but a snail’s pace.” The particular CP silk train about which the newspaper was commenting had left Vancouver at 6 a.m. and reached Kamloops, 400 kilometres northeast through the mountains, 10 hours and 45 minutes later — beating the regular express’s time by a full hour.
The silk business was so lucrative for both Canadian National and Canadian Pacific railways that every minute counted. Nothing was left to chance. Freight agents would often board a ship in Victoria and feverishly complete their paperwork so unloading could start the second they docked at Vancouver.
Coming out of the mountains with their steep grades and tight curves that limited train speeds, throttles were opened wide on the straight lines of the prairies where speeds routinely hit 1.5 kilometres per minute and more. “Steam locomotives didn’t have speedometers or governors like locomotives today,” says Hanna. “In those days you were supposed to go track speed which rarely exceeded 70 miles [112 kilometres] per hour but you couldn’t say if you did or didn’t because it was all in counting the time between mileage markers — if you knocked it off in 45 seconds that meant you were going 80 [130 kilometres].”
Sustained high speeds could be taxing on the locomotives and cars, so stops were made at every divisional point — about 200 kilometres apart. “They didn’t feel comfortable running them at speed with maintenance limited to a couple of shots of grease and some lube oil,” explains Hanna. “There’s so many thousands of moving parts, and roller bearing technology wasn’t around yet.”
Pit stop times averaged about seven minutes. As the hot engine hissed and squealed to a stop, it was quickly uncoupled and a freshly watered, fired-up engine snapped on. At the same time, a “car man” was rushing around with his oil can, opening each journal box, shooting oil in and slamming it shut, then moving on to the next one. “It was all wonderfully exciting to watch,” recalls Mary Lynas.
Across the continent, silk trains followed no regular schedule, so it was an exhilarating moment to catch a glimpse as they flew past unexpectedly in a cloud of cinders, smoke and steam.
Fresh crews took over at each stop. Silk train crews weren’t particularly special — but they were usually the senior men. “The senior crews had first choice of trains,” explains Hanna, “and if you chose a silk train that was your whole day’s shift and you got home sooner — you worked fewer hours than on a regular train shift. So it would have been the “A” team on the silk trains but more for selfish reasons than pride in being the best.”
Steaming on through the Canadian Shield and south, CN silk trains completed their race against time crossing the border over the Niagara suspension bridge to Buffalo. There, U.S. Customs quickly sampled the bales (silk wasn’t subject to import duties) and CN handed the torch over to the New York Central Railroad, which made the dash to the finish line at Manufacturers Terminal in Hoboken, N.J.
Across the continent, silk trains followed no regular schedule, so it was an exhilarating moment to catch a glimpse of the fabled trains as they flew past unexpectedly in a cloud of cinders, smoke and steam. There was an intriguing myth that inside the bales silkworms were happily spinning their glossy cocoons as the trains sped across the country. That was pure fable, however — silkworms spin their full cocoon in two to three days, after which silk harvest timing is critical.
Despite all the rush, silk train accidents were surprisingly few. The only serious occurrence was on Sept. 21, 1927, when a car jumped the tracks as the train rounded a bend in B.C.’s Fraser Canyon just east of Hope. Two or three cars followed it, sending silk bales tumbling into the river. There were no deaths and the cargo was salvaged.
The first shipment of raw silk arrived at the port of Vancouver soon after the last spike of the cross-Canada ribbon of steel was driven. Those 65 bales arrived on the afternoon of June 13, 1887, aboard the 3,600-ton Abyssinia from Hong Kong, along with mail and 80 Chinese steerage passengers. When Canadian Pacific’s fast Empress ships entered service, with their side ports for speedy unloading, Vancouver was vaulted into a leading silk port.
On Oct. 2, 1902, the Daily Province reported the steamship Tartar was due to arrive with 539 tons, or 2,156 bales, of raw silk — worth $1.5 million. Just six days later the newspaper ran the headline “Large Cargo of Raw Silk,” reporting that the Empress of Japan was due in with $1.6 million worth. On Oct. 25 it reported: “Vancouver, the silk port of North America: Over four and a half million dollars worth of raw silk will be received within thirty days,” making October 1902 the highest value of silk shipping to date. In 1919, a CPR bulletin stated, “All records for silk handling were broken with the arrival from the Orient of the Canadian Pacific Steamship Empress of Asia ... 10,000 bales of raw silk ... valued at $8,500,000 .... ”
The pace accelerated, and CP with its fleet of transpacific steamships maintained domination. Shortly after its full formation in 1923, Canadian National entered the fray with its first silk run in July 1925. CN made silk top priority too: their best time of 83 hours 56 minutes was almost a day faster than their transcontinental passenger train. But CN lacked the ocean shipping advantage, relying on the British Blue Funnel Line or Japanese ships to bring the raw product from the Orient.
With two railroads putting silk traffic ahead of every other shipment, business boomed in the 1920s, and the profits rolled in. But 1929 was tumultuous — silk shipments peaked, then came Black Friday in October, when stocks plummeted and the world fell into depression. Consumer demand flagged; luxury items such as silk were soon out of reach for most. Prices crashed — by 1934, raw silk was $1.27 a pound, down from $6.50 a decade earlier. That precipitated a tumble in insurance rates, so speed became less of a priority and soon Japan was shipping silk in its own vessels through the Panama Canal, which had opened in 1914.
The change was rapid: in 1928, 94 percent of all silk from the Orient to New York had crossed North America by train; just 6 percent went through the canal. Then, according to the B.C. Historical Quarterly of 1948, the Nippon Yusen Kaisha Steamship Line of Japan started Panama service in 1929. Results for the railways were disastrous: by 1931, their share had dropped to just 40 percent; ships through the Panama handled the rest.
The ships wooed business by dropping their freight rates to $6 a ton, $3 less than the railways charged. CN Traffic Executive Officers held a series of meetings to look at the impact of matching the Panama shippers’ rates. Alas, the numbers were telling: based on 1929 silk tonnage, the railway would lose $211,902. Nevertheless, the reductions were made in 1931, but proved ineffective. Three years later they were back at $9.
CP stopped running single-purpose silk trains in 1933, instead hitching two or three silk cars onto their regular trans-Canada passenger runs. Trips for both railways continued sporadically until the late 1930s, and by 1940 CN shipped just 504 bales. War with Japan was the final blow, killing all trade between the two countries. As well, the U.S. government ordered all silk futures trading and production to cease as demand for silk changed from fashion runways to airfield runways — silk was used to make the parachutes on the backs of aircrew members.
But the silk trains have their legacy. “It did teach us how to keep things fluid, which is what we’re still trying to do today,” says Hanna. “But now it’s not a question of insurance or perishability, it’s just-in-time delivery for Wal-Mart and the Bay and Zellers and Canadian Tire. It still comes by the shipload from the Orient and we’re still trying to get it across the country as quickly as possible. What we learned from silk trains is that you’ve just got to keep it moving.”
Today, CPR’s last remaining silk car of 46 built sits forlornly in CPR’s Ogden Shops in southeast Calgary, just a few kilometres south of where Mary Lynas and her friends played. “But it’s not in the shape of a silk car any more,” says Hanna. “It survived because we first converted some of [the silk cars] into mail express cars and then in the ’60s we took five of them and converted them into robot cars that took radio signals from the head end to tell the mid-train power what to do.” This one survived because it was converted to carry an experimental steam generator as a novel way to kill weeds along rights of way in B.C. “This ex-steam generator, ex-robot, ex-express, ex-silk car is the only one left.”
The Silk Industry
Silk production developed more as an art than an industry. The process of harvesting silk was kept secret for almost 3,000 years. In time, silk production reached Europe, with England taking the lead in the 18th century, owing to innovations in textile manufacturing. Today, sericulture (the raising of silkworms) is widely practiced in China, Japan and Korea, with smaller harvests coming from Russia and other countries.
A silkworm moth lays about 500 minuscule eggs. One ounce of eggs yields 30,000 worms, which produce 12 pounds of raw silk. It’s a finicky business: moths must be prevented from hatching prematurely, their diet perfected and the temperature kept just right.
Once eggs hatch, thousands of silkworms gorge on mulberry leaves, then enter the cocoon stage. In a process called “reeling,” the cocoons are loosened and unwound to produce tightly woven filaments, which can then be spooled. Finally, the silk threads are woven into cloth.
The Depression hurt the silk trade and the silk industry dwindled as items such as silk stockings were viewed as extravagances. (Many North American women stocked up on stockings as relations with Japan deteriorated.)
Japan began sending silk on ships through the Panama Canal. Continued price increases spurred the development of synthetics. World War II exacerbated silk’s downward spiral.
Today, synthetic silks (rayon) pervade the market. Still, production of silk has doubled in 30 years. Although it represents a minute percentage of the global textile fibre market, silk is still a multi-billion dollar world trade item. China leads the world’s production. And with more processing into fabric done closer to where silk is grown, far less raw silk is shipped across seas.
Graham Chandler is a Calgary-based writer with a PhD in archaeology.
Silk Trains: The Romance of Canadian Silk Trains, or “the Silks” by Bernard Webber. The Word Works Publications, Kelowna, 1993.
This article originally appeared in the December 2005-January 2006 issue of The Beaver. Subscribe today!
by Nelle Oosterom
Tucked away in the vaults of Library and Archives Canada’s Portrait Gallery is a set of remarkable paintings that the Canadian public rarely gets a chance to see. Known as the Four Indian Kings, these full-length colour oil paintings of Aboriginal men oddly dressed in capes and tunics will be seen in Canada in 2010, their first public showing in this country in more than twenty years.
Created in 1710 by an obscure Dutch artist while the Native men were visiting London as diplomatic envoys, the paintings — and the story behind them—continue to fascinate us. Up until that time, North American indigenous people who found themselves in Europe were usually there under duress — as curiosities at best, as slaves at worst. These “Indian Kings” were different — they were treated like people who wielded real power.
What everyone noticed about the men as they entered St. James's Palace on April 19, 1710, was that they were exceptionally tall, strong, and in perfect health. Dressed in partial English fashion in freshly tailored waistcoats, breeches and stockings, with scarlet cloaks around their shoulders and buckled shoes on their feet, the four Native leaders from the New World dwarfed their European hosts. The contrast between these “men of good presence,” as one observer of the time called them, and the ailing queen they had come to make entreaties of was especially jarring.
Queen Anne sat on her throne to receive the chiefs, which was just as well, since standing was almost impossible for her. Gout, obesity, and other health problems had left her essentially immobile. Besides feeling uncomfortable, she was unhappy. She was a widow at forty-five, and she was childless, despite having been pregnant about eighteen times. A succession of miscarriages, stillbirths, and early child deaths had taken their heartbreaking toll.
At home, internal political machinations took up much of her time. Abroad, her armies were busy fighting the War of the Spanish Succession. Part of that conflict's vast battleground included North America, where it was known as Queen Anne's War.
Focusing the queen's attention on the war named after her was the main purpose of bringing these powerful-looking men to London. These men represented England's allies in the New World. England needed them in its conflict with New France and its Native allies.
Standing to the side was one of the men responsible for bringing then to England—Peter Schuyler, a colonial government official in Albany, New York. It was Schuyler who had talked the men — three Mohawks and a Mahican (Nicholas) — into making the trip. Schuyler believed that an appeal for more ships, troops, and arms to defeat the French in Quebec would arouse more sympathy if it came from these Native leaders, who were known as sachems.
”Great queen,” began the speech from the sachems. “We have undertaken a long and tedious voyage, which none of our predecessors could be prevailed upon to undertake.” They went on to describe how ”we have been as a strong wall for [the English settlers'] security even to the lives of our best men,” but that without help they would not be able resist the French and Huron forces.
Queen Anne may have sighed inwardly to hear this familiar request for more military help — yet another drain on the royal treasury. But she likely perked up when the sachems, through an interpreter, asked for Protestant missionaries to be sent to instruct them in Christianity. This would have been close to her heart, for the suffering monarch — who would be dead in four years — found great solace in religion.
She arranged to send missionaries, communion silver, and copies of the Bible. She plied the sachems with other gifts as well, such as kettles, looking glasses, a magic lantern, and four hundred pounds of gunpowder. And, happily for Schulyer and the beleaguered settlers back in New England, she committed ships and men for an invasion of Quebec.
The monarch made sure the sachems were well entertained during their stay. They took in theatrical performances, bear fights, wrestling matches, and sumptuous banquets. They toured London's finest shops, floated down the Thames in the queen's barge, visited the royal astronomer, and worshipped at St. John's Cathedral.
Sometime during this whirlwind of activity, they managed to sit still, briefly, to have their official portraits painted.
”The problem Verelst faced, beyond the purely mechanical problem of putting the pieces together to make a satisfactory whole, was how to indicate the origin and status of these four royal visitors,” writes John G. Garratt in The Four Indian Kings(1985). “Were they merely curiosities or were they serious envoys of a respected power? ... Generally, Indians were represented as exotic, befeathered creatures. The attempt to paint them as human individuals was virtually unprecedented.”
Indigenous people from North America had been seen and documented in Europe long before the four chiefs visited.
Verelst might have known about some obscure sketches made of an Inuit woman and child who ended up in the Netherlands in 1567 after having been kidnapped by French sailors in Labrador. The owners of an inn in The Hague had charged admission to see the mother and daughter dressed in their sealskins.
Verelst also would likely have been familiar with some renderings done by John White, a member of English explorer Martin Frobisher's Arctic expeditions in 1576 and 1577. White created portraits of Kalicho, Arnaq, and Nutaaq — an Inuit man, woman, and child whom Frobisher captured and took to Britain. Unfortunately, all three died within a few weeks of arriving in England, probably of infections against which they had no immunity.
Another Aboriginal portrait of which Verelst might have been aware was one of Pocahontas done by Dutch engraver Simon van de Passe. Pocahontas, the daughter of a Powhatan chief, is well known in American folklore for assisting the struggling settlers of Jamestown, Virginia. She married tobacco grower John Rolfe and in 1616 accompanied him on a visit to England, where she became an instant celebrity. Alas, Rebecca Rolfe, as she was known, succumbed to some European disease less than a year after landing in England. She was twenty-two.
Van de Passe's portrait puts her in a ruffed collar and a Puritan-style hat — she looks nothing like the Pocahontas of today's Disney fame.
Other Native people who had been seen in Europe at that time included Tisquantum, a.k.a. Squanto, who famously helped the Puritans in Plymouth survive after their first terrible winter. Squanto was a Wampanoag from present-day Massachusetts who was twice kidnapped by the English and taken to Europe. He barely escaped slavery in Spain.
Explorer Jacques Cartier was not above kidnapping, either — he abducted an Iroquoian chief's sons and sent them to France to be trained as interpreters.
The “Four Indian Kings” of 1710 could count themselves lucky: They were in England voluntarily; their visit was entertaining but brief — from April 1 to May 14 —and there are no reports that they contracted any of the serious infections, such as smallpox, that thrived in the filth and crowds of London.
Verelst portrayed the sachems the way he would have painted any nobleman. He put them in an authoritative standing pose, wearing classical clothing and surrounded by the symbols of their occupation and status. The guns and bows of hunting and war craft are part of the picture; so are the animals representing their clans.
The result is strangely arresting.
Writes Garratt: “It is just because they do exist uneasily between the alien and the ordinary, between the New World and the Old, that they linger in the mind's eye. From within the stiff conventional poses, something strange looks out, reminiscent of all that has gone on between Indians and Europeans, of all that has been lost and won.”
Nicholas, Hendrick, John, and Brant lingered in British society long after their ship, the HMS Dragon, had transported them home. Their speech to the queen was printed and reprinted, their portraits were engraved in mezzotint so that they could be reproduced, and a ballad concerning the youngest sachem's supposed attachment to a woman he saw walking in St. James Park proved popular well into the nineteenth century.
Although the sachems' own impressions are not reliably recorded, writers of the time did not hesitate to imagine what went through their minds. For instance, The Spectator, a periodical published in London, quoted Hendrick as finding the clothing of the English “very barbarous, for they almost strangle themselves about the neck, and bind their bodies with many ligatures.”
They were held up as ideal, “natural men.” One anonymous writer supposed that their wholesome way of life freed them from “those indispositions our Luxury brings upon us,” such as “gout, dropsy [edema], or gravel [kidney stones].”
They were not invulnerable, though. In fact, Brant died soon after returning to North America; what he died of is unknown. His name lives on today in the city of Brantford, Ontario. His grandson was the famous Mohawk leader Joseph Brant, a Loyalist who fled to Canada after the American Revolution.
Nicholas and John melted into obscurity after returning home. But Hendrick lived a long and influential life, eventually returning to England in 1740, where he had an audience with King George II.
Hendrick continued to play an important role in colonial affairs. Thomas More — a naturalist who had met Hendrick in London in 1710 — wrote of meeting him again at a conference in Boston ten years later: “He is now a Polite Gentleman Baptized, a Zealous Christian apparelled as we, speaks pretty good English and Scarsely distinguishable from an Englishman but by his tawny complexion....”
Hendrick would have been an old man when he died fighting the French at the battle of Lake George in 1755.
Fighting the French had, of course, been the original impetus for the sachems' visit to London in 1710. Queen Anne did, as promised, send a fleet of warships to Boston in 1711. Sixty vessels under the command of Sir Hoven-den Walker sailed towards Quebec but lost their bearings in the St. Lawrence. Many of the ships ran aground on Ile-aux-Oeufs and at least eight transports were wrecked. Conceding defeat without even firing a shot, the rest of the fleet drifted home.
Verelst's now-famous portraits of the Native sachems had their own dangerous brush with destruction. Originally hung in Kensington Palace, they were at some point moved to Hampton Court, another royal palace in London. By 1851, they had left the royal household for a new home in the private collection of Lord Petre of Thorndon Hall, Essex. In 1878, a fire ravaged Thorndon Hall. Fortunately, the paintings escaped the worst of the damage and were cleaned and restored.
The paintings remained with the Petre family until 1977, when they were purchased by the Public Archives of Canada (now Library and Archives Canada). They have not been shown in Canada as a group since an exhibition in Halifax in 1989.
Senior LAC curator Eva Major-Marothy calls the Indian Kings paintings “among the most significant treasures held by Library and Archives Canada.”
Yet, most of the time they are in storage, along with about 20,000 other portraits. All of these were to have been part of the new national portrait gallery that was announced in 2001 by the Liberal government of Jean Chretien. Construction of the gallery has been stalled under Stephen Harper's Conservative government.
The public showings scheduled for this year are a rare opportunity to glimpse the faces of the men who were regarded with great awe by Europeans three centuries ago ... and who continue to amaze us still.
Et Cetera
The Four Kings by John G. Garratt. Canadian Government Printing Centre, Ottawa, 1985.
Queen Anne’s American Kings by Richmond P. Bond. Octagon Books, New York, 1974. (Originally published in 1952 by Clarendon Press.)
”The Four Kings Came To Dinner With Their Honours” by Malvina Bolus.The Beaver 304: 4-11, 1973.
by Peter Unwin
The story is told that somewhere in France during the Great War, a British general, being led to the front by a dispatch runner, grew irritated with the pace set by the man and ordered him to slow down. "For God's sakes,” he complained. “Who do you think I am? Tom Longboat?” The dispatch runner, a tall man in his late twenties, slowed and answered, "No sir. That’s me.”
The story, apocryphal or not, hints at the fame of a young Onondagan from southern Ontario who, briefly, was one of the most celebrated men alive. Over the course of his career, millions of people assembled to watch him. When his glory faded he became what the newspapers called "the original dummy ... a lazy ... stall fed ... Injun," a "stubborn," once-talented “Redskin” who, or so the papers would have it, ended his days penniless and probably alcoholic.
Thomas Charles Longboat was born on the Six Nations Reserve, outside of Caledonia, Ontario, on June 4, 1886. The second of three children, he was five when his father died. His mother, according to the Toronto Telegram, possessed "Indian hair ... small shrewd eyes ... Hers is an Indian face,” concluded the reporter, adding, with surprise, that her granddaughter was playing with a “rag dolly, just like her white sisters.”
Born a member of the Wolf clan and raised in the Long-house religion, the infant Tom Longboat was christened Cogwagee. In English the name translates as “everything” and hints at the difficulties reporters would face in their efforts to define and write his story. As a boy he was required to attend the Mohawk Institute, an Anglican residential school, but escaped, significantly, by running away. By twelve he was a farm labourer. It is said he developed his “running legs” while chasing cows in the fields and that he once ran sixty-five kilometres from Hamilton to Brantford, arriving home before his mother, who had left hours earlier — in a wagon. At nineteen he ran the annual Victoria Day race at Caledonia and placed second, catching the eye of Mohawk runner Bill Davis. Davis had placed second in the 1901 Boston Marathon behind fellow Canadian Jack Cafferty — a race joined, for several kilometres, by a spooked horse.
In 1906 he entered the Hamilton Herald race where, in a held of forty, including tested professionals, odds against him went as high as a hundred to one. During the race, he look a wrong turn and ran seventy metres before someone corrected him. He won by nearly four minutes. At first, race officials believed their watches had malfunctioned. According to the Herald, twenty-year-old Tom Longboat left his nearest competitor “as if he had been standing still.”
In running, this young Onondagan was engaging in a significant, if loosely understood, aspect of early native civilization. Running is said to bring myths to life, to create a link between runners and the universe. It is useful in times of war. When Cortez touched shore in 1519, within twenty-four hours runners had provided descriptions of his ships, men, and weapons to Montezuma, five hundred kilometres away. Runners of messages in the Iroquois Confederacy (Longboat was in this tradition) carried news from the Atlantic seaboard to the Niagara frontier, running day and night, and navigating by stars. Louis Tewanima, a Hopi rival of Longboat — who at the age of eighty walked thirty kilometres a day herding sheep, and at ninety died by falling off a mountain — was said to have routinely run two hundred kilometres barefoot, "just to watch the trains pass.” Some anthropologists suggest the strength invested in a certain Mesquakie ceremonial runner included not only “the holy power of speed,” but the power to be invisible. There are reports of a native runner from southern California who left Cottonwood Island in Nevada at sunrise and arrived at Fort Yuma at the same moment he left.
It was out of this mysterious tradition that Tom Longboat emerged. With several more races tinder his belt, the twenty-year-old was ready to compete against the best marathoners in North America. In 1907, in one of the most celebrated sports events of all lime, Tom Longboat, under the banner of the West Toronto YMCA, entered the Boston Marathon. Somehow, remarkably, his fame as a runner had spread through the intense world of long-distance running -a sport hotly followed, and sometimes dominated, by North American natives. On the basis of his stunning finishes in his Ontario races, he had become an overnight legend. Newspapers were suddenly calling him "the greatest distance runner the world has ever seen." He was made odds-on favourite to win. When Longboat shunned prerace interviews, local writers fabricated them and rushed them into print. Unable to get a photograph, they substituted a picture of a native football player and printed that instead.
On April 19, 1907, a hundred thousand people lined up to watch the eighth running of the Boston Marathon. The route spanned forty-two kilometres, the course was hilly, and the temperatures cool. At the sound of a pistol shot, 124 runners surged forward. At a street crossing several kilometres in, a freight train intersected the race. Ten runners, including Longboat, made it through; the rest were forced to wait more than a minute while the train cleared. Out in the hills of Boston where the race would end, a snow squall struck. Having run over forty gruelling kilometres. Longboat sprinted the final 1.6 kilometres uphill, into slanting snow, in an astonishing four minutes, forty-six seconds, smashing the course record set by Canadian Jack Cafferty by a full five minutes. His nearest competitor lagged more than a kilometre behind. It is said Longboat had picked up his trophy and was eating dinner as fellow racers crossed the line. A Boston headline staled: “Hills Held No Terror For Redskin.”
Tom Longboat returned to Toronto and to a triumph that is difficult to imagine. Two hundred thousand people lined the streets. Bands played. Reportedly, “young women gazed at [him] in rapture. Longboat, with a Union Jack draped around his shoulders, was placed in an open car and driven through the city at the head of a torch-light parade. People lit brooms on fire and waved them through the air. Streetcar drivers, unable to move, handed out unpunched transfers, having no idea when the streets might clear. Longboat, appearing uncomfortable beneath the crush of adoration, was given a gold medal and the keys to the city. “The British Empire is proud of you,” boomed the mayor, and announced a $500 gift to go to the runner's education.
Even in the most celebrated moment of Tom Longboat's career, newspaper writers could not conceal their discomfort with him. To the racial assumptions they had grown up with. Longboat posed a perplexing challenge. A member of an often-named “pathetic” and supposedly vanishing race, a poorly educated "Injun," be was also tall, handsome, and now very famous. “It is hoped that Longboat’s success will not develop obstinacy on his part.” cautioned the Toronto Star, "and that be will continue to be manageable."
”Obstinate” and “unmanageable” are the twin themes in an almost daily narrative that depicts Longboat as an animal in need of breaking. In print he became a “lanky, raw-boned, headstrong Redskin” who did not run, but “galloped.” Faced with a compliment, be "would smile as wide as a hippo and gurgle his thanks." Sports writer Lou Marsh described the young Onondagan "smiling like a coon in a watermelon patch." Marsh, a popular Toronto Star sports columnist who carried on a bizarre campaign against Longboat, confidently described him as “the original dummy. ... Wily ... unreliable ... as hard to train as a leopard.”
The cultural difficulty writers faced in trying to pinpoint the man is suggested even in the quantity of nicknames they stuck on him. He was tagged the Bronze Cyclone, the Bronze Wonder, the Racing Redskin, the Wonderful Redskin, Tireless Tom, Big Chief, Heap Big Chief, the Great Indian, even the Irish Indian and, later — not yet out of his thirties — Old Tom. This confusion of titles did not so much describe a man named Tom Longboat, but the gropings of newspapermen to integrate a world-famous Canadian Indian into the racial hierarchies of the time.
A cruel but revealing comment came from a Toronto Star writer who, after Longboat's triumph at Boston, wrote “His trainers are to he congratulated ... for having such a docile pupil.”
If Longboat was to gain the respect of the media, it would not be by proving himself the greatest runner in the world, which he would soon do, but by becoming “docile” and “manageable.” This would prove more difficult.
On the heels of his Boston victory, Tom Longboat was evicted from his T MCA lodgings for reasons described alternately as “breaking curlew,” smoking, drinking a bottle of beer, or being in the company of women. His management was taken over by Tom Flanagan, director of the Irish Canadian Athletic Club and a flamboyant Toronto sports promoter. Longboat had initiated contact with a brief note to the man. The letter, all fourteen words, typifies the reserve that reporters found so maddening in him: “Dear Sir — I want to join the Irish Canadian Club. Enclosed find a dollar.”
Perhaps no one personified the seedy, freewheeling world of sports promotion as did Longboat’s new manager. Described in print as “a nattily dressed blade of twenty-eight," Flanagan made this comment about the British marathoner Alfred Shrubb: “First of all I apologize to Alfred Shrubb for hitting him. I'm not a blackguard.” He once raced Longboat twenty kilometres against a horse. Longboat won alter Flanagan positioned himself in front of a bridge and insisted to a police constable that he enforce the posted bylaw: RIDERS WALK YOUR HORSE. The subterfuge proved unnecessary. The horse eventually collapsed.
Flanagan’s first concern was preserving Longboat’s amateur status so that he might run in the 1908 Olympics. This he did by setting up Tom Longboat with a job in a cigar store Longboat’s Athletic Cigar Store. Confined indoors to a stool behind a counter, the young Onondagan did not thrive. The rumour was that he smoked too many of the cigars himself. Despite controversy, the ruling sports bodies of the day allowed Longboat to compete in the 1908 Olympic Marathon, held in London, England.
The race, today, is remembered for two reasons: Dorando Pietri’s excruciating effort in which he collapsed forty-five metres from the finish line and was escorted the rest of the way by well-meaning officials only to be disqualified because of it (which resulted in perhaps the most reproduced sports photograph ever taken); and Tom Longboat’s failure to finish. He either stopped running or collapsed at the thirtieth kilometre, in second place, and was taken out of the stadium on a stretcher. The race was tainted by the belief that Longboat had been doped; that Flanagan had drugged his own runner to ensure his failure and collect $100,000 in wagers. (Longboat was heavily favoured.) Others put his failure down to the heat, which on that day was record-breaking.
The race did not sit well with marathon fanatics on either side of the Atlantic. According to team manager J. Howard Crocker, “Longboat should have won the race. His sudden collapse and the symptoms shown to me indicate that some form of stimulant was used contrary to the rules of the game. Any medical man knowing the facts of the case will assure you that the presence of a drug in an overdose was the cause of the runner’s failure.”
In a bizarre twist, it has been suggested that sports writer Lou Marsh, who followed Longboat on a bicycle, may himself have been the person who administered the drugs. The Hamilton Spectator dismissed the whole affair: “Longboat ran a good race [but] could not stand the glare and heat. There was nothing to it.”
Longboat returned to Canada, announced his retirement, changed his mind, set a new Canadian five-mile record, won his third straight Toronto Ward Marathon, and then turned professional. Dissatisfied with Flanagan as a manager, he considered handing his management over to a Mohawk friend from Desoranto, Ontario. Sports writers were furious. They quoted Flanagan to the effect that would-be promoters of Longboat “had sufficiently degraded the Indian by pandering to his weaknesses.” A local reverend, John Morrow, waded in: “[B]ecause the physical and mental make-up of the Indian is so foreign to any other athlete’s, and his disposition so hard at times to understand ...I can safely say that no other man ... could have managed Tom Longboat but Flanagan.”
Flanagan and his client patched up their differences and on November 11, 1908 — in his first race as a professional — Longboat defeated a three-man relay team over eight kilometres. A month later he raced Dorando Pietri at Madison Square Garden. Crowds were so thick that Pinkertons was called in to reinforce police. Inside, the Garden’s arena was a dense pall of tobacco smoke. Through this barrier the two men would be expected to run forty-two kilometres — two hundred and sixty laps. Neck and neck for the entire race, Longboat, in a characteristic burst, pulled ahead. Dorando, straining to close the gap, collapsed and was carried unconscious off the track.
Two weeks later Longboat married a Mohawk woman, Lauretta Maracle. The Globe wrote, approvingly, that the new bride “does not like to talk of leathers, war paint or other Indian paraphernalia. ... If anyone can make a reliable man ... of that elusive human being, it will be his wife.” Since her Mohawk name translated in English as “The Leader,” cutline writers could safely slate: “Mrs. Longboat will therefore be the Leader of Everything.” Nothing could shake their notion that Tom Longboat needed to be led. A photo shows the newlyweds posed with a noticeable and telling distance between them.
Five days after the wedding, Longboat raced Pietri for a third time. In front of eleven thousand people indoors at Buffalo, the two runners clocked a time of two hours, twenty-six minutes, over the first twenty-four kilometres. Even Lou Marsh admitted a time like that “is not an exhibition by an extra lively tortoise. It is drilling from the drop of the hat.” Sniffing repeatedly from “a little brown dope bottle,” Dorando veered off the course at thirty kilometres and collapsed into the arms of his brother. Longboat, bleeding at the knees, walked and staggered the remaining distance.
At the end of January, still complaining of Longboat’s unmanageability, Flanagan sold his contract to a New York sports promoter for $2,000. “He sold me just like a racehorse to make money,” Longboat told his wife. Flanagan had been best man at their wedding.
In February he raced Alfred Shrubb, the world’s ranking professional. When Shrubb took a ten-lap lead, the Madison Square Garden crowd booed Longboat. T hen he began his comeback, lapping the Englishman again and again over the last ten kilometres. Tom Longboat, age twenty-three, now at the apex of his marathon career, had defeated every great runner in the world at least once.
He did not know it, but the most brilliant years of his marathon career had ended. The near mania for distance running was already waning. Nonetheless, in Edinburgh in 1912 he set a new world’s professional fifteen-mile record of one hour and twenty minutes. Volunteering for the army in 1916, he served nearly four years with the Thirty-Seventh Haldiman Battalion. His enlistment papers describe his “trade or calling” as “professional runner.” In a delicious understatement, his certificate of medical examination declares him to have “the free use of his joints and limbs." During his time in France he saw the horrors that took place on Vimy Ridge and at Passchendaele. He was even pronounced dead — a ghostly echo of the uncertainty that clouds the public record of him.
Discharged in 1919, he returned to Caledonia to discover that his wife, after reports of his death, had married another man and taken the furniture. Eventually he married an Onondagan, Martha Silversmith, and had four children with her. In the words of a Maclean's article, written eight years after his death, “he took another squaw.”
The early 1920s were difficult years for Longboat. Out of racing, he moved west to collect on a land grant for his war service. Near Edmonton he tried various jobs. Apparently he pawned his racing medals, a sad echo of the American native runner, Ellison “Tarzan” Brown, who sold his medals to buy groceries and was struck dead by a car following an argument in a tavern. An Edmonton lawyer kept Longboat’s medals, hoping someone would reclaim them. In the end they were melted down for the gold.
In 1922 he returned to Toronto. According to one account, he was met at the station by his former manager, Tom Flanagan, who bought him a corned beef sandwich. That same year he was riding the Queen Street streetcar to south Riverdale where he earned three dollars a day as an employee of the Dunlop Rubber Company. About that time Lou Marsh wrote, “He started out on corn pone, worked up to caviar and now is tickled to get corn beef.” In 1924, Longboat asked the Amateur Athletic Union to reinstate him as an amateur. Nothing came of his request.
He had found a job, however, which he worked at faithfully for nineteen years. As an employee of the street-cleaning department of the City of Toronto, he drove horses, swept leaves, and collected garbage. It is in this detail that journalists found their greatest satisfaction: "A rubbish man!" they crowed, "a particularly nice rubbish man ... an Indian rubbish man." "He worked his way to the bottom," wrote Fergus Cronin in a 1957 Maclean's article - a low point in Canadian journalism. When Grolier’s published its 1957 Encyclopedia Canadiana, the brief entry on Longboat would be drawn entirely from this gloating and contemptuous article.
In 1930, Longboat, now a forty-five-year-old family man, was again in the news. A November issue of the Toronto Mail and Empire announced that an enemy of the Six Nations had directed “bad medicine” at Longboat and was killing him. Of all the mountains of newsprint written about the man, this piece stands alone for the unexpected respect it shows toward Longboat and traditional native beliefs. In the interview, Longboat talks freely about native medicine: “The medicine men can do strange things. If a dog comes into their room they can make themselves into that dog. Or they can be in the bear and then be men again. You can see it on the reserve. They can do anything.... People laugh about that wisdom and learning, but they do not realize that they do not know everything.”
This is one of the only indications in print that Longboat was capable of anything but “guttural grunts.” The piece also provides an intimate picture of the Longboat household. His wife, the “squaw” of Cronin's article, here is a “slim woman ... soft-spoken and courteous.” Even his four children warrant names. Apparently the medicine men were capable of helping Longboat for his malady disappeared.
In 1932 occurred the most tragic moment in his life. Attending the Canadian National Exhibition with his family, Longboat stopped to give an interview with radio personality Jane Grey, voice of Princess Mus-Kee-Kee. She asked him if he would like to say hello to anyone. “He told me he would like to speak to his daughter. ... Apparently some playmates heard me say this and rushed to call his daughter to the radio. She raced across the path of a car and was instantly killed. ... I think she was about eight years old.”
Even here, in this moment of anguish, the story strays, and the facts become perversely mangled. He did lose a child; it did happen following a radio interview at the CNE; that child was struck dead by a car. But the child was a son. His name was Clifford. He was five years old. For the rest of her life, Martha Longboat kept the CNE pennant she’d bought that day, passing it on to a son prior to her death. The Maclean's article, which remained the definitive piece on Longboat for thirty-five years, omits this tragedy, preferring to dwell on his presumed poverty.
With the arrival of World War II, “Garbageman Longboat” enlisted in the Home Guard. By the end of the war he had retired from his city job and was living on the Ohsweken reserve where he was born. There was yet one ghost for him to fight — a stranger who, for more than a decade, pretended to be Tom Longboat in order to cadge drinks in taverns. This episode has something haunting about it, as though the lazy, drunken “redskin” the newspapers worked so hard to create had risen from the pages to torment the living man. In 1948 Longboat supplied the Hamilton Spectator with a photograph of himself, in an effort to foil what he called that “cheap, two-bit imposter.”
Back home, in failing health, he walked every market day eleven kilometres to Hagersville and then back. Many years later, a friend, Frank Montour, recalled those final walks of Tom Longboat. “He was best in the world," said Montour, “and an Indian besides.” Over the years the legend of Tom Longboat has been revised. In 1992 a small book written by former Olympic runner Bruce Kidd placed Longboat squarely within the cultural context of his times, and indicated what the man was up against. This book is now the standard source on Longboat in high-school and public libraries across Canada. Cronin’s racist brooding has been confined to microfilm. Through Kidd’s efforts, the $500 promised to Longboat by the mayor and never paid was finally collected. With interest it amounted to $10,000, issued in 1980 to Longboat’s heirs. The new Canadian Encyclopedia’s entry on Longboat draws entirely from Kidd’s book. Websites, school essays, histories of the Boston Marathon — all of these writings take as their starting point the racial assumptions that once defined the Longboat story.
Today he is presented not as “the original dummy" but as a superb athlete, an Onondagan Indian who strode across the earth faster, further, and more gloriously than any man alive. He has been called Canada’s first professional athlete. He was cheered by millions. His name was pronounced in schools, homes, and churches. He received fan mail from Clark Gable, shook hands with royalty, and had a cigar named after him. He served in two world wars for a country in which he was not even allowed to vote. He was pronounced dead. He set times that left professional timekeepers doubling their watches. He suffered the death of his own child. For twenty-years he was mocked in print by a spiteful reporter, and when that reporter died, he said graciously “He was one of the finest men I ever met.” He negotiated the minefield of the dominant culture and even used it to his advantage. He fled the infamy of the residential school system, and when at the height of his fame that school asked him back to give a speech, Longboat refused, saying privately, “I wouldn’t even send my dog to that place.” Eventually he took work as a garbage collector to support his family — outdoor work, work that allowed him to move his legs across the land. He drove a car through the height of the Depression, when many Canadians could not afford bus fare. Near the end, when reporters came running to photograph him in his overalls, collecting garbage, he told them, "I’m doing alright, just living along.”
Tom Longboat died January 9, 1949, at the age of sixty-two. His burial ceremony was conducted in the Onondagan way, and a V-shaped notch was cut in the coffin lid, so that his spirit might race freely to the next world.
Peter Unwin is the author of The Rock Farmers and the novel Nine Bells for a Man, a true story about Canada’s largest inland marine disaster. Several of his profiles have appeared previously in the Beaver. He is currently working on a book about Lake Superior.
Further reading:
Tom Longboat, by Bruce Kidd, Fitzhenry & Whiteside, Don Mills, 1980.
Boston: The Canadian Story, by David Blaikie, Seneca House Books, Ottawa, 1984. Internet edition.
Ultramarathon World, 1999
By Nelle Oosterom and James Careless
From helpful bellhops, to burning brides, to things that go bump in the night, places of historic interest are often linked to spine-tingling tales of the supernatural. Old hotels, heritage homes, long-running businesses, and other storied sites are as likely as not to be “haunted” — or so it is claimed. Today almost every Canadian city has at least one ghost tour operator who does a thriving business scaring people out of their wits.
Curiosity about odd and unexplainable happenings is not new. In the 1920s interest in spiritualism — communicating with the dead — reached a peak, with séances held in the drawing rooms of respectable citizens on both sides of the Atlantic. In Winnipeg, for example, Dr. Thomas Hamilton and his wife Lillian conducted séances attended by such luminaries as Prime Minister William Lyon Mackenzie King and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. But skeptics such as magician Harry Houdini dismissed the spiritualism craze, saying the mediums were taking advantage of peoples’ grief over the loss of life in the trenches of the First World War.
Ghost sightings have had a long history in all human cultures. Believers have generally understood them to be the deceased. Others have looked to science for explanations. Back in 1813, Scottish physician John Ferriar wrote An Essay Towards a Theory of Apparitions which argued that ghosts were actually optical illusions. Another physician, Alexandre Jacques François Brière de Boismont, wrote a book in 1845 that explained them as hallucinations. Other explanations include waking dreams, ball lighting, geomagnetic fields, trapped psychic energy, and even carbon monoxide poisoning.
Whatever their reality, ghosts make for good stories and there are numerous books on the topic. Noted Canadian author and anthologist John Robert Colombo has published a number of ghost story compilations but cautions that there is no proof of their existence.
“Reports of ghostly activities do not necessarily tell us anything at all about the life after death (the so-called survival hypothesis), but they do reveal a great deal about human nature, social expectation, our hopes and fears, and our history,” Colombo writes. “My feeling is that ghosts are good for us because they encourage us to think about the nature of belief and disbelief, about evidence and proof, and about fate and destiny, etc.”
To learn about these eerie tales, pick up the October-November 2015 issue of Canada's History or subscribe today!
By Carolyn Harris
Most Canadians will know Prince Rupert as the name of a port city in British Columbia.
And some may be familiar with the Rupert’s Land of history. This was the name given to a large swath of land that formed the Hudson Bay drainage area. This land, which consists of much of modern-day Canada, once belonged to the “Governor and Company of Adventurers of England Trading into Hudson's Bay.”
The governor was Prince Rupert, a seventeenth-century adventurer who came from the royal courts of Europe.
Carolyn Harris, a Canadian historian who specializes in royalty, spoke with Canada’s History to fill in some of the blanks about Prince Rupert and his place in Canadian history.
By Bill Moreau
On July 19, 1902, twenty-seven-year-old Norman Criddle ventured into the garden of his father’s homestead near Treesbank, Manitoba.
A student of entomology who experimented with pest control, Criddle was on a quest to gather specimens of a familiar yet dreaded organism: Melanoplus spretus, the Rocky Mountain locust.
He found two, a male and a female, and added them to his growing collection. Little did he realize his specimens would be among the last survivors of their species.
It is difficult today to imagine the terror this insect once evoked in the West. Throughout the mid-to-late nineteenth century, like a recurrent Biblical plague, invading armies of locusts would descend from the sky to devastate pioneer farms, devouring crops and leaving destitution in their wake.
Yet, somehow, in just a few short decades, this species went from trillions to zero.
Entomologists are not completely certain why, or whether they will return.
View this animated video by Henry Reich, part of the Minute Earth series, for a quick primer on what happened to North America’s locusts:
By Cec Jennings
This video about McClung’s Mock Parliament was produced by Equal Voice Experiences, with host Rachelle Bergen and author Charlotte Gray.
On January 27, 1916, women in Manitoba became the first in Canada to win the right to vote in provincial elections.
After years of lobbying by suffragists, the government of Tobias Norris voted unanimously to pass the women’s suffrage act.
Alberta and Saskatchewan were quick to follow a few months later.
By 1918, all female British subjects over 21 could vote in Canadian federal elections.
And by 1922, women could vote in most Canadian jurisdictions.
The exceptions were Quebec (1940) and Northwest Territories (1951).
In Newfoundland, which was not yet part of Canada, women received the vote in 1925.
While it took only a few years for universal suffrage to gain hold, it took many decades to get to that point.
The efforts made by Prairie suffragist Nellie McClung and others helped pave the way.
By Mark Reid
Nova Scotia’s lighthouses have rescued countless mariners over the centuries.
However, many of these historic beacons, weathered by time, need a lifeline of their own.
Thankfully, a recent online contest has resulted in a $300,000 funding infusion to help repair and preserve these iconic structures.
The National Trust for Canada launched the contest last summer, asking citizens to go online to pledge money and to cast votes for a collection of needy lighthouses. More than 220,000 votes were cast, and nine beacons shared $250,000 in prize money. An additional $50,000 was raised via crowdfunding.
There were three award categories, based on community size. First place in the “Ebb Tide” category was the Annapolis lighthouse at Annapolis Royal. The “Low Tide” winner was the Digby Pier lighthouse at Digby, and the “High Tide” winner was Low Point lighthouse in New Victoria.
Carolyn Quinn, spokesperson for the National Trust, said the organization is pleased with the outcome and intends to use this fundraising model for future heritage preservation campaigns.
The complete list of prize-winners is as follows:
Ebb Tide 1. Annapolis 2. Henry Island 3. Sandy Point
Low Tide 1. Digby Pier 2. Neils Harbour 3. Battery Point
High Tide 1.Low Point 2. Gabarus 3. Cape Forchu
Jean Barman won the 2015 Sir John A. Macdonald Prize for her new book, French Canadians, Furs, and Indigenous Women in the Making of the Pacific Northwest. The prize is awarded annually to the best academic book on Canadian history, and this October in Ottawa Barman will also receive the Governor General’s History Award for Scholarly Research. The professor emeritus in the University of British Columbia’s department of educational studies spoke recently with editor-in-chief Mark Reid about the crucial role played by fur traders and their indigenous brides in keeping the Pacific coast Canadian.
What inspired you to write this book?
It started out as a project trying to understand why I had not paid attention to French Canadians in a general history I did of British Columbia, and why no one had been paying attention to French Canadians. It turned out, in the end — by my interpretation of the material — that French Canadians were fundamental to the way in which the Pacific Northwest developed, including how it was that British Columbia became a province of Canada instead of sliding into the United States.
Why did the French Canadians head to the northwest?
The Pacific Northwest was a very different place than anywhere else in the United States or Canada, in the sense that there was no external governance until 1846, when it was divided between the United States and England. Up to then, it was only a fur trade place. The only outsider-company economy was the Hudson’s Bay Company, based in London. They employed mainly French Canadians. Everywhere else in North America where they worked, [the HBC] wanted sturdy Scots. They wanted Orkneymen. But in the Pacific Northwest, they took over from the North West Company from Montreal, and so they kept on French Canadians, which was distinctive within the fur economy.
You make the case that the fur traders helped to keep the West Coast Canadian.
When it came time to set the boundary, Britain wasn’t interested in colonies. The United States desperately wanted it all — they wanted to get their hands on Russian America, which was Alaska, and they were getting their hands on California. Britain would have given in, but the Hudson’s Bay Company persuaded them that they should hold on to part of [the northwest], because they were making money. And so, except for French Canadians — the people who were the backbone working for the fur trade and the main outsider group in the Pacific Northwest — Canada would have no Pacific shoreline today.
Your book also looks at how women impacted the fur trade there.
French Canadians came to work for the HBC. They had worked before for the North West Company out of Montreal, and they stayed. The reason they stayed is that they could partner with indigenous women. There were no Catholic priests in the Pacific Northwest until 1848. It was a relationship they could have squandered. They could have hit and run, but instead they stayed, and they had large families together. They have descendants all over the Pacific Northwest to the present day. The indigenous women are really powerful in that these are not just relationships of pleasure — the women worked very, very hard in the fur economy as well.
How does it feel to win the Sir John A. Macdonald Prize?
I was totally astonished! ... It was a book that I wrote because I wanted descendants to feel themselves in it — I had many descendants get in touch with me. I thought that maybe a few people in British Columbia would think about it, but to think that [my book] had a national audience is really astonishing. It was unthinkable. When I found out the book was shortlisted, I thought that was unthinkable. And when I found out that it won — it was far more unthinkable! I’m still trying to figure out quite what it was that other people saw in it. I’m pleased that they did, and I suspect, over time, I will know.
by Paul Jones
On 12 December 1927, the New York Times published what may have been a first: a front-page feature story about a professional genealogist.
The article “Sells Family Trees at a Cut-Rate Price” detailed the business plans of Gustave Anjou, a “Staten Island Dealer” who was reportedly abandoning the sagging market for patrician ancestries in favour of a more populist approach.
Regrettably, the Times’ unprecedented attention to genealogy was misplaced. The unnamed reporter clearly perceived it as a story about changing consumer tastes, and it was — just not in the way imagined. Anjou was a huckster, a convicted forger in his native Europe, and he was shifting his con from artisanal fake pedigrees for the rich to a high-volume assembly line that would suck in the vast and less discerning middle class.
We now know that Anjou (real name Gustaf Ludvig Jungberg) authored at least three hundred “genealogical” works incorporating false information about as many as two thousand different surnames, possibly more. Some of these lineages — certainly the Church and Freeman families, and probably many others — included kin supposedly born or living in Canada.
These deceptive documents survive on library shelves, in manuscript collections, and no doubt among the cherished family papers of some readers of this magazine. In the past twenty years, unsuspecting family historians have given new life to these old lies by uploading them to the Internet.
Anjou was hardly the first or even the most prominent genealogist to embroider the truth. The Bible, after all, is notable for its suspect lineages. As for the lords temporal, the august Burke’s Peerage published popular misinformation about the origins of the aristocracy throughout the nineteenth century and well into the twentieth.
The mid-nineteenth century in particular was an era of what one commentator has termed “parvenu genealogy,” characterized by specious claims of connections to wealth, nobility, and heraldic entitlement. Many con men of the day, and at least one woman, produced false family trees at a profit for a credulous public. Even the most respected genealogist of the era, Horatio Gates Somerby, whose works can still be purchased on Amazon, sometimes embellished his research to ensure happy outcomes for clients.
We may not be as socially ambitious today, but gullibility is always in fashion. As recently as the 1980s, the Irishman Brian Leese created hundreds of deeply flawed genealogical reports for clients as far away as South America.
Detecting a bogus family tree is not always easy. The noted genealogist and editor Gordon L. Remington has proposed several warning signals, although these are most recognizable in blatant cases.
For example, he cautions against “suspicious, inadequate, or no citations.”
Wise words to be sure, but Anjou was crafty. He would often inundate his clients with references, almost all truthful and relevant. The dirty work, perhaps a link between a real and undistinguished forebear of the client and the equally real and undistinguished descendant of a fabled family, might be “proven” by an obscure document supposedly transcribed in a faraway European archive.
Indeed, Anjou was not above inventing whole parishes to suit his purposes.
Remington also warned against results that were “too good to be true.” However, the precaution may be easier to preach than to practise. Given enough genealogical elbow grease, virtually everyone of European descent can be linked to royalty. So, yes, the finding of royal or noble descent in a pedigree is a warning sign, but not necessarily proof of deception.
Remington’s third stricture concerns reasoning that doesn’t make sense. Are people being born, getting married, having children, and dying at times and in places that seem right? If not, the researcher may be shoehorning individuals of the same or similar names into a single identity, thereby erroneously linking multiple lineages.
Oddly, we’ve come full circle. Time was that genealogical research for most people meant delving into compiled genealogies such as those prepared by Anjou.
Today many family history buffs are once again beguiled by the apparent simplicity of scavenging the work of others. Little more than name collectors, they scour the Internet in search of similar-sounding names in order to graft new lineages onto their Frankentrees. The upshot is that spot tests by one researcher have found that more than half of online family trees are incorrect.
Today the deceptions and the errors are self-imposed. Original records are available, but many prefer to delude themselves rather than to seek the facts. No need for Gustave Anjou in this brave new world.
This article originally appeared in the October-November 2015 issue of Canada's History. Subscribe today!
by Jessica Knapp
Dressing during the Great Depression pushed women to the seams of their creativity. When searching for materials, they often opted for the raw cotton or burlap sacks in which kitchen flour or animal feed was delivered.
With a few threads and an eye for detail, the unappealing pantry bag became a Depression-era fashion item for working-class women in rural Canada.
Companies realized how the bags were being repurposed and aided the effort by printing pleasant designs, fringes, and borders on the fabric. In some cases, the patterns for children’s clothes, bibs, and rag dolls were outlined on the bags.
As Canada regained its economic stability in the 1940s, the flour sack dress lost its allure. The Second World War gave the dress a second wind, before it fell out of fashion in the 1950s.
Fast Facts
An adult’s dress required material from about three bags.
The raw cotton and burlap proved nicely resistant to rough wear from children.
Brand labels were fabricated to separate, or even to wash away, after soaking the bag.
The bags were also used to craft men’s overalls.
This article originally appeared in the October-November 2015 issue of Canada's History. Subscribe today!
By Nelle Oosterom
It was only about a century ago that women in Canada began voting in general elections — first in Manitoba, then in other provinces and federally. The fight for women’s suffrage took place over many decades in Canada, the United States and Europe. In Great Britain, the subject was debated in the House of Commons no less than eighteen times between 1870 and 1904.
Whether women should vote was a hot topic in those days. Here are the top ten reasons put forward for why women should not have the right to vote
1. Too ungodly
Religious leaders stressed that “natural law” — as stated in the Christian Bible — was clear about women being subordinate to men.
2. Too weak
Women did not have the physical strength of men, and therefore could not hold their own in the rough and tumble of politics.
3. Too redundant
If a married woman had taken a vow to obey her husband, then she would vote as he directed. In effect, this would give her husband two votes.
4. Too much of a distraction
Voting would drag women away from their domestic duties and their children.
5. Too vulnerable
If women won the vote and other rights, they would be equals and no longer under men’s protection. Too weak to defend themselves, they would be oppressed.
6. Too unstable
Women would be over-excited by politics and would have nervous breakdowns.
7. Too busy
Women were — or should have been — far too busy with their home and community duties to take part in politics.
8. Too delicate
If women were on the electoral register they would have to serve on juries, and would hear things women should not hear — such as sex crimes.
9. Too ignorant
Women knew nothing of trade, commerce, science, finance, the military or the law, and therefore had nothing to contribute to politics.
10. Too unladylike
Women would be hardened and sullied by politics and would become manly and unfeminine.
by Bill Moreau
Four hundred years ago this fall, Samuel de Champlain, in the company of an Algonquin and Wendat war party and a dozen fellow Frenchmen, travelled east through the Kawartha Lakes region of southern Ontario and down to the Bay of Quinte. The warriors were headed for upstate New York, where, in mid-October, they laid siege to an Iroquois village.
The attempt to destroy the settlement was unsuccessful, and when reinforcements failed to arrive, the allies retreated to Huronia. There Champlain passed the winter before returning to Quebec.
Although he would never return to the land of the Wendat, he went on to describe and illustrate the encounter for a French audience in his 1619 Voyages et Descouvertes, and the episode has become one of the touchstone events in accounts of the explorer's life.
The anniversary of this raid was the occasion for a recent Champlain Society-sponsored event at the Royal Ontario Museum in Toronto, part of the current “Ontario 400” celebration of four centuries of francophone presence in the province.
Moderated by Champlain Society President Patrice Dutil, the evening featured the insights of three speakers: author Douglas Hunter, whose 2008 volume God’s Mercies treats Champlain and Henry Hudson, historian José António Brandão, whose primary study is the seventeenth-century Iroquois, and Chief Kirby Whiteduck of the Algonquins of Pikwakanagan First Nation, an authority on the traditional Algonquin culture of the Ottawa Valley.
There is probably no more monolithic figure in our history than Champlain (fittingly, as Dutil pointed out, a stone sculpture of the "Father of New France" adorns the façade of the ROM’s former Canadiana collection).
Champlain looms so great not only because of his accomplishments as an explorer, cartographer and administrator, but also because of the sheer heft of his writings. The “enigma” of Champlain, though, is the frequent ambiguity of his testimony. As Brandão put it, “He left a lot of writings, but not necessarily the kind of thing that allows us to come to firm conclusions.” Our picture of Champlain is further complicated by the almost complete absence of testimony from those who surrounded him.
Recalling his years as a journalist, Hunter said, “Whenever you write about someone you want to hear other perspectives,” but these are almost nonexistent for Champlain.
Still, despite this “silence of his contemporaries,” each of the evening’s three speakers opened other perspectives on the legacy of Champlain, and of the 1615 mission, from a range of sources: archaeological findings, linguistic analysis, traditions of his Native collaborators, and even voices embedded within Champlain’s own works. A picture emerged of a Champlain who is less the heroic solitary figure represented in his own self-portrait (see illustration), than a man intimately connected and often subservient to other players in the world of early New France, both European and Aboriginal.
Hunter undercut the impression that Champlain gives of being virtually the sole trader meeting with Natives at Tadoussac and up the St. Lawrence; a growing body of archaeological evidence reveals that dozens of other French and Basques were engaged in the same commerce, and that goods were making their way into the interior long before the explorer's time. The merchants of St. Malo went so far as to draft a formal complaint about the upstart, noting that he was but one among “an infinity of people from all regions of France.”
Brandão characterized the 1615 raid as a microcosm of the enigma of Champlain, noting wryly that, “It has been so hotly debated for so long that more ink has been spilled discussing the raid than was actual blood at the event.” According to some traditional interpretations, the raid led to generations of enmity between the French and the Iroquois. But Brandão described the event as a relatively minor affair, one of hundreds of such engagements during these years; Champlain's descriptions are so difficult to untangle that we don’t know where the village was located, how many casualties there were, nor just which branch of the Iroquois lived there (while most historians have identified the inhabitants as Onondaga, linguistic evidence suggests that they may have been Seneca).
In fact, the Algonquin and the Wendat were the true protagonists of the event, for the raid was their initiative, and not Champlain’s. Chief Whiteduck, focusing on the relationship between Champlain and the Algonquin chief Tessouat, described the strategies employed by the explorer’s Native allies. In 1613 Tessouat had deflected Champlain in his attempt to ascend the Ottawa, skilfully preserving his own control of the upper reaches of the river. When he did allow Champlain to proceed to Huronia in 1615, it was on Algonquin terms. Champlain’s primary motivation was to explore trade routes westward toward Asia, and to assess the economic potential of the land for the French crown; his participation in the raid on the Iroquois was the price he had to pay for passage. Here Champlain is not an intrepid master of alliances, but rather the servant of his Algonquin and Wendat allies.
In concluding his contribution, Whiteduck, like Tessouat before him, affirmed the place of the Algonquin in these events. Noting that no treaty was ever signed with his people, and recalling the long-term legacy of the colonization of Canada, he concluded: “We were asked ... to be involved in the celebration of Champlain’s journey, and we said that we’re not going to celebrate it, but we'll participate because we want to raise the profile of the Algonquin and the role the Algonquin had. Champlain didn’t single-handedly come over here and create New France.”
Bill Moreau is the editor of the three-volume Writings of David Thompson published in 2009 and teaches at Dunlace Public School in North York, Ontario.
By Joel Ralph
During the summer and fall of 1940 the German Luftwaffe and the British Royal Air Force (RAF) conducted one of the greatest air battles in history — the Battle of Britain.
Among those who fought in that battle was a young Canadian fighter pilot named Willie McKnight, who became one of Canada’s greatest air aces. In letters home to his friends in Calgary, McKnight wrote about the thrills and the dangers he faced. He also wrote about the fun times he had while off duty and reflected on his relationships and the life he left behind.
On January 12, 1941, McKnight was shot down over occupied coastal France. The squadron had lost one of its top aces.
Here is a transcript of one of McKnight's earlier letters:
September 16, 1939
Dear Mike,
I think it’s rather a bit over a month since I last wrote to you so while I’m having a few free moments I thought I’d sit down and pen you a bit. There really isn’t a hell of a lot to tell you but I’ll try and remember all there is, so if this isn’t such a good letter don’t blame me.
I had a darn swell holiday before all this trouble broke out and really enjoyed myself. I think I met more relatives in two weeks than I knew at home. I’ve got a couple of cousins over here who are really lads worth knowing and the three of us had quite a time seeing what made Glasgow and Edinbourough (sic) tick at night. Jack (one of them) had just brought a new car and so we were able to get around quite a bit. If you want my honest opinion (which I know you don’t but will give anyway) the women in Scotland have the ones here licked without a struggle. There are, I think more women, to every man in Scotland than there are divided up among the rest of the continent.
(September 25, 1939)
Well, I didn’t even make a decent start of this letter but I’ll try hard to get it finished to-day. I’ve got the afternoon off so I should at least be able to finish this letter even if I don’t do anything else. The weather is gradually growing worse as the winter comes on and it gets more and more difficult to fly but they are (not?) cutting down on work any, every day it seems as though I do twice the work I did the day before. It’s a far cry from the war making life all (beer?) and skittles instead of that we do all our normal training duties, patrols of the coast and supervising guards etc. at night. Since about a week before the start of the war we have been getting on an average of about three to four hours sleep, for meals we just get time to run in and gulp a plateful of food down – damn rotten food at that – and then we race back to work. Because of this my stomach packed up about two weeks ago and I was sick as hell. The M.O.’s worried as hell because most of us chaps from the colonies have been getting worse every day and he has been kicking up a big stink trying to get the food improved. I also got my promotion about a week ago and am a full fledged Pilot-Officer now so I’m getting a bit more money saved up for when I go on leave – if I ever get any more. I haven’t seen (I or A?) since my last leave so when I do see her again I’m really going to indulge myself for a while. I asked her down to the village near here for next week end and Ken Davhurst’s woman is coming so I’m going to enjoy myself while I can. My course will be leaving here in a couple of weeks time, quite possibly before you get this letter and it is definitely known that some of us are going to France. Nobody knows yet who it will be but we will damn soon so I may be in France before you get this letter.
I don’t feel terribly thrilled about it but sooner or later I will have to go anyway and I’d just as soon go right at the first. We’ve got one of the squadrons (or rather had) that bombed the Keil (sic) canal resting here and waiting for replacements, they lost quite a few men but they say that they’re nothing to what will happen when the other side starts in. The second in command from here was transferred to a twin fighter squadron and is serving in France now and we’ve got quite a few older officers who were in the R.F.C. in the Great War taking refresher courses here. One of them, a Flying Officer Bill – served in the same squadron as Kingsford-Smith and a few of the famous aces of the last time. We’ve hear that they are going to send several Canadian squadrons over and if you think there is any chance of you being sent over Mike I should strongly advise you to get into the Air Force. You may think that its dangerous as hell but it really isn’t and at least you stand a bit more of a chance. I’m not just boosting my own service I really do think that and I think if you tried it you would agree with me. I’m definitely going on to twin fighters (really fast medium bombers) and so far they have been having the best of the bargain so I’m hoping to die of old age yet.
I hope that you and your mother and father are well and wish Helen the best of the luck, I’d like to send her something but until I can get off for a little time I shan’t be able to but I sincerely hope she is happy and makes a hell of a success of it, which I know she will.
I’ve missed you and Olive and the rest of the bunch a hell of a lot since I came over here and I’d quite honestly give a years pay to kick around with you again for even two or three weeks. There are some swell chaps over here but I don’t think I’ll ever meet anybody like the old bunch before they broke up. The really funny part of it is that the longer I’m away the more I miss Marian. I know damn right well I shall probably never see her again and that it probably wouldn’t help me even if I did but I still can’t get over her. I’ve tried all sorts of ways but I think that always I’ll remember her most of all. I know now that I made a hell of a lot of mistakes but with another chance I could have proven her wrong. Even now I think she’d (and the rest of you) would be surprised to know me – I’m even amazed at myself some times. I really didn’t know how much I though of her until after I’d been over here for about four months and the longer I’m here the more I miss her.
I hope I haven’t bored you but I’ve been wanting to tell her for a the last three months but I’m still bloody stubborn and I won’t as I thought I’d get rid of it.
Best Wishes to you and Olive,
Ever yours,
Bill
Here are more of McKnight's letters
May 3, 1939
June 25, 1939
July 10, 1939
July 23, 1939
February 20, 1940
February 25, 1940
April 24, 1940
July 18-20, 1940
September 22, 1940
Read Joel Ralph's full story in the December-January 2016 issue of Canada's History magazine. Subscribe now.
From the very beginning of settlement in New France, tales of bewitched canoes flying through the air were part of folklore. Their origin was a combination of an Aboriginal legend about a flying canoe and a folktale from France about a hunter condemned to be chased through the night skies for eternity because he went hunting on a Sunday during High Mass.
Over time, homesick coureurs de bois and voyageurs apparently adapted the tale to suit their needs. A well-known version of the folktale known as “La Chasse-galerie” was written by Honoré Beaugrand in 1892. In this story, a group of woodcutters make a deal with the devil to quickly fly them home to their sweethearts on New Year’s Eve. They are warned not to mention God’s name or touch a church steeple — if they do, the devil will possess their souls.
The men arrive home and attend a party, where they merrily dance all night long. When it comes time to return to work, they get back in their magic canoe and fly home. However, the drunk navigator just misses a church steeple and swears. The others fear losing their souls to the devil and tie the drunken man up. Meanwhile, the canoe crashes into a tall pine tree and all its occupants are knocked unconscious. They eventually wake up in their beds, unhurt.
See this 1996 NFB animated film about “La Chasse-galerie” directed by Robert Doucet. (The narration is in French)
Learn more about 17th century sorcery in Quebec by reading André Pelchat's story in the December-January 2016 issue of Canada's History magazine. Subscribe now.
By Cecil Rosner
On December 5, 1965, CBC television’s This Hour has Seven Days — aired a remarkable documentary. Now, half a century later, Mills of the Gods, produced and directed by Beryl Fox, still ranks as one of the most powerful documentaries about Vietnam.
In today’s antiseptic war coverage, where journalists rarely get access to combat zones, the documentary, filmed entirely in black and white, stands out for its gritty and shocking realism. The Winnipeg-born filmmaker shows U.S. soldiers marching through jungle, knee-deep in river muck, capturing enemy combatants who look no older than twelve. There are pictures of children who are missing limbs and whose bodies show gaping wounds and horrific burns. Everything is shown with no voice-over or overbearing commentary, allowing viewers to draw their own conclusions.
The impact was immediate. Over the next few months, the documentary was shown in Britain and the United States to much critical acclaim. At a time when the anti-war movement was in its infancy, the film opened conversations around the world.
At the time, the idea that a young woman could trek off to Vietnam and bring home an unprecedented slice of reality was something many critics couldn’t quite grasp. Years later, Fox joked that she had been warned by the Pentagon that, if she ever returned to a battle zone under their control, she could get accidentally shot by friendly fire.
Here is an excerpt from the film, Mills of the Gods, produced by Beryl Fox.
Read Cecil Rosner's full story, entitled "Apocalypse Then," in the December-January 2016 issue of Canada's History magazine. Subscribe now.
The Canadian Arctic Expedition of 1913–18 was, in its time, the largest Arctic expedition ever mounted by the Canadian government. It comprised more than a hundred people, including scientists, sailors, a surgeon, a photographer, and dozens of Inuit hunters, dogsled drivers, and seamstresses.
The southern party, headed by Dr. R.M. Anderson, undertook geographic and scientific surveys of the Arctic coast, while the northern party, under Vilhjalmur Stefansson, searched for undiscovered land in the Beaufort Sea.
For more about the CAE, go to the Virtual Museum of Canada and view Northern People, Northern Knowledge: The Story of the Canadian Arctic Expedition 1913–1918, an online exhibit created by the Canadian Museum of History and Arctic historian David Gray.
And, read “Forgetten Explorers,” by Kate Jaimet in the December-January 2016 issue of Canada’s History magazine. Subscribe now.
by Philip Jensen
It was 1945 and hostilities were already winding down when Second Lieutenant Molly Lamb received her appointment to the Canadian Army Historical Section. In June she sailed for Europe, crossing paths with the troopships that were bringing soldiers home from the fighting. But Molly was happy. For a time it had seemed that the only Canadian woman to be officially appointed as a war artist during World War II might not make it overseas at all. Looking hack across the decades. Molly is today convinced that it was Group of Seven artist A.Y. Jackson who tipped the balance in her favour. “I was in the army three years before they made me a war artist,” she recalls. “I didn’t know how much those old colonels were against women war artists at the time.”
Born on February 25, 1920, on Lulu Island near Vancouver, Molly now lives on the other side of the country with her husband and fellow war artist Bruno Bobak. The couple moved to Fredericton in 1960 to work as artists-in-res-idence at the University of New Brunswick. She still visits her daughter on Vancouver Island several times each year, catching up on family news and gathering inspiration for the large beach paintings that many art lovers associate with the name Molly Lamb Bobak.
”I grew up in an environment of art, but it was unselfconscious,” she says. “I was just a little girl with an inferiority complex.” Molly wasn’t very interested in school, but loved drawing and painting, so when she turned sixteen her mother enrolled her in the Vancouver School of Art. The training was very academic, and Molly wanted to quit, but her mother insisted that it was important to finish whatever she started. Molly returned for a second year and met Jack Shadbolt.
”Taking a class from Jack hit me at just the right time. I really felt I learned a lot from him. Jack taught form and structure, hut he didn't insist you do it his way. He'd tell you how the bones and muscles worked in a foot, and you’d draw them. Jack was the biggest influence I had.”
It's typical of Molly that her conversation evokes names such as Jack Shadbolt and A.Y. Jackson. She doesn't speak as a simple admirer of these icons of Canadian art, but remembers them with great fondness as mentors and friends. Her friendship with Jackson, for instance, had deep roots. When she was a little girl in Vancouver, Jackson would visit her father, a mining engineer by profession who liked to write magazine articles on art.
Molly joined the army in 1942, caught up in the emotional climate of the times, but as far as the army was concerned, twenty-two-year-old Private Lamb didn't have any of the skills expected of a working woman of that era. “They didn't know what to do with me,” she says. “I didn't even type.”
It was natural that with her background and training, she’d aspire to be a war artist. In the meantime, she found joy in her assignment as a canteen worker, spending her off hours observing, writing, and sketching. Private Roy ,one of the portraits Molly painted during that period, has remained one of her favourites for more than half a century. “We worked together in the canteen,” she says. “I don’t know what happened to her. It's just one of those little mysteries of life.”
While waiting for the army to recognize her talents as an artist, Molly began a sketch diary entitled WI10278 (her regimental number). Describing the document many years later, fellow war artist Charles Comfort wrote, “I first saw this unique diary in its original form and was much impressed by its unorthodox format. The essence of the diary and the events, the humour and the reality it conveys bring us Molly's zest for life and her special way of looking at things.”
In February 1943, Molly was sent to NCO school at Macdonald College in Ste. Anne de Bellevue, near Montreal. After graduation, Lance Corporal Lamb was transferred to Toronto for an army drafting course. It was a far cry from what she’d been expecting, but there were compensations. Remembering that A.Y. Jackson lived in Toronto, Molly sent him a note asking il she could come lor a visit.
”It was love at first sight,” she says. “At the time be would be sixty something, and I would be twenty something. There was no romance. Everybody loved him, you know. He was a smart man. He was my best friend.”
Jackson was a better friend than she even knew. Soon after that first visit he wrote to H. O. (Harry) McCurry, director of the National Gallery. He described Molly’s sketches as “very real stuff. The army from the inside as only a girl could see it. I know of no woman artist in Canada who could do such still I under such conditions. If she had half a chance she could go places.”
Jackson introduced Molly to Charles Comfort, and her determination to join the ranks of official war artists was renewed. She hitchhiked to Ottawa to plead her case, and was rewarded with an assignment working on technical drawings of engines in the Trades Training Office. Her disappointment was compounded when she was put on charge for being AWOL, after returning late from a visit to her parents on the West Coast. Molly paid for her transgression with a loss of rank and a transfer to Hamilton, where she was put to work illustrating meat-cutting charts for the army’s cooking school.
In early 1944, Molly hitchhiked back to Ottawa with two paintings she planned to enter in the Canadian Army art show. Soon after returning to base, she received notice that her entries bad been rejected. Then came word that it was all a mistake. Molly was awarded second prize, though required to share it with another artist. First prize went to an artist already serving overseas, a young man by the name of Bruno Bobak. It was a pivotal moment in Molly’s career.
That spring her name was accepted by the committee for War Records Artists, and she was transferred to the officers' training school at Macdonald College. She graduated with the rank of second lieutenant, and in June embarked for England. Nine Canadian artists were already stationed in London when she arrived. Among them was Bruno Bobak. Molly was assigned to share a studio with Bruno, and one thing led to another. She describes their relationship and romance without embellishment. “We had a good time in London, then came back to Toronto and got married.”
But in the meantime there was a great deal of work to be done at the front. “It was a matter of documentation,” Molly says. “That was our mandate. To record what you saw. I was the one that did it for the women.”
She travelled through Holland, Belgium, France, Germany, and England, creating art that depicted the role of women in the armed forces. And she did it her way. “They gave the war artists cameras, but I didn’t take one,” she recalls. “They gave me a truck, and a driver whose name was Lucky. The truck was big in the back, and I sketched from there.
Lucky had gone though the entire war without a scratch. But teaming up with Molly nearly proved his undoing. “We had a terrible accident in Holland,” she remembers. “It was my fault. I gave Lucky some brandy, and he drank it. We went into some trees, and I was thrown out and the truck went on fire. We never got a court-martial; there was never even an investigation.”
After the war, the young couple moved to Ottawa, where Bruno started a job with the federal government. But the West was calling, and they went out to Vancouver. Bruno taught at the Vancouver School of Art, while Molly looked after their two children and painted at home. In their spare time, they built a house in Lynn Valley right next door to Ron Thom, the architect who would later build Massey College in Toronto.
One of the few surviving artists of her generation, Molly looks back on her early work and notes that her style hasn’t really changed. “My art has always been rather simple and rather direct. No secret ideas behind it.”
These days, she takes pleasure in painting large, outdoor scenes. The pieces are straightforward, often depicting a broad beach and big, wet sky, with very few people. “It's a theme I suppose I’ll continue for the rest of my life,” Molly says.
”I think I lived in a terribly interesting era in this country. It’s been very good to me. In the time that I lived, it was a growing period. It was a very good time to be alive. If there is one word to sum it up, it would be optimism.”
Philip Jensen is a Victoria writer.
This article originally appeared in the October-November 2003 issue of The Beaver.
by Ted Harris
To see more of Ted Zuber’s artwork view our slideshow “Korea: Brushes with War.”
Lance Corporal Len Badowich returned from a Korean War prison camp expecting a hero's welcome. He had no idea that his release from captivity would prove almost as harsh as the time he had spent being brutally interrogated by Chinese Communist soldiers.
Badowich could accept that the enemy called him a liar; what he couldn't understand was why his own people treated him like a criminal.
The young rifleman's ordeal began on the night of May 2-3, 1953. Badowich and his Royal Canadian Regiment platoon were defending Hill 187 along the 38th Parallel dividing North and South Korea. Chinese forces swarmed a forward trench, taking Badowich and six of his platoon mates prisoner. They marched northward to an abandoned farm, where the interrogations began.
At first, the process seemed relatively harmless. Then, the Chinese learned that the soldier from Brandon, Manitoba, had trained South Korean volunteers in the UN armies. The questioning suddenly grew intense.
”When is the South Korean army going to take over from the Canadian Army?” the interrogator barked at him in perfect English.
Badowich thought, ”How the hell would I know? I'm nineteen years old, a nobody and they're asking me political and strategic questions.”
”What rank do you hold?” the man continued.
”Lance corporal,” Badowich said, but the Chinese were unfamiliar with Canadian ranks, so it merely infuriated the interrogator.
”No. You're higher than that. You train Koreans!”
The cross-examination went on for three days, with the interrogator pushing Badowich for information and Badowich unwilling and indeed unable to provide it. For his trouble, he faced reduced rations, beatings, sensory deprivation in solitary confinement, and monotonous brainwashing sessions.
They even blamed Badowich and his comrades for a cholera epidemic spreading across North Korea and China. They wanted the Canadians to sign petitions criticizing the United Nations and the Red Cross for triggering the Korean War.
”They blamed the epidemic on [us and the UN] dropping germ bombs,” Badowich said. “But we didn't sign any of the petitions.”
If his treatment at the hands of the Communist Chinese seemed abusive, Badowich soon discovered that his homecoming would be equally so.
”When I got back,” after the truce in July 1953, Badowich recalled, “the first thing they did was have us swear allegiance to the Queen [Elizabeth II] because the King [George VI] had died.”
Despite having resisted brainwashing and pressure to sign petitions, the loyalty of the freed POWs was clearly in question. It was the time of the Communist “red scare.” There was suspicion that captive soldiers had been brainwashed into working for the Communist cause. Canadian non-commissioned officers mingled among the former prisoners, listening for any signs of Communist sympathy.
”Then, there was more interrogation by our own intelligence,” Badowich continued, “as if we'd committed a crime. ‘Why didn't you escape?’ they asked us. How the hell do you escape in Korea where everybody is Oriental and you're white? Where do you go? Nobody could have escaped. These assholes made us feel like we had committed a crime — or deserted.”
The only comfort Badowich received upon his return was a steak-and-ice-cream dinner on his first night of freedom. There was no debriefing, just a delousing. There was no decompressing, just a clean uniform, boots, and reassignment to his unit. He was given a basic physical, but no effort was made to assess the state of his mind after months of confinement and attempted brainwashing. His Canadian military masters seemed to have little interest in dealing with what has at various times been known as shell shock, combat fatigue, or battle exhaustion — a syndrome now know by the label post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD).
The military did provide former POWs with an assessment of sorts. Canadian Intelligence officers issued grades to all thirty-three Canadians who had been taken captive in North Korea. The colour-coded grades ranked them for their performance during internment in North Korea. A white grade meant undistinguished performance with satisfactory resistance. A light grey grade meant low resistance. And a black grade indicated low resistance and suspicion of collaboration with the enemy.
Eleven Canadians were graded light grey, nineteen POWs were graded white, one got black, and the last two were not graded. In other words, Canadian officials graded the majority of Canadian POWs' performance in Korea between satisfactory and undistinguished. None was considered better than average in the service of his country while in military prison.
There is no definitive evidence of Canadians in North Korean prison camps collaborating with their captors. Indeed, there is every reason to believe that the thirty-three Canadians who were imprisoned there resisted interrogation and indoctrination and that they even sabotaged Chinese brainwashing attempts to a man.
The psychological trauma suffered by Korean War vets took many forms. Some could not cope with their emotions. Some, like Ted Zuber, lost their ability to feel anything at all. Zuber, an artist, joined Canada's Special Force for Korea during the first summer of the war, volunteering for sniper training. By October 1952, he was on the frontlines with the Royal Canadian Regiment at a place called the Hook.
One night, Zuber crawled into a tunnel to catch up on some sleep. Beside him underground were a combat engineer, two South Korean labourers, a signaller friend, and about twenty new recruits. The reinforcements were preparing their weapons for the night's deployment. One of the men was told to prime a box of a dozen grenades in the tunnel. At about midnight, one of the grenades slipped from the recruit's hands. The resulting explosion decapitated one of the Korean workers and left the other Korean with severe chest wounds. The blast also broke the engineer's leg in two places, blew the signaller's foot off, and peppered shrapnel into the back of Zuber's legs and buttocks.
When Zuber and the severely wounded South Korean arrived at a regimental aid station, Zuber directed a medic to attend to the South Korean first because his wounds were clearly life-threatening. But a medical officer noticed and shouted, “Hey! Our own first!”
”Something struck me,” Zuber said. “I would appreciate that decision if I was really hurt. But I also remember being emotionally torn. So how should I feel after what [the officer] had just done to this corporal medic? And to the South Korean?”
Zuber described the South Korean's last moments, the creaking sound of the man's unconscious struggle to breathe, and his eventual stillness in death. He wanted to feel sympathy and loss, but he couldn't feel a thing.
”Emotion was a luxury we had learned to give up,” he said. “You never thought of dying because you learned how to live without that thought. Emotion was something you just didn't tolerate.”
Ted Zuber didn't fully realize this until after he'd returned to Canada. It happened when he pulled out some of the sketches he'd made in Korea. Most were field renderings of buddies resting, showering, hanging their laundry, and writing letters home. He realized there was something missing.
”Their faces were like clay,” he said. “There was nothing there.... They were emotionless. In an exaggerated way they were about as interesting as a topographical map.... The drawings were totally useless to me. I never used any of them in my paintings. I wasn't allowing myself to [feel] anything while I was there. So the one thing I injected [into paintings] later was the emotion.”
Like Badowich, Ted Zuber never received a full psychological debriefing. No official assessment was given.
This would not be the case today Canadian soldiers who have returned from tours of duty in Afghanistan or from the peacekeeping missions of the 1980s and 1990s have been debriefed and decompressed before returning to civilian life. At the time of Korean War, though, returning veterans were considered, in the words of one platoon commander, to be little more than “an administrative problem to the processing staff.”
One of those “administrative problems” was George Griffiths, who suffered far-reaching effects from his experience in Korea.
Like Len Badowich, Griffiths spent much of the last year of the war in a Chinese POW camp in North Korea. On August 23, 1953, when he was released to the UN side of the 38th Parallel, he was deloused, given a new set of clothes, and fed a big meal with Coca-Cola and beer. The food was so rich that he got sick. He flew home aboard a Canadian Pacific passenger plane.
Aside from the bits of shrapnel he still carried in his body, he had only two mementoes of his imprisonment. One was a crucifix he'd fashioned from an empty tube of toothpaste. The other was a tiny booklet made from cigarette papers that contained all the names and addresses of the POWs with whom he'd been imprisoned. He'd hidden it under his belt during his imprisonment. After his release, the Canadian government confiscated it.
Some years later, Griffiths landed government work as a prison guard. In 1982, he was on duty at Ontario's Warkworth Penitentiary when there was an attempted escape.
Suddenly, he was back in North Korea in 1952 and a prisoner again, remembering the ten months of deprivation and brainwashing, reliving his own attempt to escape.
”I had one prisoner ahead of me and another behind,” he recalled. “And I fired three times at the prisoner going by me. I wanted him dead.... I wanted him killed the same way [the Chinese] killed a Canadian soldier and walked over him in Korea.... You see, in my mind, I was surrounded again.... I was still a prisoner.”
The shots George Griffiths fired missed the prisoners. His bosses removed him from the job, but they couldn't remove the cause of his anger. Like so many other Korean War vets, he would have to cope with shell shock on his own.
This article originally appeared in the June-July 2010 issue of Canada's History. Subscribe today!
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In 1215, amidst the chaos that was medieval England, a remarkable event occurred that would have worldwide repercussions to the present day. Fed up with the greedy behavior of their king, a group of barons wrote up a charter spelling out their rights. The document stated that no one was above the law, not even the king. That document was the Magna Carta, which means “Great Charter.” It is the foundation of parliamentary democracy, and its ideas are reflected in constitutions worldwide, as well as the UN Universal Declaration of Human Rights.
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by Dave De Brou
The latest in transatlantic travel brought my grandfather from Westminster, U.K., to Canada at the beginning of the twentieth century; my own voyage began with the latest in transatlantic technology at the end of twentieth century. I suspect we shared the same wonderment and anxiety as the worlds that we knew changed forever. His world was British and fashioned by poverty and deprivation; my world was Canadian and built on some kind of notion of at least partial Gallic roots, ones that had shaped my scholarly and personal life. Then in a brief, electronic moment in the summer of 1999, both our worlds changed forever, as his future became my past.
“I have finally tracked you down.” This short email message that I received on August 9, 1999 — although I did not know it at the time — altered my view of myself and my place in this world. It continued: “I am a De Brou from England: I’d appreciate any info on any common ancestry. If you reply, then I’ll email you my family history and some details of speculation that we have made. Thanks, Austin De Brou.”
I was intrigued but viewed the message routinely. I had indulged in the Internet roots game myself but had received no responses from the few website authors that my Internet search engines had uncovered. The one exception came from a De Brou in Belgium who had responded kindly to my query hut had said that she had never heard any talk about relations in Canada so she suspected that there were no connections between our two families. That bad been in August 1996.
I doubted De Brous had English roots. I had heard my maternal grandfather describe my grandfather De Brou as “the little Frenchman.”Thus, I had always assumed my roots lay either in Quebec, France, or Belgium. Besides, my grandfather De Brou had married an Aimée Blondin, supposedly the granddaughter of the great Charles Blondin, the tightrope-walking Frenchman who had conquered Niagara Falls. Thus, family lore repeated that while my maternal side was Irish, my paternal side was French. That, along with the fact that I spent the first seven years of my life in the Montreal area, had shaped the road I would take as a university student and eventually as a scholar.
Driven, I think, by a natural interest in the past (at ages twelve and thirteen my favourite books had historical settings) and an almost guilty feeling that French was not my maternal tongue, I saw myself, perhaps unconsciously, as a kind of scholarly knight who would restore honour to the family’s French name.
At university as a history major. I gravitated toward Canadian essay topics that forced me to read in French. I also took a couple of French-language courses, no matter how difficult they were for me. After I graduated with my three-year history degree in the fall of 1972, I travelled in France for three months. In the winter of 1973–74, I lived within the old part of Quebec City, going daily to an ancient church building that housed the library of the Institut Canadien. There I read the historical work of the famous Abbe Groulx. In time, I made my way to the history department of the University of Ottawa, which welcomed my interest in Quebec history and my attempts at becoming bilingual. I look most of my graduate courses in French, but found the required extra hours invigorating. I was on a mission.
Even my personal life had a French twist. Half my friends were French: some truly bilingual, others more comfortable in French. For a short two-year interlude, I was even a French elementary teacher. Unable to slake my thirst for Quebec history, I returned to do my PhD with the well-known professeur Fernand Ouellet. At Ottawa, I met my future wife, who had “come back” to Canada where her French roots in Quebec dated to the sixteenth century. Originally from New Hampshire, my wife’s family only viewed Canada through the eyes of its Quebec aunts, uncles, and cousins. Indeed, on my first visit to my future in-laws, one of my wife’s American nieces asked me in a loud, deliberate voice so that I would understand her: “Do you speak English?” I celebrated. I had partially achieved my goal.
From this perspective, I viewed Austin De Brou’s I’ve-tracked-you-down electronic message. I replied perfunctorily on that same day in August: “Finally someone else looking for the De Brou clan. Not much info at this end. I am one of five children whose father James Francis De Brou (1928–1958) was the single offspring of my grandfather James Francis De Brou (1900?–1950s?). As you can see, not much to go on — my grandfather De Brou from the 1920s to his death lived in Toronto, Ontario, Canada, but before that I am not sure. My grandfather on my mother’s side described him as the little French man.”
Austin De Brou’s response was in the form of a family-tree document which contained lots of De Brou names that I did not recognize — a few John Louis, a Mike, an Annie, a Jane, and a Louisa. I noted a James and a Frank, but in the end told Austin two weeks later that I had “very little information re: the De Brous in Canada — a single son of a single son and both deceased since the 1950s.” Although I was intrigued by Austin’s emails, I did not really have much to offer since all of my relatives who might know something were no longer alive (my father died in 1958, my mother in 1987, and my maternal grandfather in 1994).
The most fascinating elements of Austin’s family tree were the children of Francis De Brou (horn 1863) and Jane Boland; this generation was horn in the same era as my grandfather (see chart in slideshow at the top). Furthermore, Francis was a common reoccurring name among the U.K. De Brous, the same name that found favour in three generations of the Canadian De Brous (see chart above). Both my father and grandfather shared Francis as a middle name, while my parents named my only sister Frances.
Another genealogical phenomenon that both set of families shared was the propensity to pass on family first names to the next generation. For the Canadian De Brous it was James Francis; for the U.K. De Brous it was John Louis and Francis. These observations finally convinced Austin and me that perhaps we had more in common than late-night Internet travelling.
In an email in mid-October 1999. Austin’s growing excitement was evident: “Arrgh! I’ve just read what you wrote some time ago! The second Francis here was horn in 1891. This makes him contemporary with your grandfather James Francis De Brou. Further he had a brother John Louis who after using the names of his father, Francis, his own name, and that of his sister, called his other son James. I find this a somewhat marked coincidence, and begin to wonder if maybe there isn’t the slightest whiff of a connection. This could make you — my second cousin once removed?”
My response was equally enthusiastic. That same day I reported to Austin: “I think things are heating up here. If I read your message correctly, we may share the same great-grandfather.’’ But even though it was beginning to feel right, we still needed documentation to support our speculations.
Inspired by Austin, a twenty-four-year-old with the genealogical bug, I decided to spend some money and time to see if my grandfather had any kind of official record in Canada. I did not know the exact year of his birth or death, but remembered with the help of my older brother that my grandfather had died in the 1950s in his fifties. One month later, I had in my hands my grandfather’s statement of death (see slideshow above). The document astonished me in two ways. First, it confirmed that my grandfather, “the little Frenchman” was indeed horn in England and that he had immigrated to Canada forty years earlier (1913). Second, my so-called French Quebec grandmother Aimée Blondin was also born in England; more stunning was the news that her name was Amy Holdstock. Suddenly, my grande-maman had become my Nana.
But what of my connection to Austin De Brou? My grandfather’s statement of death provided information that placed the Canadian De Brous in the U.K., but it seemed to lessen the possibility of a direct Austin-Dave link. Austin had discovered that his great-great-grandfather, Francis De Brou (b. 1863), was married to Jane Boland; the parents of my grandfather, James Francis De Brou, according to the statement of death, were Frank De Brou and Mary, with her maiden name unknown. Both Austin and I were disappointed. But like good family detectives we tried to consider all possibilities.
I pointed out in my email to Austin that the validity of this information, as reported in the death certificate, depended on the information provided by my grandfather’s wife Amy De Brou. How much she really knew about my grandfather was not clear to me, since they had been estranged for a number of years. The statement of death indicated that my two grandparents were no longer living at the same address at the time of his death. With more experience in the genealogical game, Austin endeavoured to integrate my grandfathers reported parentage of Frank and Mary.
He wrote; “Okay, I’m wondering if Frank could be Francis De Brou, b. 1863, father of my great-grandfather John Louis — b. 1887, of Francis — b. 1891 (Jnr for convenience!), and Jane —b. 1893, and Bernard —b. 1895. Now as far as I know. Francis (Senior) was married to a Jane Roland in 1887, and they were the parents of the above quartet, so we have four options: 1) No connection at all; increasingly this seems unlikely as names and dates start to correspond; 2) James Francis was a late addition and your relative [Amy Holdstock] was wrong about the name of his mother (Mary); 3) Francis Senior remarried or had a child by another woman; and 4) Frank was a relative of Francis — a cousin perhaps.”
One month later, we had our answer — my grandparents’ marriage certificate. On March 1, 1924, twenty-four-year-old James Francis De Brou — bachelor, fireman, and Roman Catholic — and twenty-seven-year-old Margaret Amy Holdstock — spinster, waitress, and Anglican — exchanged marriage vows in Toronto, Ontario (see marriage certificate, above).
Interesting stuff, particularly James Francis’s age at the time of the ceremony, listed as twenty-four in 1924, suggesting that he was born in 1899 or 1900, not 1898 as indicated in the death certificate. More remarkable was the listed “particulars of the marriage,” which included the names of the bride’s and groom’s parents: for the bride, William Holdstock and Annie Humphrey; for the groom, Francis de Brou (deceased), and Jane Rowland (deceased). Bingo! That’s what Austin and I had been waiting for. We had proof that my great-grandparents and Austin’s great-great-grandparents were the same two people: Francis De Brou and Jane Ro[w]land.
Yet, the details of the “marriage particulars,” while providing the essential transatlantic link for the two De Brou families, muddied the genealogical waters. Not only had the marriage licence taken one or two years from James Francis’s young life, but contrary to the statement of death, it pronounced the birthplace of James Francis and his father Francis to be, not England, but New Brunswick, Canada.
As a good historian, I endeavoured to explain the conflicting information. Noting that the source of marriage information was likely the groom himself, I attempted an explanation in an email to two of my brothers: “This New Brunswick birthplace is interesting. Remember that James Francis was bom in 1898, 1899, or 1900: that means he could have been conscripted in the army [British or Canadian] in the 1916–1918 period. I wondered if he changed his birth date and birthplace to avoid being conscripted. Just a thought — you know how devious the De Brous can be.” I was not convinced of this argument. Indeed, many young Canadian men who had emigrated from the United Kingdom in the decade prior to 1914 were among the first to volunteer for the Canadian Expeditionary Force, which eventually found itself in the blood-soaked trenches of France and Belgium.
Austin De Brou’s next message revealed another possibility, one whose origins may also lie with the First World War I. According to Austin, my grandfather’s brother John Louis De Brou (born in 1887) “was very ill and spent a period of time in hospitals and infirmaries after WWI.” We do not know yet whether the precariousness of my great-uncle John Louis’s physical and mental state was rooted in military service, but the events that took place one night in 1921 were tragic. That evening he came home and his alcoholic wife threatened him.
Austin continued the grim story: “Apparently he lashed out with a razor, which was laying nearby, and then ran out into the street to the police station in a dazed state to beg the police to help.” The police rushed to the house and found my great-aunt Annie dead in the bedroom: asleep in the same room were their five children, the youngest covered in the blood of their mother. My great-uncle “was tried at the Old Bailey [Central Criminal Court which included the London area] and sentenced to death, although the jury said that because of his long history of illness, his weakened state, and the fact of his wife’s alcoholism, he should not he executed. The judge who forwarded his appeal to the Home Secretary said that he had had no choice but to pass the death sentence but that the Secretary should note the jury’s plea for mercy.”
Eventually the home secretary commuted his sentence to life imprisonment; my great-uncle died of heart disease in 1926. Perhaps this tragedy in 1921 was the explanation for my grandfather’s statement at the time of his marriage that both he and his father were natives of New Brunswick. I speculated that reports of the De Brou murder had reached Canada and my grandfather’s reaction was to disown his family in the United Kingdom. Perhaps he responded to the painful questions with, “Oh, no. I have no relatives in London. My father and I are French, and we were born in New Brunswick.”
To confirm my suspicions, I searched the Toronto papers of that era for any news from London of the murderous calamity. I did not find any reports, leaving my suggestion as speculative. In fact, a copy of my father’s statement of birth that I received in February 2000 again claimed Canadian origins for my grandfather. To the reporting nurse, my grandfather described himself as French and born in New Brunswick.
For the rest of the year, Austin and I were left pondering the transatlantic break between our families. Austin provided additional information about the difficult circumstances in which the United Kingdom De Brous found themselves during the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.
My great-uncle John Louis and great-aunt Annie Louisa, who was murdered in 1921, both worked as newspaper vendors in Piccadilly Circus in central London. The 1881 British census shows that my great-grandfather Francis lived in Westminster, London, with his widowed mother, Ellen and his fourteen-year-old sister Mary Ann. Austin uncovered that, at the time of his marriage to Jane Roland in 1887, Francis was a flower seller, and perhaps a tailor when he died sometime before 1912.
Our impression that the De Brous lived in a world of poverty was confirmed by Austin in March 2000. He reported that “Francis DeBrou (spelt Debrue by the registrar) was born in 1863 on the 5th October. His birth was registered on the 27th October by Ellen Debate nee Coffee [Coffey or Colly]. Her address is given as Workhouse, York Street, Westminster (London, but officially the county of Middlesex). ... Francis your Great Grandfather was born in the workhouse.”
Apparently, Francis’s mother Ellen was as destitute as her husband, another John Louis De Brou, who was a commercial traveller not residing with his family at the time. From workhouse to selling flowers and newspapers in Piccadilly Circus, the De Brous of Westminster, it seems, were part of London’s urban poor. Into this world, my grandfather, James Francis De Brou, was born on September 1, 1900. How my Westminster grandfather came to be in Canada remained a mystery until November 19, 2000.
That day I was showing my fourth-year history honours class the online databases available at the National Archives of Canada (see the online research tool ArchiviaNet [ed. note: it is now called Collections Canada hosted by Library and Archives Canada]). To demonstrate the utility of the different primary sources, I asked the students to provide their family names for a search. No one had relatives who had volunteered for the Canadian Expeditionary Forces during World War I; no one had an ancestor who had immigrated to Canada between 1925 and 1935; and no one had a forebear who appeared in the 1871 federal census for Ontario.
Perhaps bitterness or shame caused my grandfather to hide his London birthplace all his life; only his death revealed a British past.
I then moved on to the next database — Home Children, the names of poor urban children sponsored by various British philanthropic groups and shipped from the United Kingdom to enjoy the relative healthy environment of Canada’s farming communities. Since none of the students had family members that fell into that category, I typed in the name De Brou. I did a double take as the name of James Debrou appeared on the screen. Here was the answer for which we were searching: in 1912 a Roman Catholic organization deemed my grandfather an appropriate candidate for emigration to Canada.
Whether he was an orphan, the son of “unsuitable” parents, a street urchin, or a young delinquent is not yet clear. But the ship’s manifest reveals that on April 20, 1912, eleven-year-old James Debrou boarded the SS Tunisian, along with fifty other young Catholic boys under the care of Reverend Thomas Newsome (see passenger list in slideshow above). Eight days later, my grandfather and the other 1,488 passengers landed at Halifax, Nova Scotia. The boys were scheduled to board an Ottawa-bound Canadian Pacific Railway train. From that point on, until his marriage in Toronto in 1924, my grandfather’s whereabouts remain a mystery.
Perhaps the documentary references to New Brunswick are a clue to his eventual destination. Or did he travel with the rest of his Catholic companions to Ottawa? Was he going to St. George’s Home to be farmed out to a local family in the Ottawa Valley? Was he one of the fortunate children whose Canadian “family” treated him fairly? Or was he one of the many who faced hardship and sorrow, scorned by Canadian hosts as London gutter children?
Conceivably, herein lies the answer to the riddle of my grandfather’s origins. He reported his birthplace as New Brunswick, let my maternal grandfather think he was “a little Frenchman,” and did not tell my father that he was a home child from London because of the painful memories caused by the separation from his family in England and the cold reception he had received in Canada. Perhaps bitterness or shame caused him to hide his London birthplace all his life; only his death revealed his British past.
My older brother, when he found out that our French roots were minuscule, was amused. He pointed out to me with pleasure that “the big specialist in Quebec history had little French in him.” My feelings are more circumspect.
Yes, the recent revelations had diminished my “Frenchness,” but the stories of my “French” grandparents had had a direct impact on my life. Certainly my interest in Quebec history, which derived in part from this false family heritage, eventually led me to the University of Ottawa and my future Franco-American wife, and had also taken me to the University of Saskatchewan where I was hired as a Quebec specialist.
The transatlantic voyage aboard the SS Tunisian that my grandfather, James Francis De Brou from Westminster, U.K., had embarked on in 1912 eventually led me to Saskatoon, Saskatchewan. My trip back to Westminster began that momentous day in August 1999 when my cousin Austin used the latest in technological communications to “finally track me down.” in that one electronic micro-moment, my life in late-twentieth-century Canada spanned time and distance to reconnect with my grandfather’s world in early-twentieth-century Britain.
Dave De Brou teaches Canadian history at the University of Saskatchewan. He is looking forward to meeting his cousin Austin, who moved to Michigan, U.S.A., in November 2001. Recently, thanks to email, he came in contact with another cousin, Anne, of New Zealand, the granddaughter of John Louis (1887–1926) and Annie (d. 1921) De Brou.
This article originally appeared in the April-May 2002 issue of the Beaver. Sadly, Dave De Brou passed away in 2004.
The Little Immigrants
One day in 1909, a British children’s home took six children from a woman in London whose husband had deserted her. The children were separated. Five years later, fifteen-year-old Joseph Lorente was sent to Canada.
Sitting in the railway station in Hull, Quebec, one day in 1937, Arthur Lorente heard a passerby say, “You’d better take it up with Joe Lorente.” Arthur leapt up and asked, in his Cockney accent, what this Joe Lorente looked like. Could it be his brother? The man thought it unlikely. “Joe doesn’t talk funny like you.”
But when Joe Lorente opened his door and saw the sailor holding a duffel bag, he knew immediately Arthur was his brother. Standing behind Joe was his son Dave, who would found an organization called Home Children Canada several decades later.
Between 1868 and 1925, philanthropic children’s homes sent about 100,000 children from Britain to Canada. They stayed in institutions in Manitoba, Ontario, Quebec, and the Maritimes before being sent to work as farm labourers and servants. Some were as young as two. Only about a third were orphans; some had parents who could not afford them. Often, the philanthropists who ran the homes took children from parents they considered unsuitable or shipped children to Canada without their parents’ knowledge or consent.
For the British government, child emigration was a way to get rid of urban poor. For the Canadian government. it was a source of cheap labour and British immigrants. For the evangelists who ran many of the homes (such as Thomas J. Barnardo), it was a way to save the children from their parents and the temptations of the city. “They did believe that hard work and open spaces would make for good citizens,” says Dave Lorente.
Joe Lorente experienced both sides of what home children found when they came to Canada. At his first assignment at a home outside Ottawa, he was threatened with a pitch-fork and ran away. Members of his second foster family were much kinder, and he remained friends with them for years.
Some home children were adopted, especially the youngest ones, but most were servants who were paid low wages. If the child was younger than ten, the home would usually send money for the child’s keep, although the child would still be expected to work. As the child got older and was able to work more, the family would begin to pay meagre wages, although these were usually held back until the child left as an adult. For example, a boy from Barnardo’s home might receive a fee of somewhere between $100 and $200 when his indenture with a family was over.
Many of the boys were abused, and many of the girls were sent away after becoming pregnant by men on the farms where they worked. “Most of [the children], including my father, never even spoke to their own children about it,” Dave Lorente says.
Many home children, growing up in an age when most people considered poverty and crime hereditary flaws, fell rejected by their parents and their country. “They were looked upon as almost subhuman,” says John Sayers of the British Isles Family History Society of Greater Ottawa.
For seven years, Sayers has been compiling a database containing the names, ages, ships, and dates of home children. The Home Children Records can be accessed through the Library and Archives Canada website, which is where Dave Debrou found it.
The database is far from complete and far from perfect — the people who wrote the ship’s lists often took liberties with penmanship, spellings, and dates. Many of the children were malnourished and looked younger than they were, so the immigration agents guessed their ages incorrectly. Privacy laws can also make it difficult for researchers such as Sayers to unearth records and correspondence. The agencies themselves saved few records and are not always willing or able to share them. But with the help of cross-references from immigration records and census data, Sayers continues to update the database.
Surviving home children are learning about their past, having reunions, and shaking the stigma. They and their descendants (which some sources estimate at more than three million people) are researching their family histories through traditional methods and a myriad of Internet resources. Dave Lorente answers about three thousand letters from descendants each year.
“It’s part of who you are, and whether it’s good or bad, it’s important to know it,” Lorente says.
— Kate Heartfield
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by Paul Jones
Enjoy a treasure trove of past articles from our columnist Paul Jones.
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Family frauds Researchers should beware of perpetuating falsehoods from the past.
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Your place or mine? When tracking down ancestors, it’s all about location.
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Budget genealogy How to find freebies when researching your family history.
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Say it ain't faux The gullible and the greedy have a long history of falling for inheritance hoaxes.
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Name games When looking up ancestors, online research sites are very useful — but they rarely work miracles.
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Baptizing the dead Why some groups are uneasy about the Mormon obsession with family history.
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On a mission Why Mormons are so eager to map the world’s family tree.
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Finding family How do you go about finding “lost cousins”?
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A little research goes a long way to avoiding disasters Many resources are available for keeping your heirlooms safely stored.
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Dangers lurk in photo albums Attempts to conserve your family keepsakes may actually hasten their demise.
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Can you relate? From kings to cavemen, new DNA discoveries suggest we're all part of one big genealogical family.
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Meet your marker (Part 2) The challenges and advances of DNA testing and how it can provide family historians with greater insight.
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Meet your marker (Part 1) Family history enthusiasts welcome new advances in DNA testing.
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Genealogy can be child's play Hip tips for making family history cool for kids.
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Understanding family photos A picture may be worth a thousand words, but what is it saying?
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Combing for cousins Tracking down lost cousins can be a challenge. But it's usually worth the effort.
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Guess the performer Can you guess the stage names of these Canadian performers?
by Maureen Simpkins
No pen and ink recorded the precontact history of Canada’s First Nations. The word was spoken. Stories were told and retold, passed from generation to generation. More than a lively art, storytelling was the vital chronicling of a people, but when Europeans brought new ways to communicate and new versions of history, oral traditions began slowly to wither. But some natives such as Ontario’s Louis Bird have dedicated themselves to preserving the stories of the Elders and maintaining the oral tradition. The best stories turn on eloquence, imagination, and drama, and, in the case of this sly inversion of the first contact between First Nations and Europeans, not a little humour.
Huddled close to the fire, he would listen to his uncle tell stories, all the while counting the number of times his uncle’s spit would sizzle into the flames as he got more animated. Later, Louis Bird and his cousins would laugh as they imitated their uncle. Now, six decades later, it is Louis who tells stories, choosing his words carefully and confidently, a man who clearly loves to play with language. Mushkego Cree is Louis’s mother tongue, so the words he would like to use don’t always translate very well into English. He thinks for a moment, then experiments with a word or two before settling on just the right one.
I’ve known Louis Bird for ten years. His stories sweep me into his world along the rugged muskeg coastline of western Hudson Bay and James Bay, taking me to a time before the arrival of guns and Europeans, when physical survival was intricately linked to knowledge of animals, plants, weather, and the land. Other stories describe skirmishes with other aboriginal peoples or with the European newcomers. They are not cute or fanciful stories. They often reflect the harshness of the environment and ancient rules of survival. They tell of murder, jealousy, and suffering, but also of kindness and the determination to survive. Louis’s stories can go on for hours or days and may involve many characters who impart something about being a good hunter or a good parent or about respecting the environment.
There was a man in those days before the European came. The Elders used to give up their life for the safety of their young generation. And this one old man asked to be left behind so the young people would not starve or would not be in need because he was getting old. He instructed his descendants to make a nice tepee and to leave him there to die, so they could exist.
Louis Bird was born in 1934 in the wilderness between Fort Severn and Winisk in northern Ontario. During the 1930s, his parents and grandparents lived in a cabin and trapped fox.
Louis was about four years old the first time he saw a non-native person or, as he would say, “a strange-looking person.” That person was the priest who lived in the only building in Winisk.
Like many of his generation, he was sent to residential school at age five. He travelled by river canoe to Hudson Bay, where the schooner Repulse took him to James Bay and the community of Fort Albany. He was a year away from home the first time. Later, he would spend two years without seeing his parents. At age eleven, after several years of residential school, he returned to his parents feeling he had “lost the joy” of their bush life. He looked down on his parents. They didn’t have any sense of time.
And this person in particular survived the winter by a miracle and in the springtime when the geese and other summer birds came, he happened to get out from where he was left to die and went to crawl close to a creek.
His parents ate when they were hungry and washed when necessary. To him they were now “uncivilized.” He felt detached from them and their way of life, and it took him a good year before he would settle into the bush life again. But when he did, it would be the stories of the Mushkego Cree that would sustain him. “It’s like living in a story,” Louis says.
The stories stay with you.
And he happened to stop right under the poplar tree, close to the creek. At the same time there was another man who was t rapping, looking for the otters in the spring because they use otters for their shoes and moccasins. And the trapper came upon this little creek and he heard someone humming ... singing. A man. Then he went and looked and saw where the voice was coming from. He came upon the poplar trees, just barely breaking buds for the leaves. And there, under the trees, sat the old man, blind. And he was humming a song. The trapper didn’t understand. He didn’t know the name of the song, but he walked up to the person and said, hello. And the old man said, “Ah... there grandson. I am glad that you came. I was hoping that someone would pass by this creek so that they could find me, and I can be with people again.”
Louis Bird began collecting stories around 1965 when he realized that the Elders who knew the Cree stories were dying. Since then he has collected hundreds of hours of taped stories, making it his mission to retell, document, and keep alive the stories of his people. He has traveled from village to village, from Winisk to Attiwapiskat and Kashechewan and down to Fort Albany, Moosenee, and Moose Factory’ to listen. Some stories stop at one village or area and continue on in the next. There are different versions of stories and Louis is curious about what makes them different, even if the themes remain the same. Since most Elders don’t like to be tape recorded, Louis simply listens, then records in his own voice what he just heard.
So the man says, “Yes, I can take you. I will take care of you.” And he asks, “How are you? How did you come to be here by yourself?”
Louis has seven daughters, and when they wanted to hear the stories in English, he began to translate, retelling them in the “to-be-continued” segments the way his uncle had taught him. His uncle had also tried to leach him that stories should be told for a reason, usually to teach a lesson. At the time, Louis didn’t realize that, but he did learn that there were different levels of delivery depending whether you were telling the story to a child, a teenager, an adult, or an Elder. Today, he constantly adjusts the stories in his head to edit the harshness or the elements that he doesn’t think the listener is ready for.
In 1985 there was a disastrous flood in Winisk. Two people were killed and many people lost their homes and possessions. While Louis was lucky to be away in Sioux Lookout, he lost a substantial portion of his tape collection. The village was moved further up river and renamed Peawanuk. Undaunted in his mission to collect and document Cree stories, Louis continued on.
Louis recounts a time when the Church did not like the Mushkego Cree to speak of the spiritual part of their history. The stories, he says, “went underground, so to speak, and were told in the bush.” He feels it is important to make stories a legitimate part of native culture and history and use them as they were originally intended - as an educational resource.
The man says, “I was left to die and instructed my descendants to leave me here to die, but unfortunately my time has not come. I have been sitting here amongst these white men and they couldn’t do a damn thing about me. ” He chuckled. And that was the first time that the guy who found the old man heard about the white man. The old man says, “Those white men who stand amongst me — they couldn’t do anything to me.” He chuckled again. And it so happened that he was a prophet, the old man.
Those of us who don’t live in northern Ontario are fortunate that Louis attends storytelling festivals nationally as well as internationally. Currently an Elder-in-residence at the University of Manitoba, he is recruiting graduate students to help him transcribe tapes to make them more accessible to native-studies students.
Maureen Simpkins completed her PhD in education at the University of Toronto specializing in aboriginal oral tradition and the law. She is currently an associate professor at University College of the North.
This article was originally published in the April-May 2000 issue of the Beaver. Since then Louis Bird’s recordings have been collected and placed online at OurVoices.ca. Stories are available in English and Cree.
by Trevor Sam
In early July 1944, my grandmother learned from the Canadian government that her son Kam Len Douglas Sam, my father, had been shot down over northern France on a bombing mission and presumed dead.
He was a third-generation Chinese Canadian, born in Victoria in 1918, and a pilot officer with the Royal Canadian Air Force. Church services eulogized him and Victoria newspapers paid editorial tribute to a hometown boy from Chinatown who made the supreme sacrifice. My greatgrandmother, though a devout Anglican, went to the Chinese temple in Victoria and lit incense. The joss sticks told her that her grandson was not dead.
The joss sticks were correct. Sam had parachuted safely. He landed only 180 metres from a Luftwaffe base but was able to contact the French underground.
His family would not learn he was alive for many months. The French underground and MI9, the section of British Military Intelligence charged with aiding resistance fighters in Nazi-controlled Europe, maintained the ruse that my father had died in his Halifax bomber.
He had been rejected from the RCAF in 1941 for not being Caucasian. He got in a year later when the government removed the racial clause in entry rules, and his Chinese ancestry proved to be an asset. He was to stay in France to coordinate the escapes of other Allied airmen. Resistance members provided him with clothing and forged papers to identify him as an Asian student trapped in France by the German occupation.
Through the summer and early fall of 1944 he aided the resistance in northern France, bluffing his way out of two Gestapo round-ups with the high-school French he had learned in Victoria. He witnessed the ambush of German supply convoys, the elimination of Gestapo agents and French collaborators and the systematic roundup and shipment to death camps of French Jews and Gypsies.
In September 1944, the commander of an American tank entering Rheims in advance of the U.S. Third Army was surprised to receive maps of street plans and deployment of German forces in the city from the Chinese Canadian in charge of the resistance force.
My father had flown in 28 terrifying raids over Fortress Europe in 1943 and 1944, including a mission over Nuremberg that saw 94 Allied bombers go down and one over Berlin that lost 73. A street barricade in Rheims, however, was to be his last fight of the Second World War. He later said that it was the first battle that totally frightened him, because it was the first he had fought on the ground. Using air-dropped weapons, he and his underground forces engaged German troops in a vicious fire-fight, successfully fending off three ferocious attacks until U.S. troops entered the city and forced the enemy to capitulate.
Days later, my father was in London. He sent a telegram to my grandmother telling her he was alive and well. She cried happily. My great-grandmother was unsurprised; the joss sticks had told her he was safe.
The war in the air and the war on the ground of World War Two were not my father’s last. While the Korean War occupied the minds of most Canadians in the early 1950s, he was seconded to the Royal Air Force to serve as a counter-insurgency specialist in the Malay States. The British were fighting a jungle war with Chinese, Malaysian and Indian communists.
My father interrogated more than 300 prisoners, making good use of his fluent Cantonese and Mandarin. He served under Sir Maurice Oldfield, the late British master spy said to have been the model for novelist John le Carre’s fictional character George Smiley.
In 1967, after 25 years of continuous service, including stints in London and Washington, my father retired from the RCAF with the rank of squadron leader, the most decorated Chinese Canadian ever. Included among his honours was the Croix de Guerre, silver star, awarded by the French government.
Retirement from active military duty did not end his public service. Joining the Department of Employment and Immigration in 1967 as an intelligence analyst, he rose to become the department’s chief of immigration intelligence for the British Columbia-Yukon region at a time when Asian youth gangs were a growing presence. Once, my father and some local detectives were in a Vancouver restaurant, observing the noisy antics of some Chinese gang members. He went over and had a quiet little chat with them. The gang members looked around at the detectives, mouths agape, then stood up and immediately left.
When my father rejoined his party, he was asked, “How did you manage to get them to do that?” Sam laughingly said, “I just told them who I was and that if they did not quiet down, I was going to hold an immigration meeting right then and there, and they would all be gone first thing in the morning.”
Kam Len Douglas Sam, the eldest of nine children born to Mr. and Mrs. Sam Wing Wo, who immigrated to Victoria from Yin Ping in the vicinity of Canton, China, retired from his final war in 1983. He died in 1989 at age 71.
When he was a teenager at Victoria High School, someone inscribed in his yearbook, “Doug has aspirations to become the Chinese Lindbergh.” I think that from the time he was old enough to see the blue sky, he wanted to grasp it; he wanted to fly. And so he did.
Trevor Sam is an associate member of the 426 Squadron Association and the 801 Vancouver Wing Air Force Association of Canada. He is also a military historian and collector.
Do you have a story? Your Story is written by readers about their firsthand experiences with an historic event or personage. Like our feature articles, Your Story should enlighten readers on little-known stories that present interesting characters, challenges, or conflicts of Canadian history from a new perspective. Personal memoirs of a general nature are discouraged; the article must focus on an historic event or personality. You may query us with a letter or writing sample, or if you prefer, a finished manuscript that does not exceed 600 words. An image or image reference is also desirable. Queries will be evaluated on originality, writing style, and fit with other articles in the magazine. We cannot, however, reply to all unsolicited submissions.
by Louisa Blair
One fine day in late winter, 1826, a young doctor and his wife arrived in Quebec City in a horse-drawn sleigh, galloped around the city a few times, liked the look of it, and decided to stay for the rest of their lives.
Dr. James Douglas was fleeing from the United States. His crime? Vandalizing fresh graves, digging up the corpses, and taking them home to dissect them. He was twenty-six years old.
At the time of his crime, Douglas was teaching surgery and anatomy at Auburn Medical College, in New York. To pass their surgical exams, his students had to do dissections, but, in a Catch-22, the law made it impossible to obtain enough corpses. It was the second time Douglas had been caught. The first time he'd dug up the body of a black slave owned by a judge, who let him off with a warning. This time Douglas made a dreadful mistake: thinking he was digging up a poor beggar, he instead robbed the grave of an eminent citizen. When someone recognized the dead man left carelessly in his office, Douglas and his wife didn't linger. They fled by sleigh that very night for Canada.
Soon after he arrived in Quebec. Douglas established a reputation as one of the most skilled physicians in Lower Canada. A pioneer of nineteenth-century medicine, he was an innovator in public health, vaccination, and medical education and regulation. But it was in the care for the mentally ill that he made his reputation. He opened Lower Canada's first asylum, and under his watch, for a brief period of time in the mid-nineteenth century, the treatment of the mentally ill was perhaps as humane, creative, dignified, personal, and healthy as it's ever been before or since.
When Douglas left Quebec forty years later, in an act of historical symmetry, he took two corpses with him: this time they were mummies, pilfered from Egyptian graves during his holidays abroad.
James Douglas grew up in Scotland, the son of a Methodist minister, and began bis medical studies at age thirteen. By eighteen he had signed on as surgeon on a Norwegian whaler, and spent the year patching up fishermen ripped apart in pursuit of whales in Hudson Bay. He returned to finish his studies, and took off for India. A year later he found himself in Honduras among the Mosquito Indians, helping to found a disastrous new colony. The malaria, the fevers, the hostility of the natives, and the starvation were too much even for Douglas, and he fell dangerously ill. Half-conscious, he was thrust on a schooner bound for Boston. On his recovery, planning to return to Scotland via Montreal, he was forced by a landslide to stop in Utica, New York. There, word got around that he was a surgeon. One day he was asked by a farmer to look at a vicious-looking pitchfork wound. Douglas fixed him up. In gratitude the farmer gave him fifty dollars and a horse. Douglas needed no more encouragement: he stayed, married, and began a teaching practice.
Soon after arriving in Quebec he started a little school of surgery, and anatomy in the basement of his house. Four years later his wife died; he remarried shortly afterwards. No one has recorded what either wife thought of the corpses being dissected in the basement, but when his friend Joseph Painchaud offered him dissecting quarters in his house, on condition that he and his son could attend the lessons, Douglas agreed. Another young student of Douglas's, Edward Dagge Worthington, described having to prepare dissections for the following day's lecture in this “dismal and foul-smelling” basement room, around which “men's, women’s and children's heads galore were ranged on shelves.” His only company was “several partially-dissected subjects and numerous rats which kept up a lively racket coursing over and below the floor and within the walls.”
Within a year of arriving in Quebec, Douglas had become one of its most notable medical educators. When Asiatic cholera reached Europe, he predicted that it would soon cross the Atlantic. Based on his experience in Honduras, he advised his medical colleagues to prepare for the worst. When the infectious disease finally arrived in Quebec in 1832, it killed one-eighth of the population, many within hours of contracting it. During this period, Quebec was receiving hundreds of shiploads of immigrants, many from countries where cholera was rife. Many people died at sea. The rest were received at the new quarantine station at Grosse-Ile, but the numbers grew so overwhelming, ships sailed on to Quebec City unchecked. To care for the sick, tents were erected on the Plains of Abraham. Douglas and the handful of qualified doctors in town did their best, but didn't know how to stop the disease. It felt like wartime. The noise of cannons roared through the city, as cannon fire was thought to clean the air, and the smell of burning tar assaulted the nostrils, as people hoped that by spreading tar in the streets and setting light to it they could burn up the disease. Meanwhile, the rich, including Douglas, sent their families to the country, and often ended up spreading the disease further afield.
Douglas worked so hard during this and two subsequent epidemics that his health never fully recovered. Twice a week, however, he would leave this nightmare of desolation and go trout fishing in the Montmorency River, without which, he claimed, he would never have survived. The only good night’s sleep he ever had was on a pile of cedar boughs during a moosehunting expedition. The fruit of one of these expeditions, a gigantic stuffed moose, stood at the loot of the staircase of Douglas's house, and proved a star attraction for many of Quebec's most famous visitors, including Charles Dickens.
By now his reputation was thoroughly established, and in 1837 Douglas, along with two colleagues, established Quebec's College of Physicians and Surgeons, the first successful attempt to regulate the profession in the country. That same year he was appointed director of the new Marine and Emigrant Hospital, built to handle the sailors and immigrants from the 1,200 ships that arrived in Quebec every year.
There was plenty of opportunity for surgical practice at the new hospital, as sailors were still hoisting and stowing cargo by hand, and frequently had terrible accidents. Under his leadership the Marine and Emigrant Hospital became the best school for surgery in the continent, and students fought to study under Douglas.
This was before the era of anesthesia, when the best surgeon was the one with the swiftest hand, the sharpest knife, and the coolest nerve. One minute was considered ample time for an amputation, and the surgeon’s skill was judged largely by his speed and the amount of blood on his frock coat. Douglas, said Worthington, “was the most brilliant operator I ever saw.”
Douglas was not only one of Canada’s finest surgeons, he was also one of its first psychiatrists, although the word hadn't yet been invented (alienist was the prevalent term). In the nineteenth century, there was a gathering international movement to extract the mentally ill from the prisons and hospitals in which they were languishing and put them in special asylums where they could both work and enjoy a certain freedom. In Quebec at the time, some two hundred deranged people—most considered a danger to themselves or others—were being kept in prison basements or isolated lodges in general hospitals. Some of them were chained to the floor for years.
William Hackett, the government's medical officer at Quebec’s General Hospital, had been urging reform as early as 1816. Aware of progress made in England and France, he urged “the absolute necessity of air and exercise, with a certain scope of space, gardens etc. adapted to recreation and work, surrounded by walls high enough that they cannot be scaled.” Eight years later, the Richardson Commission in Quebec reported the atrocious conditions of the insane and likewise urged reform along the lines of asylums opened in England and Scotland. By the 1840s, in the United States, social reformer Dorothea Dix was crusading against the appalling conditions under which the insane were kept and successfully lobbying governments for improvements in institutional care. In 1843, she visited Governor General Charles T. Metcalfe. Two years later Metcalfe’s government decided to open an asylum in Quebec City based on the new international reforms, Douglas was asked to run it.
James Douglas specialized in clubfeet and squints. He had no experience in mental health, and freely admitted to never having seen the prison or hospital outbuildings where the insane were locked up. However, before coming to Quebec, he had taught at the medical school in Auburn, New York, the town’s prison providing him with a ready supply of corpses for dissection. There, radical prison reform had been taking place, which may have had an impact on Douglas’s thinking: Rather than shut prisoners up in perpetuity, which was expensive and led to insanity, prisoners were being allowed recreation and work, which let them earn their keep and stay healthy.
Douglas accepted Metcalfe's commission, and in turned asked Joseph Morrin and Charles-Jacques Frémont, who had no more experience than he did, to join him. He threw himself into the project with his customary stamina. He leased an eighty-hectare property that, handily, lay just next to the summer house where he went fly-fishing, and opened the Beauport Asylum. And for the next twenty years, wrote his son James Douglas Jr., “my father was devoted heart and soul to this branch of medical science.”
Rather than blaming demonic possession and parental neglect, Douglas and his colleagues attributed insanity to alcoholism, city life, sin, and heredity—in modern terms, a combination of environment and genetics, with some elements of personal morality. For the first time, the notion surfaced that the insane were ill, and therefore curable.
”How many of the 2,802 lunatics, at present within the borders of Canada,” wrote an author in the Medical Chronicle in 1855, “if properly treated, would be rejoicing in the possession of an unclouded reason, who are now furious maniacs, stolid melancholies, or drivelling idiots?”
Historians of mental health care Quebec have argued for decades about the motives of the pioneers of the province’s asylum movement. Was it to warehouse the sudden surplus of destitute Irish immigrants? Was it part of the Medicalization of Everything movement? Were the British reexerting social control after the failure of the Patriote Rebellion? Was it the capitalists exploiting the destitute poor as a means of production? Was it institutional crisis-management to deal with the fallout from increasing urbanization? Or was it simply that people began to notice that the insane were people too? Twenty years after it opened, the hospital was already overcrowded, with 550 people living in cramped and badly ventilated quarters. In 1884, Daniel Hack Tuke, author of Insane in Canada, reported that it was a disgrace. But between 1845 and 1860, when James Douglas was director, the treatment of the mentally ill in the Beauport Asylum was a model for its time.
When the first eighty-two patients arrived in 1845, hopes were high for immediate improvement in their mental and physical condition, though they were in such bad health, Frémont wrote, that “indeed, the question was not whether they would recover their reason, but how long they would live.”
The doctors' first report to the legislature described the arrival at their new country home of the first patients, some of whom had been confined for as long as twenty-eight years:
Most of them had never been allowed to leave the separate small cells in which they had been confined; and, excepting on an occasional visit from the Grand Jury, they had rarely seen any person but those who ministered to their argent wants. Of these patients almost all were filthy in their habits; many were considered destructive; and the remainder had become imbecile or idiotic.
They were removed in open carriages and cabs. They offered no resistance; on the contrary, they were delighted with the ride; and the view of the city and the river, trees and passers-by, appeared to excite in them the most pleasurable sensations. They were placed together at table to breakfast, and it was most interesting to witness the propriety of their conduct, to watch their actions, to listen to their conversation with each other, and to remark the amazement with which they regarded every thing around them. All traces of ferocity, turbulence and noise had suddenly vanished; they found themselves again in the world, and treated like rational beings; and they endeavoured to behave as such. One, a man of education and talent, whose mind was in fragments, but whose recollection of a confinement of twenty-eight years was most vivid, wandered from window to window. He saw Quebec and knew it to be a city he knew ships and boats on the river and bay but could not comprehend steamers.
More patients arrived. Some came by boat from the prison in Montreal. The seven who came from the Hôpital Général in Trois-Rivières arrived in chains and bit anyone who approached them, but once freed became peaceful and docile.
This propitious start reaffirmed Douglas in his belief that rather than restraint patients needed work, fresh air, good food, religion, and amusement. In this, he was partly informed by his faith, Methodism, which advocated the dignity of work, temperance, and a healthy and disciplined life. He disapproved of medication, a direct inheritance from Methodist founder John Wesley, who wrote against the poor “wasting their fortunes” on expensive and dangerous medicines and ignorant and dishonest physicians. Early treatment, which consisted largely of redirecting the thoughts of the insane “from their diseased channels” through work and leisure, could, he believed, prevent the mentally ill from falling into imbecility.
As a good Methodist, Douglas disapproved of dancing, except when it came to his asylum. Every Thursday there was a ball, which he and all staff attended. He provided theatre, magic lantern shows, and picnics, for which several cast-iron cooking ranges would be hauled out into the countryside and set up under a large tree. When they weren’t picnicking or dancing, patients worked at broommaking, farming, carpentry and weaving. Some got so well that they went home.
Douglas believed heredity to be one cause of mental illness, particularly in rural areas where city pressures were few. Among the burgeoning urban populations, however, causes could be found in alcohol, homelessness, poverty, religious dissidence, and the “secret vice” (masturbation), which “weakens the spirit.” Douglas attacked these causes with his usual verve. He publicly deplored the condition of the homeless. He closed down a bar near the asylum. He gave a conference on alcohol and madness, warned against unions between close relatives, and called for a tempering of religious ecstasy and for moral education to allay the “secret vice.”
Above all, Douglas believed in an “unvarying system of conciliation and kindness.” Moreover, anyone who treated the patients with “violence, abusive language, or threats” was to be dismissed immediately. Throughout his life, Douglas showed this tendency to be harsh and unyielding with the strong-minded, but infinitely gentle with the weak. He may have simply expected more of colleagues and people of privilege than he did of the mad. Or he may have held a Christian conviction that the mad, as the poorest of the poor, were God's most cherished creatures. What is certain is that the people at the Beauport Asylum worked a kind of magic on him. They allowed the tenderness in him to emerge through his fierce moral persona and the rigid personal routines he imposed on himself and others. His son wrote, “While overbearing, there lay in his nature a depth of tenderness which never came to the surface more attractively than in the presence of pain.”
However, the hope and idealism of the early days of the Beauport Asylum slowly shattered. The patients may have been living a happier life, but Douglas's preventive, public-health approach was not curing them. The taxonomy of mental illness was enthusiastic but primitive, and only resulted in patients being divided into the curable and the incurable. Much noise was made about those patients who were able to go home, but by the time the asylum submitted its first report, in 1848, three-quarters of the inmates were described as incurable.
By 1850, with Douglas neglecting his other duties in favour of the asylum, the Marine and Emigrant Hospital was steeped in scandal. The superintendent was found to be stealing food from patients to feed pigs that he kept out back. Two doctors were accused of having sex with the head nurse in the Protestant chapel. A third doctor was accused of running a brothel. An 1851 Royal Commission found the wards dark and stuffy, the kitchen floors awash in mud and water, and judged that while James Douglas was an excellent surgeon, he was also, at least with those sound of mind, a tyrannical bully.
Douglas resigned from the Marine Hospital (which later became an asylum for young girls) to concentrate on his patients at Beauport and on his many nonmedical pursuits, including the study of Italian. Even his leisure, however, was not pursued in a leisurely fashion: the teacher was to be in his study by 5 A.M., and his family was expected to join him for breakfast an hour later.
The Italian lessons were part of a larger plan. Douglas had never recovered from the respiratory problems dating from his cholera days, and he prescribed himself nine winters in a row in Italy and Egypt. Taking along his wife and children and often a few cousins for good measure, he rented an enormous, 300-metre-long sailboat to go down the Nile, along with a guard, a pilot, twelve oarsmen, a cook, an interpreter, and a manservant. He and his son took photographs and developed them as they went along, using the pitch dark of a temple or pyramid as their darkroom.
He became renowned in Egypt, too, as a good doctor. On one visit, he cured an Arab slave-trader of pneumonia, whereupon the grateful patient offered to send him a hippopotamus to Quebec in payment. “It was not the first time,” wrote his son, “that my father refused a fee.”
Douglas never quite got over his fascination with dead bodies. He brought two mummies back from Egypt, which caused a small stir in Quebec City, and he carted them about everywhere he went. Late in life, after losing most of his money in rash investments, he went to live with his son in the United States and set the mummies on the veranda of the house, claiming that they put off potential burglars. Always a great raconteur, Douglas spent his last days telling his grandchildren stories, tilling any gaps in his memory with his fertile imagination. He died in 1886.
Louisa Blair is a freelance writer and translator who lives in Quebec City.
The Asylum Today
James Douglas’s hospital, the Beauport Asylum, still exists, but now looks more like one of the prisons from which Douglas liberated his first patients. After much rebuilding and expansion, it is a terrifyingly immense fortress on a hillside, with bars on most of its 7,000 windows. After the Sisters of Charity took it over in 1893, it became so huge that the province made it into a separate municipality and appointed the mother superior, Sister Marie-du-Sacré-Coeur, as the mayor. The mother-mayor had a special charisma for municipal works: it was her idea to provide the hospital with its own reservoir and power station. The municipal arrangement was only changed in 1976. By the 1960s the hospital had over five thousand permanent residents, and its catchment area was half the province. Since then, with the deinstitutionalization movement, it has shed four thousand of its inmates, some of whom, ironically, ended up homeless or even in prison. But a remnant of Douglas’s vision still persists in Beauport: some patients still work in the hospital’s farm, cheese factory, market garden, and carpentry workshop.
Et cetera
Committed to the State Asylum: Insanity and Society in Nineteenth-Century Quebec and Ontario by James E. Moran. McGill-Queen's University Press, Montreal & Kingston, 2000.
by Rex Murphy
Newfoundland’s entry into the Confederation was a very close-run thing. A mere sliver of a majority in a second referendum awarded the forces led by Joseph R. Smallwood (broadcaster, pig farmer, writer) a most tenuous victory. If it is recalled that Confederation with Canada involved a farewell to, or surrender of, Newfoundland’s identity as a nation, someone coming innocent to this subject might suppose that so narrow a victory on so profound a question would have led to a period of bitterness and rancour.
It didn’t. Perhaps Newfoundlanders were exhausted by the fevers of the two referendum campaigns that led up to the vote. Or perhaps the politics of some sixty years ago had a grace and consent that the politics of today has long forgotten. Either way, one of the most remarkable considerations of Confederation with Canada, once achieved, was how little turmoil or resentment followed that transition, mandated as it was on one of the closest votes on the profoundest possible question ever submitted to the Newfoundland population.
I take that as a starting point for a survey of Newfoundland and Labrador sixty years after the (for us) epochal event. Confederation settled in with astonishing ease. There were, of course, some pockets of resentment. A few heroes of the anti-Confederate movement were durable in their bitterness and disappointment. And, as in any immensely emotive and close contest, there was a predictable after-cloud of suspicion that the result had been “manipulated,” that the greater forces of Great Britain and the Canadian government had arranged the result from the beginning. A few bad novels and one bad movie have mined the minimum vitality of that theory. But overall, Confederation, having been achieved, was accepted (local Oliver Stones notwithstanding) and in the main celebrated.
Some of this was, emphatically, a consequence of the formidable and relentless persuasions of Smallwood after Confederation. Every man is a hero in his own drama, and in the theatrics of ego Smallwood was a playwright of the highest order.
Smallwood sold Confederation after the fact more furiously and more persistently that he sold it before. It was, in words of his that I still find both arch and aching, “next to life itself, the greatest gift God has given to Newfoundlanders.” Smallwood found the oratorical means to yoke Newfoundland’s long history — battered, isolated, precarious, and proud — to Confederation as a fulfillment of that history, its proper climax. We had not been smothered as a people; we had been released.
But there were reasons why Confederation settled in that went beyond Smallwood’s striving for a large page in the history books. And they were, in fact, real history.
Newfoundland was poor, really poor, before Confederation. By any index or standard the people of Newfoundland had it spectacularly hard. The stories of life in Newfoundland in any decade from 1900 are horrifying. Read some account of Wilfred Grenfell’s mission in Labrador. Or read Peter Neary’s fascinating edition of the letters of a colonial administrator from the 1930s, White Tie and Decorations. Every child in the 1950s in Newfoundland grew up on stories from parents or grandparents telling of hardships, isolation, poverty of the grimmest kind, poor health, early mortality.
Hard times form character; the axiom is undeniable. And out of hard times, compounded by isolation, a real character — the Newfoundland character: stoic, humourous, selfless, inventive in speech and song — emerged or evolved. But at what price? At what cost of opportunities fore-shorn, potential amputated?
The core of Newfoundland’s and Newfoundlanders’ identity came out of their survival against the bitter, meagre, grinding conditions of the country’s history. But even as we put defiance to song (“We’ll Rant and We’ll Roar Like True Newfoundlanders ”) or lyricized in ineffably beautiful melodies the brutal traffic of an almost indentured existence as fishermen (“Let Me Fish Off Cape St. Mary’s”) there was always a piercing under-melody in Newfoundland experience — that we had paid far, far too highly for those qualities that we assigned to our national character.
Who else would have lasted here? Who else could have made out of the constant scramble for existence, signposted by calamity and deprivation (disasters at sea, slaughter in war are the terrible “achievements” of Newfoundland’s collective experience) such a genuinely rich, enfolding, even warm way of life?
The great common voice of Newfoundland is in those questions. We had learned to cherish our hard interactions with a hard place, and worked an alchemy that perhaps few other peoples have, of transmuting what should be merely a record of hanging on to a triumph of community Indeed, it goes deeper or further than that. It is the central paradox of Newfoundland history that the harder it was the more we “liked” Newfoundland. It is all caught in an almost proverbial tag for Newfoundland: this “marvellous terrible place.”
Confederation was the event that broke the miserable chain. We yoked with the larger continent, entered a fully twentieth-century nation, and within a decade were taken up by the great systems and institutions that underpin modern Western society. “No longer alone” is the motto of post-Confederation Newfoundland. But always at the back of every Newfoundland mind, even sixty years on, is the wondering thought: Was the trade a good one? Not as the simple equation: Did we barter our “distinctness” for a better life of goods and services? But did we secure the better life at the expense of some greater largeness of being? To phrase the point this way is to invite, perhaps, an easy mockery.
What’s large about poverty or child mortality, ignorance or isolation? But for those who feel deeply about Newfoundland, or have that lavish affection for the place that is the strange birthmark of every Newfoundland soul, the question of what was “lost” by Confederation will always refer to elements both too large and too subtle for standard accounting.
By standard accounting, there can be no debate at all about Confederation. We are better off for it. It may be that the generation born since Confederation is the very first one in Newfoundland, since Newfoundland was a place name on the early maps, that has had the means — schools, hospitals, communications, a standard of living above subsistence — to realize its potential. The first generation for which choice replaced necessity as the essential dynamic for a true majority of Newfoundlanders.
This is a very compelling recommendation for Confederation, and it is probably the enduring practical one. But every major choice is also a foreclosure; the embrace of Confederation in 1949 was equally a farewell. It was a farewell to a singular and profoundly textured strain of character and identity. Newfoundland life, for all of the deprivations and abrasions of history, was also marked by its intensity, by an abundance of response, a relish in living here. The vigour, inventiveness, humour, and charge of Newfoundland culture has been for almost all of its existence one of the strange miracles of this continent.
Confederation was a shield against the wind, but for some Newfoundlanders (I think I’m one of them) it will always be tinged (in no mean or bitter sense) with the rueful flavour of a resignation — that our winding, odd, precarious, difficult, perplexing journey since Cabot’s landfall had to close. As I noted at the very beginning of this note, there was remarkably little turbulence after the choice had been made. Newfoundlanders “became” Canadians — a remarkable transition when it’s thought about — almost overnight.
But even sixty years on there is still the quiet thought — perhaps instinct is the better term — that in the exchange, made necessary by history and endorsed by every measure of practicality, we may have let slip something of the elusive scant glory caught in the paradox of “this marvellous, terrible place.”
Rex Murphy is a well-known commentator who regularly contributes feature documentaries and political commentary for CBC’s The National. He also hosts CBC’s Cross Canada Checkup and is the author of Points of View. Murphy was born in Carbonear, Newfoundland.
This article was originally published in the February-March 2009 issue of the Beaver.
A short history of government in Newfoundland
Law and order at last: A couple of thousand year-round residents of Newfoundland were governed by the arbitrary rules of fishing admirals until 1729, when British naval Captain Henry Osborne established constables and justices of the peace.
Colonial status: After long being regarded by Britain as a fishing base, not a colony, Newfoundland was in 1824 granted a civilian governor and an appointed legislative council. In 1832, an elected council began sitting with the appointed body.
Democracy: A popular vote in favour of responsible government led to Philip Francis Little becoming Newfoundland’s first prime minister in 1855. The colony became a dominion in 1907.
Early attempts to join Canada: Union with Canada was considered in the early 1860s but the public quashed the idea in the 1869 election. The notion was revisited in 1895 after a series of disasters left Newfoundland destitute, but talks went nowhere.
Government by commission: The Great Depression bankrupted Newfoundland and people faced starvation. Confronted with rising social unrest, the Newfoundland government approached Britain for aid. As a result, the elected government was replaced with an appointed commission, which governed from 1934 to 1949.
The tenth province: With economic stability restored, voters in 1948 chose between commission government, self-government, or union with Canada. Union won by fifty-two percent on a second referendum and Joseph Smallwood became the first premier in 1949.
by Allan Levine
Dr. Helen MacMurchy had a noble mission. She was determined to save Canada from the ills of the modern world. To accomplish this, however, meant confronting the problem of the “feeble-minded,” as she and others called “mentally defective” individuals who threatened the health of the nation.
MacMurchy is remembered today as one of the country’s pioneers of public health. Although she often sounded like such champions of the early twentieth-century eugenics movement as American Charles Davenport in her passionate conviction that feeble-mindedness — clearly linked, she argued, to crime, prostitution, and juvenile delinquency — and an open-door immigration policy posed a real threat to Canadian survival. Indeed, these fears were realized when W.G. Smith, a psychology professor at the University of Toronto, published his book A Study in Canadian Immigration in 1920. Among other “disturbing” facts, Smith’s calculations showed that while at New York’s Ellis Island, “the Americans’ rate of rejection of mental defectives was one to every 1,590 immigrants ... Canada’s was only one to every 10,127 as evidence of leniency of the latter country’s screening process.”
MacMurchy was influenced by the work of such U.S. eugenicists as Henry Goddard and, in particular, Richard Dugdale. Dugdale was the author of a celebrated heredity study published in 1877 that showed how the union of an upstate New York frontiersman he called Max Juke and his “degenerate”(or morally inferior) wife in the 1730s were responsible for seven generations of misfits and criminals. Like her mentors, MacMurchy accepted that “individual inadequacy,” rather than environment factors, had caused a crisis and required a bold solution. “Poverty, of course, is not a simple, but a complex condition,” she wrote in a 1912 report. “It probably means poor health, inefficiency, lack of energy, less than average intelligence or force in some way, not enough imagination to see the importance of details.”
Born in Ontario in 1862, MacMurchy, seemingly prim and proper from a young age, was also unorthodox; she opted to become a doctor, which was not a usual career choice for a Canadian woman at the turn of the century. She graduated from Women’s Medical College in Toronto in 1901 and then furthered her studies at Johns Hopkins University in Baltimore. Returning to Canada, she was the first woman offered a position in the Toronto General Hospital's Department of Obstetrics and Gynaecology.
She gradually became more active in public health and starting in 1906 submitted reports on the feeble-minded to the Ontario government. She was appointed the province’s first inspector of the feebleminded in 1914 and briefly worked for the Ontario education department supervising special-education classes. Recognized for her expertise in the area, the federal government recruited her for its newly established Department of Health in 1920. She ran its Division of Maternal and Child Welfare for the next fourteen years, taking a special interest in reducing infant mortality — a problem she typically blamed on “ignorant mothers.”
The same year she became an Ottawa civil servant, she also published her bestselling book The Almosts: A Study of the Feeble-Minded (1920). Using research she had conducted during her work as Ontario’s inspector of the feebleminded, MacMurchy educated Canadians (as well as Americans, since the book was published in Boston) beyond the medical and political communities on the unfit and degenerate menace afflicting the country — yet always with a feeling of empathy.
One had to treat the feeble-minded with care, she noted, yet never lose sight of the fact that they were abnormal and had to be treated as such. “It is the age of true democracy,” she wrote, “that will not only give every one justice, but will redeem the waste products of humanity and give the mental defective all the chance he needs to develop his gifts and all the protection he needs to keep away from evils and temptations that he never will be grown-up enough to resist, and that society cannot afford to let him fall a victim to.”
Should society, in fact, have failed these hopeless and helpless people, then the consequences would be severe. The feeble-minded might have been a small percentage of the total population, but as she maintained in a 1916 report — “with dubious statistical precision,” as Canadian eugenics historian Angus McLaren has put it — they accounted for the vast majority of alcoholics, juvenile delinquents, unmarried mothers, and prostitutes. Quoting from the work of an American physician, Dr. Walter Fernald, she expressed the sentiment shared by eugenicists across North America that “every mental defective is a potential criminal.”
It was Charles Darwin’s cousin Francis Galton who coined the term eugenics in 1883, following the publication of his book Hereditary Genius in 1869. It was derived from the Greek root meaning “good in birth” or “noble in heredity” to describe his utopian scheme. Eugenics was, he said, “a brief word to express the science of improving stock, which is by no means confined to questions of judicious mating, but which, especially in the case of man, takes cognizance of all influences that tend in however remote a degree to give to the more suitable races or strains of blood a better chance of prevailing speedily over the less suitable than they otherwise would have had.” So convinced was he of the flawlessness of his theory, he believed “its principles ought to become one of the dominant motives in a civilized nation, much as if they were one of its religious tenets.”
The scientific and intellectual communities did not immediately embrace Galton’s plan for a better and fitter world. Many later did. Their faith in the paramount significance of heredity was not really confirmed until the turn of the century. In 1900, scientists showed renewed interest in and acceptance of the work of an Austrian monk and botanist named Gregor Mendel, who had extensively studied the breeding of pea plants in the 1860s. From his experiments, Mendel had been able to draw reasonable conclusions about what he called “elements” — dominant and recessive genes — which were passed on from one generation to the next. “Mendel’s law of segregation and independent assortment,” as it became known, laid the foundation of modern genetics (a term first used in 1906). It only made sense to early eugenicists that human traits — not just physical, but also intellectual and moral characteristics — were transmitted in the same way.
That was the view, at any rate, of influential scientists and writers like Karl Pearson in England and especially Charles Davenport in the United States, who operated a huge eugenics institution at Cold Spring Harbor, outside of New York City. Davenport participated in international eugenic conferences in Germany (organized by the International Society for Racial Hygiene) and was involved in national conferences on “race betterment” on how to improve “American stock.”
One such gathering took place in 1915 in San Francisco in conjunction with the Panama Pacific Exposition being held in the city at the time. Davenport’s group mounted an effective eugenics exhibit at the Palace of Education, complete with graphs, photographs, and portraits displaying the impact of heredity on the American population. For the thousands of people visiting the exhibit, it was a lesson in “the rapid increase of race degeneracy.”
During this period, and again in the early 1920s, middle-class Americans and Canadians could not hear or read enough about eugenics. Countless articles appeared in the New York Times and other newspapers espousing its virtues, and the best magazines — Harper’s Weekly, Atlantic Monthly, Saturday Evening Post, and the New Republic — profiled the movement’s proponents and analyzed their apparently scientifically sound findings.
Writers such as J.F. Bobbitt, Granville Stanley Hall (a prolific American educator), and particularly journalist Albert E. Wiggam, author of the 1923 bestseller The New Decalogue of Science, spread the gospel of eugenics across North America.
At Harvard, Columbia, Cornell, and other North American colleges and universities, eugenics found its way into the science curriculum. “We know enough about agriculture so that the agricultural production of the country could be doubled if the knowledge were applied,” claimed Charles Van Hise, a geologist and president of the University of Wisconsin. “We know enough about disease so that if the knowledge were utilized, infectious and contagious diseases would be substantially destroyed in the United States within a score of years; we know enough about eugenics so that if the knowledge were applied, the defective classes would disappear within a generation.”
The tremendous appeal of the eugenics movement was partly based on hope and partly on fear — hope for building a stronger and more intelligent populace, and fear that the trend was going in the opposite direction. Progressive-minded Americans and Canadians watched in trepidation as their respective countries were swamped by foreigners, who not only challenged the supremacy of the Nordic or Anglo-Saxon race, but also brought to their cities nothing but poverty, slums, crime, prostitution, and corruption. “National deterioration,” was what pro-eugenic academics and propagandists called it in Britain.
Then the First World War began, and they saw their best and brightest march off to die in the battlefields of Belgium and France, while the unfit, weaklings, degenerates, and feeble-minded remained at home to reproduce more of their own kind. (It was not lost on eugenic supporters that improvements in modern medicine and the quality of life generally also permitted the weak and feeble-minded to survive and have children when in an earlier era they might have perished).
Most eugenicists dwelled incessantly on controlling the birth rate of the unfit, but for some, eliminating the feeble-minded altogether was the obvious next step. In London, George Bernard Shaw, the Fabian socialist and dramatist, who preached positive eugenics, which emphasized the importance of “good breeding quality,” also argued that “extermination must be put on a scientific basis if it is ever to be carried out humanely.” Adding, “If we desire a certain type of civilization and culture, we must exterminate the sort of people who do not fit it.”
Novelist D.H. Lawrence was more direct and eerily prophetic. In a letter to a friend in 1908 he explained his plan to save the world: “If I had my way, I would build a lethal chamber as big as the Crystal Palace, with a military band playing softly, and a Cinematograph working brightly; then I’d go out in the back streets and main streets and bring them in, all the sick, the halt, and the maimed; I would lead them gently, and they would smile me a weary thanks.” Lawrence died in the south of France in 1930, not knowing that the Nazis would indeed implement such a devastating policy ten years later.
Most Canadian supporters of eugenics would not have gone that far. Education and a more efficient immigration inspection system were necessary. But Helen MacMurchy, among others, also campaigned for segregation and sterilization of the “feeble-minded” as the best method to protect the country’s well-being. Birth control, in MacMurchy’s opinion, was not a practical solution — she referred to it as “unnatural” and “contrary to one’s higher instincts.”
Still, Canadian politicians were more reticent than were the Americans to introduce sterilization legislation. Following the precedent set in Indiana in 1907 — the first of more than a dozen states to pass sterilization laws — Dr. John Godfrey attempted five years later to introduce a sterilization bill for asylum patients in the Ontario Legislature. Despite support from such esteemed medical experts as psychiatrist Charles Clarke of the Toronto General Hospital and a staunch proponent of eugenics, the provincial government took a more cautious approach. Unlike Americans, some Canadians, perhaps, were not as certain that an aggressive eugenics program would result in a glorious future. Sensing that the public was uncertain how to proceed, Ontario politicians let the matter drop for the moment.
Throughout the twenties, women’s groups in particular continued to push for legalized sterilization. In British Columbia and Alberta, Nellie McClung, Judge Emily Murphy, and Henrietta Edwards, among others, believed sterilization was a panacea for society’s ills. In her memoirs published in 1945, McClung recalled visiting one prairie family who had sterilized their feeble-minded daughter, named Katie. The effect was apparently soothing, almost magical.
“Katie was well and neatly dressed,” wrote McClung. “Her mother told me that she was taking full charge of the chickens now, and in the evenings was doing Norwegian knitting which had a ready sale in the neighbourhood. The home was happy again.” Always more pragmatic than McClung, Emily Murphy, an Alberta police magistrate (considered the first female judge in Canada as well as the British Empire), was also more direct. “We protect the public against diseased and distempered cattle,” she declared. “We should similarly protect them against the offal of humanity.” Sterilization bills were introduced into the B.C. and Alberta legislatures. In B.C., the government decided to appoint a Royal Commission on Mental Hygiene in 1925. It took more than two years to study the issue, although the commissioners — who were influenced by developments in the United States — recommended the sterilization of individuals in mental institutions. The editors of the Vancouver Sun added their support in an editorial. Sterilization, they wrote, was “the only reasonable way of protecting the strains from which the world must draw its leaders.” By the time the commissioners submitted their final report in 1928, however, there had been a change in government in B.C. and the matter was not resolved for another five years.
Events were more decisive in Alberta. Support for a sterilization law had been voiced in the provincial legislature since the early 1920s. Lectures, presentations, and articles had convinced many Albertans of the pressing need to deal decisively with this issue. Asked Margaret Gunn, the president of the United Farm Women of Alberta in 1924: “Shall we continue our present system of merely taking charge of the very lowest physical and mental types, those who cause a menace to the state, the feeble-minded who in large measure fill our jails and penitentiaries and make up the great substratum of humanity — social derelicts, doomed because of congenital inferiority to lead lives that are crass and unlovely, and to lower the vitality of our civilization?” She advised the government to adopt a policy of “racial betterment through the weeding out of undesirable strains,” adding that “democracy was never intended for degenerates.”
George Hoadley, the health minister in John Brownlee’s United Farmers of Alberta government, concurred with such sentiments. Arguing that the continuing increase in the province’s feeble-minded population — a majority of whom he pointed out were foreigners — was an undue burden on taxpayers, he introduced a sexual sterilization bill in February 1928.
Still, not everyone approved. Soon Alberta newspapers were filled with letters to the editor from concerned citizens who questioned what they regarded as the government’s heavy-handed actions. “Are we animals and soon to be classed as Tomworths, Holsteins or Clydes?” asked one writer in the Edmonton Journal. “Possibly Mr. Hoadley in his desire for physical perfection will bring in a bill next year that all children, such as those suffering from infantile paralysis or any deformity, be taken to the high level bridge and thrown into the Saskatchewan.” A group of prominent Edmonton residents organized the People’s Protective League to fight the proposed legislation, which it declared was “interfering with the rights of people.”
It was to no avail. The government passed Canada’s first sterilization act in early March along with provision for the establishment of a “eugenics board” (consisting of two medical practitioners and two lay people) whose job it was to evaluate each case on its own merits. According to the act, parents or guardians were to be consulted before any medical procedure was to occur, a stipulation that was eliminated by the Social Credit government of William Aberhart in 1937. Alberta’s sterilization act remained untouched until it was finally repealed in 1972. By then, 2,822 Albertans had been sterilized for reasons varying from possessing a “low IQ to apparent promiscuity.” (As Alberta historian Alvin Finkel also notes, in later years “some boys with Down’s syndrome had one testicle removed for the benefit of a researcher into the causes of Down’s.
British Columbia instituted a similar bill in 1933, yet other provinces, including Ontario, where there always had been substantial support for such a law, felt that it was too drastic a measure. The Eugenics Society of Canada, organized by a group of committed academics and doctors in late 1930 to promote “race betterment” and sterilization, never stopped hoping that the situation would change.
During the thirties, Canadian and American physicians and scientists watched almost with envy as Hitler and the Nazis imposed their own eugenics program. In their view, it was something to behold. According to a January 1936 article in the magazine Canadian Doctor, the Nazis’ policy had ensured that 200,000 unfit German citizens would not have children. The financial saving to Hitler’s government was supposedly enormous. That same year, Charles Davenport’s protégé Harry Laughlin was awarded an honorary doctorate of medicine by the University of Heidelberg for his eugenics work at Cold Spring Harbor. He was unable to attend the ceremony but wrote to thank the university’s officials. It was, he noted, “evidence of a common understanding of German and American scientists of the nature of eugenics.”
Historians estimate that by the end of the Second World War, the Nazis, who had transformed their forced sterilization program of more than 400,000 individuals into a massive killing machine, had likely murdered 140,000 physically handicapped and mentally ill people. At one mental institution in Nazi Germany, the staff toasted with beer the cremation of the ten-thousandth patient — a child gassed to death. In 1946, at the trial of Nazi doctors held at Nuremberg, one physician after the other stated that they had modelled their system after the one in the United States.
Allan Levine is a Winnipeg historian and writer. He is the author of several popular histories, including Scattered Among the Peoples: The Jewish Diaspora in Ten Portraits (2002), and three historical mysteries set in early twentieth-century Winnipeg featuring the detective Sam Klein.
Adapted from the Devil in Babylon: Fear of Progress and the Birth of Modern Life by Allan Levine, published by McClelland & Stewart Ltd. Reprinted by permission of the publisher.
Et Cetera
Our Own Master Race: Eugenics in Canada,1885-1945, by Angus McLaren. McClelland & Stewart, Toronto, 1990.
Extreme Measures: The Dark Visions and Bright Ideas of Francis Galton, by Martin Brookes. Bloomsbury, London, 2004.
The Sterilization of Leilani Muir, 1996. The National Film Board of Canada. Directed by Glynis Whiting.
by P. G. Smith
John Bell squinted down the barrel of his Ballard Sporting Rifle just as he had many times while target shooting with the other Home Guards. He swallowed the last few morsels of the Boston crackers he'd been chewing, probably the only food he'd eaten on the morning of May 25, 1870. It was now nearly noon.
The twenty or so men around him, local farmers and tradesmen like himself, lay hidden behind the boulders and tree trunks of Eccles Hill, Quebec, keeping a careful watch on the little wooden bridge that spanned Groat's Creek, near the border between the United States and the new Dominion of Canada. Suddenly the men stirred — motioning to each other and whispering sharp warnings.
Bell spotted the figures in blue and green, marching toward the creek like seasoned soldiers. They cheered as they broke ranks to file over the bridge and reassemble on the dirt road on the other side. Bell drew a bead on one figure in a green jacket and blue military cap. At more than 400 metres, the man must have appeared to be no bigger than an insect. Instinctively, Bell inhaled, probably oblivious to the rich scents of the wildflowers in bloom on that spring morning. He let out half a breath, squeezed the trigger, and felt the butt stock slam into his shoulder as his rifle belched out flame, smoke, and a deadly slug less than twelve millimetres in diameter. He quickly reloaded as the men around him fired at the fleeing figures near the bridge.
When the smoke cleared momentarily, Bell saw that the man at whom he'd fired, John Rowe, a mechanic and volunteer fireman from Burlington, Vermont, lay face down in the dusty road, his hands clenched around his Springfield Rifle Musket. John Bell had killed his first human being.
The remarkable sequence of events that led to the Battle of Eccles Hill began just before the American Civil War. During the 1850s, a clandestine independence movement was born in Ireland. The secret society was called the Irish Republican Brotherhood, or, as they eventually came to be known, the Fenians. The Fenian dream was to free Ireland from the clutches of the British Empire by any means, and those means included assassination, terrorism, and war in its former North American colony of Canada.
The Fenians' war plan involved a multi-pronged attack to seize Montreal, Hamilton, and Toronto. The invasion date was secretly set for June 1, 1866. However, when the appointed date arrived, it was clear that many of the Fenian forces were not ready to act. In Buffalo, the commander never showed up, nor did most of the troops called for in the plan. John O'Neill, an intrepid former Union cavalry captain from Kentucky, nonetheless assumed command of two thousand men and seized Fort Erie, Ontario. O'Neill's ragtag army defeated a force of Canadian militia in a sharp engagement at Ridgeway. However, with his troops cut off from reinforcements, he led a hasty retreat as a larger force of British regulars approached from the north. He was promptly arrested in the United States, but hailed by the Irish-American community as a hero and a patriot.
As events unfolded in southern Ontario, another Fenian force assembled in St. Albans, Vermont, across from Quebec. On June 7, 1866, the West Point-educated Gen. Samuel P. Spear led an unruly force of fifteen hundred Fenians across the border and set up camp in Pigeon Hill, Quebec, about seventy kilometres southeast of Montreal. A skittish band of Canadian militia retreated at the first sight of Spear’s army, and many of the local population took refuge with friends and relatives to the north.
The invasion contravened American neutrality laws, which were first enacted in 1794 and intended to restrict private citizens from involvement in foreign conflicts. In an effort to suffocate the invasion, Maj.-Gen. George Meade of the United States Army, and the victor of Gettysburg, seized supplies headed for the Fenians. Spear’s undisciplined force, cut off from logistical support, responded by plundering undefended homes and farms.
In an incident that would prove to be momentous, a band of Fenians stopped at the Westover farm in Dunham, Quebec, and demanded a hot meal. Asa Westover and his family complied with the request and fed the hungry invaders. However, after eating their fill, the Fenians ransacked the house, helping themselves to the family's valuables. An enraged Westover would never forget this humiliation.
Spear, meanwhile, quickly realized it was only a matter of time before the British army arrived to deal with his Fenian force, which was now dwindling from desertions. Reluctantly, Spear ordered his men to retreat to Vermont on June 9, 1866.
In the ensuing days, the residents of the Canadian border towns, escorted by British troops and Canadian militia, returned to their desecrated homes to repair the damage and rebuild their lives.
The Fenian movement in the United States gained energy from the events of 1866. Participants in the raids, if apprehended at all, were released after short prison terms and treated like heroes in their own communities.
The momentum was short-lived, however. By the late 1860s, infighting and scandals had sapped the movement's strength, causing traditional funding channels to dry up. Realizing that military action increased membership, donations, and enthusiasm, O'Neill — who had emerged as the leader of the most popular faction and was promoted to general — began plans for another invasion of Canada in an effort to shore up declining support.
The men of the Canadian border towns, meanwhile, initiated some planning of their own. Reasoning that the British army and the Canadian militia could not be relied upon to defend them, they resolved to take matters into their own hands. On June 20, 1868, thirty men signed an agreement at the Seeley Hotel in Dunham, Quebec, which established the Home Guards. The agreement united the men for the “mutual protection of our homes and property ... from any threatened Fenian invasion or other band of robbers.”
Asa Westover, whose farm had been ransacked by the Fenians two years previously, was elected president of the Home Guards. At the time of the agreement, Westover was a fifty-one-year-old farmer whose United Empire Loyalist grandfather had fled Sheffield, Massachusetts, in the midst of the American Revolution. The Westover farm was prosperous enough to employ three labourers and a servant. Westover was a churchwarden who was active in the choir and contributed generously to the upkeep of the Anglican church in Frelighsburg, Quebec, about seventy-five kilometres southeast of Montreal. There is no indication that he had any military experience whatsoever.
After the defence organization was established, Westover and another member of the Home Guards travelled to the United States to purchase arms and ammunition for the new force. They chose as their main weapon the Ballard Sporting Rifle, a single-shot, small-calibre weapon prized for its accuracy at long range. Usually more suited to the needs of hunters than soldiers, the rifle would prove in the end to be a good choice.
The Home Guards, who met regularly for target practice, were ridiculed by some of their neighbours, who felt a Fenian invasion was unlikely to happen again. Reasoning that Eccles Hill would provide an excellent strategic position in the event of another attack, Westover and Andrew Teneyck, one of the vice-presidents of the Home Guards, visited the south side of the hill on July 1, 1868, to mark fighting positions. Miss Julia Westover, sister of Asa, would later write after the battle: “I was at home the day Asa and Andrew went with their guns to pick out the spot and range the proper distance to shoot a Fenian.”
In April 1870, the Home Guards, whose numbers had more than doubled, adopted a more military structure and elected Asa Westover as their captain. They also named subordinate officers and chose a sort of uniform — a red sash worn over the right shoulder.
The Home Guards, who had shown remarkable military sophistication in their planning, now revealed their trump card — expert military intelligence. A Vermont resident, S.N. Hunter, had offered helpful information to the Canadian militia during the Fenian raid of 1866. Since then, Hunter had moved to Canada and joined the Home Guards. However, he remained on friendly terms with his former neighbours in Vermont, who kept him informed about Fenian preparations for war.
On the afternoon of May 23, 1870, Hunter received word that the anticipated Fenian advance was imminent. Hunter raced to Frelighsburg, where he alerted several of the town leaders. Later that evening, he and another member of the Home Guards made a reconnaissance mission over the border. When they reached the town of Franklin, Vermont, near midnight, the townsfolk were gathered in great anticipation as the first wagonloads of Fenian arms and ammunition arrived.
The two Canadian amateur spies raced back to Frelighsburg, where they awakened the town officials and reported what they had seen in Franklin. The local leaders then fired off three telegrams: one to Lt.-Col. William Osborne Smith, assistant adjutant general of the Montreal Military District; one to Lt.-Col. Brown Chamberlin, commander of the local militia force; and one to the provincial government.
After some discussion, it was decided that the Home Guards would assemble on Eccles Hill and take up their carefully marked fighting positions. Dawn was just a few hours away as the call went out to the farmers and tradesmen who were soon to become warriors.
The rain continued to fall during the gloomy morning hours of Tuesday, May 24, 1870, as the Home Guards gathered on Eccles Hill. The anxious men speculated about the activities on the other side of the border. Hunter volunteered to once again scout out the situation in Vermont. This time he found more than seventy wagonloads of weapons, ammunition, and other military equipment stockpiled by the sides of the roads, but he did not see any large concentrations of Fenian troops.
Westover accompanied Hunter to Frelighsburg to report this new information to the authorities. But when the two men arrived, they were informed that Brown Chamberlin and Osborne Smith had cabled back a discouraging response to the telegram that had been sent to them from Frelighsburg the previous day. The authorities — who were being careful to keep secret their own plans for meeting the Fenian threat — replied that they did not believe Hunter’s reports of Fenian movements to be credible. To the Home Guards, the meaning seemed clear— they could expect no help in opposing the Fenian advance.
As the bleak afternoon drew to a close, Westover assembled the Home Guards and organized them into a night watch and a day shift as they settled in to their grim, determined vigil near the border.
About nine o'clock that night, a messenger arrived from Frelighsburg with another telegram from Montreal. This time the message was more encouraging:
“Westover and Red Scarf Men should occupy old Fenian position at once, if possible, and pester the Hank of any party crossing. I go to Stanbridge [Quebec] by next train. B. Chamberlin, Lt-Col.” The earlier telegram had apparently been part of a ruse to keep the military’s plans secret.
The Home Guards were filled with renewed hope. The Canadian militia intended to join the Home Guards in the fight. The farmers returned to their watch with a strengthened sense of purpose. They would need it.
Shortly alter midnight, the jingle and squeak of an approaching wagon could be heard through the misty darkness. Two Home Guards halted the wagon and asked the driver and passenger their business. One of the men in the wagon whispered the Fenian password, “Winooski,” and then explained that they were to report to O'Neill, the Fenian general. The Fenians were instead briskly spirited away as prisoners of war by an escort of five armed Home Guards.
At four o'clock on the morning of Wednesday, May 25, 1870, twenty-two Canadian militiamen from Dunham arrived at Eccles Hill to reinforce the Home Guards. Near dawn, another twenty militia soldiers came in from Stanbridge, about twenty-five kilometres northwest of Frelighsburg. Although there were rumoured to be thousands of Fenians arriving in Vermont, the sturdy Canadian force at Eccles Hill was growing in strength and confidence.
As the spring sunshine dried the soggy fields around Eccles Hill, Westover released half of his men to get a hot meal. Many of them hadn't left their defensive positions in twenty-four hours. Westover probably feared that, for some, it would be their last meal.
Just after half the Canadian force had left for their breakfast at a local farm, the Fenians began to assemble on the Vermont side of Groat’s Creek. Clad in dark green uniform jackets or blue Union Army coats, the Fenians presented a daunting sight as they formed ranks and shouldered their gleaming Springfield rifles with fixed bayonets. While many were combat veterans of the Civil War, there were also pink-faced teenagers in the ranks. In his report after the battle, O'Neill said of his soldiers, “Many of them were boys who had never been in a fight before.”
A correspondent with the Boston Daily Advertiser spoke with O'Neill just before the assault and reported, “General O'Neill is in the best of spirits and anticipates no serious resistance in Canada. He hopes there will be enough to amuse his men.” O'Neill, never one to shy away from drama or bombast, addressed the two hundred or so just before they went to fight, referring to them as “soldiers of the advance guard of the American Irish army, for the liberation of Ireland from the yoke of our oppressor....” With a cheer, the Irish-Americans charged across the bridge onto Canadian soil.
The anxious Canadians gripped their rifles and peered through their sights as they tracked the forward movement of the Fenians invaders. As they had discussed many times, they squeezed off their first rounds only when the green and blue figures reached Canadian soil. At that moment, the Home Guards ceased to be farmers and neighbours — the amusement had begun.
Home Guard John Bell's first shot struck Fenian John Rowe in the neck. Rowe was killed instantly as he pitched forward on the dusty road.
After the initial volley, the Fenians scrambled for cover under the bridge, in the creek bed, and in farm buildings behind the creek. Home Guard Thomas Shephard of Frelighsburg shot and killed Fenian M. O'Brien, of Moriah, New York, as the Irish-American ran for cover through a field behind the creek.
Meanwhile, Osborne Smith, commander of the Montreal militia, had left Eccles Hill and was on his way to Stanbridge Station to bring up reinforcements. When he learned that the Fenian assault had commenced, he reversed direction and galloped full tilt back to Eccles Hill. Disregarding the Fenian fire, the Crimean War veteran rode onto the summit, dismounted, and took command of the border defence.
The battle now became a steady firefight, as the well-concealed Canadians exchanged shots with the Fenians, who had found cover near the border. The Franklin House Hotel was converted into a makeshift field hospital as wounded Fenians were evacuated from the border. A reporter for the Vermont newspaper Burlington Free Press described one victim of the fighting: “He was a boy of nineteen or twenty, in a green jacket and grey trowsers [sic|. He gave us his name — Frank Carrigan of Bridgeport, Connecticut. He was ghastly pale, and suffering much from a wound in the abdomen, the ball having passed down through the groin and thigh. A doctor came as we stood by him, and gave it as his opinion that the ball had gone through the bladder, in which case the wound will be mortal.”
O'Neill, meanwhile, took cover in a Vermont house near the border, directing the attack on Eccles Hill. However, the home’s owner spoiled the Fenian general's vantage point by evicting him.
Until then, George P. Foster, the United States marshall for Vermont, had been helplessly observing the Fenians' flagrant violation of U.S. neutrality laws. Upon seeing O'Neill, he decided it was time for action. Foster arrested O'Neill, spiriting the compliant Fenian commander away to jail in nearby St. Albans. Critics would later speculate that the apprehension had been pre-arranged between Foster and O'Neill, but the Fenian general would insist that he was abducted by physical force at the point of a loaded revolver.
O'Neill's ignominious exit was observed by a member of his staff, Col. Henri LeCaron, adjutant general, also known as Thomas Billis Beach. The twenty-nine-year-old LeCaron looked on, but did nothing. Years later, the Civil War veteran and doctor revealed himself as a British agent who was reporting directly to Canadian officials. Meanwhile, John Boyle O'Reilly, a former Irish revolutionary who was reporting for the Boston Pilot, an Irish-Catholic newspaper, temporarily assumed a leadership role and attempted unsuccessfully to organize a Fenian counterattack. (After witnessing the futile Fenian assault on this day, he renounced military action as a method of gaining Ireland's independence, instead favouring political advocacy. He went on to become a renowned journalist, novelist, and Catholic poet.
As for the Canadian defenders on Eccles Hill, their sharpshooting rifles were trained on two main forces. One was a group of about fifty Irish-Americans, led by Gen. J.J. Donnelly, who were huddled in a valley, where they could neither advance nor retreat without exposing themselves to Canadian fire. The other was a force of late-arriving New York Fenians, who advanced on a wooded hillside on the Canadian right (they had been misdirected there by the spy LeCaron). The plan was for the New Yorkers to distract the Canadian forces, thus allowing Donnelly's men to escape from the valley. The New Yorkers brought up a six-pound, breech-loading field cannon, got off a few poorly aimed cannon rounds, and then let loose a volley of rifle fire.
Donnelly and his men knew that it was retreat now or risk being taken prisoner. They broke from their covered positions to scramble to higher ground. The Canadians, however, were not distracted by the New York firepower and trained their rifles on the fleeing Fenians. Donnelly was struck in the chest and sustained a serious wound from which he would later recover. The accurate Canadian lire also hit several other fleeing Irish-Americans, but none sustained life-threatening injuries.
Osborne Smith, realizing the Fenian artillery piece posed an immediate threat to the Canadian force, ordered the Home Guards and the Sixtieth Missisquoi Battalion of Canadian Infantry to advance and dislodge the New York Fenians from their position on the wooded hillside. The Canadians charged down the hill, startling the Fenians, who promptly fled â_” leaving the cannon behind. With great difficulty, officers restrained the jubilant Red Sash men and militia soldiers from pursuing their enemies across the border. The Home Guards retrieved the cannon, which they regarded as a great war trophy. To this day it rests on the summit of Eccles Hill as a memorial to the Canadian defenders.
As darkness fell, the drama drew to a close. The dejected Fenians retreated to Vermont. The Canadians retrieved John Rowe’s body from the road and buried it by moonlight under a rock cairn on top of Eccles Hill. Spear, the Fenian general who had plundered the border region in 1866, arrived in St. Albans, Vermont, to send whoever was left with some fight in him over to Malone, New York — where more Fenian supplies were stockpiled — to mount another attack on Quebec and take one more grasp at glory. However, two days later, a combined force of Canadian militia and British regulars easily repulsed a half-hearted assault on the border at Holbrook’s Corners, Quebec.
On Saturday, May 28, 1870, Maj.-Gen. George Meade arrived in St. Albans with a small American army force to ensure that there were no further violations of American neutrality laws.
On May 30, Lt.-Gen. James Alexander Lindsay, commander of the British forces in Canada, accompanied by His Royal Highness Prince Arthur, son of Queen Victoria, and then serving in Canada with the Rifles Brigade, reviewed the Canadian forces on Eccles Hill. Lindsay, as “Lieutenant General Commanding Her Majesty's Forces in Canada,” thanked the assembled troops and stated: “Their good service, energy, and promptitude have achieved the utter defeat and the demoralization of the Fenians.” Several years later, a grateful Empire issued medals to all who had fought in the Battle of Eccles Hill.
Eventually, the newspaper reporters and government officials forgot about the small towns near Eccles Hill. O'Neill, Boyle O'Reilly, LeCaron, Osborne Smith, Brown Chamberlin, and even Prince Arthur went on to achieve notoriety or infamy in other places at other times. Life returned to normal in the lush green fields and wooded hills of Quebec’s Eastern Townships and the Home Guards returned to their farms and businesses. The peaceful border region remained untroubled throughout the natural lives of the Home Guards.
In the end, the Fenian attacks may have had the unintended consequence of strengthening Canadian pride and identity. Historian Hereward Senior, in his 1991 book The Last Invasion of Canada, summed up the effect of the raids:
“For Canada the raids did a great deal. Apart from helping cement federation and improving the quality of the militia, the raids aroused a martial spirit among Canadians that could be enjoyed without the cost of war.”
P. G. Smith is an educator, military officer and freelance magazine writer. An Irish-American whose grandfather was born in the Maritimes, Smith has been fascinated by the Fenians since his childhood. He lives and writes in Ashburnham, Massachusetts. (The author wishes to thank Judy Antle of the Missisquoi Historical Society for her support and expert advice.)
by Sid Jensen
Legitimate political power derives from a mandate from the masses — that’s today’s theory. But in practice, Canada’s governing elites historically have often tried their best to snub the masses. The road to today’s universal adult franchise has been not only incremental, it’s often been corrupt, violent, and not awfully democratic.
What helped women earn the right to vote in federal elections in Canada in 1918? Was it forward thinking politicians intent on embracing high-minded, democratic ideals? Sadly, no — it was nothing short of political scheming, a kind of gender gerrymandering. In 1917, Prime Minister Robert Borden felt he could save Canada’s honour only by winning that year's general election, so he rigged the vote to ensure that he would.
Borden’s Conservative government extended the franchise to people most likely to support his policies and took it from those most likely not to. As one critic remarked, it would have been more honest if the legislation “simply stated that all who did not pledge themselves to vote Conservative would be disenfranchised.”
Arthur Meighen, the federal solicitor general, wrote to Prime Minister Borden, suggesting that extending the franchise to women could meet the “foreign population difficulty.” Meighen wasn’t enthused about giving women the vote but hoped it would bolster election ambitions: “To shift the franchise from the doubtful British or anti-British of the male sex and to extend it at the same time to our patriotic women, would be in my judgment a splendid stroke.” He suggested giving “the closest consideration to this subject.” A year later it was law.
Borden’s government needed as many “patriotic women” as it could get to win the election. In 1917, the war in France was killing and wounding men faster than the Canadian army could replace them. Borden decided conscription was the only answer. If men wouldn't volunteer to fight, they’d be forced to.
Quebec was generally against conscription — for many reasons. For one, it saw little reason to participate in a foreign war, particularly if it appeared to be at the bidding of the English. Borden was going to lose almost every seat in that province, and the outlook in the West was just as unpromising. Farmers didn’t want to lose sons to conscription, and the West was full of recent immigrants who tended to vote Liberal.
Clearly something had to be done. On September 25, Borden wrote in his diary, “our first duty is to win, at any cost, the coming election in order that we may continue to do our part in winning the War and that Canada be not disgraced.” So Borden and the Conservatives pushed two laws through Parliament: the Military Voters Act and the Wartime Elections Act. The first gave the vote to “all British subjects, whether male or female” who were in the armed forces. In one stroke, about two thousand army nurses became the first women to get the federal franchise. The act also allowed military personnel to vote simply by party, allowing votes to be counted where a party needed them most. The Wartime Elections Act gave the vote to women related to Canadian or British military or naval personnel and took it away from Canadians naturalized after 1902, if they were from a country Canada was fighting. One result? Many of those Liberal immigrants in the West were disenfranchised.
Margaret Gordon, president of the Canadian National Suffrage Association, said it would have been more honest to make it illegal not to vote Conservative.
Borden’s next step was to form a Union government, with the Conservatives taking in Liberals who either supported his policies or realized they couldn’t win if they appeared not to. A vote for the Liberals was depicted as a betrayal of the country’s fighting men. The military voted 92 percent for the Unionists, and anecdotal evidence suggests “patriotic women” did their bit, too. On the December 17 election day, the Winnipeg Evening Tribunereported that Mrs. M. Wilson and her three female friends cast their votes as expected: “We have done all we could to put the Union government back into power.” The Unionists won 153 seats, including 14 decided by the military vote. The Liberals got 82, including 62 of Quebec's 65.
Borden's campaign promised all women the federal vote and, in 1918, they got it. By the early 1920s, women also had the provincial vote everywhere but Quebec, which resisted the inevitable until 1940.
The immorality of Borden pushing such acts through was stunning in its transparency, but rigging a vote was nothing new in Canada. Extending the franchise had little to do with the political desire to protect basic human rights. Woman weren't the only disenfranchised group, as voting restrictions were linked to wealth (or, lack of it), religion, ethnicity, and, though still a contentious issue, even incarceration. Today, most Canadians take it for granted that all adult citizens have the right to vote. But in the nation’s early days, those who had voting privileges were in the minority.
In 1885, the Canadian Parliament established a complicated federal franchise based on property ownership. At first, only men could vote — but only some of them. Political resistance to extending the franchise reflected a distrust of liberal-democratic ideals and a general protective attitude - the few privileged voters would have equated universal suffrage with social disorder. After all, landowners had a reason to uphold traditional values, to not “rock the boat.” Teems of newcomers — many with no land at stake — couldn't be entrusted with the vote. Or so went the prevailing attitude. Chiselling away at such entrenched attitudes took years though the history of the vote in Canada is almost entirely one of a constantly expanding franchise with small detours along the way.
More than one hundred years before the federal franchise, simply preserving life and limb could be an obstacle. Some of the first changes to the rules were aimed at reducing election violence. Election rules for Britain's Canadian colonies — beginning with Nova Scotia in 1758 — were blueprints for fraud, intimidation, discrimination, rioting, and even murder. Casting a vote in private was almost unimaginable. Instead, voting was conducted aloud, and “the franchise-holder had to step up before a turbulent crowd of friends and foes ... and openly declare his choice, while enemy partisans tried to howl him down or more vigorously discourage him,” wrote historian J.M.S. Careless. “Hotly contested elections thus all too easily degenerated into pitched battles of fists, cudgels and stones - and sometimes gunshots and death.” Candidates fuelled the mayhem with free liquor, and by Confederation in 1867, at least twenty people had been killed in riots.
In 1785, New Brunswick’s first election produced its first election riot. That was in the Saint John riding, where six pro-government candidates, including the attorney general, were known as Upper Covers (landowners in the Upper Cove region). They were opposed by Lower Covers, voters unhappy with the way land was handed out, among other things.
Voting began in a Lower Cove tavern and was interrupted by the riot that started after Sheriff William Oliver moved the poll to an Upper Cove tavern. The Lower Covers won all six seats, but Upper Covers demanded a recount. The sheriff, who had voted for them, agreed, and together they threw out almost two hundred votes on the grounds that those who cast them did not meet a three-month residency requirement. That excluded about one-third of the Lower Cove voters, more than enough to reverse the election result.
The same election was also manipulated on religious grounds, as the votes of thirty Acadians in Westmorland County “were objected to as illegal, the Frenchmen having refused to take the oath of abjuration,” the Royal Gazette reported. The oath required Catholics to pledge allegiance to the king and renounce the authority of the Pope. Not likely. So with handfuls of votes discounted, on January 20, 1786, the Westmorland candidate who had initially finished last gloried in his win.
But sheriffs were not alone in determining who could vote. Property ownership was a clincher. In 1855, provincial attorney general Charles Fisher reflected on the rationale for property rules. A person with money or property “would not be likely to wish to see the laws and the institutions of the country disregarded.” Property requirements persisted into the twentieth century, and the man in charge of deeds could be a candidate’s best ally (as he provided proof of voting eligibility). Such support was particularly handy when the man in charge of deeds was your father, as in the Nova Scotia election of 1806. In this case, Edward Baker won in Amherst riding with the help of Edward Baker Sr., according to a petition to the House of Assembly by the losing candidate.
The man in charge of deeds was small potatoes when it came to rigging a larger election. In that case, the person to see was Charles Edward Poulett Thomson, 1st Baron Sydenham, the governor general who predetermined the outcome of the 1841 vote in the Province of Canada. “He chose returning officers favourable to the government, issued land deeds to supporters and denied them to opponents, thus disenfranchising the latter, handed out promises of pensions and government patronage ... and distributed polling booths and troops where they would most benefit his sympathizers,” according to Canadian historian Phillip Buckner.
Sydenham got down to rougher business, bringing in thugs at polling stations —nine people were killed in the 1841 election. The baron had been sent to Canada to get local backing for the British government's plan to unite the two colonies, thus ending the French-English divide by assimilating the French in the new, larger colony. Sydenham proclaimed the union on February 10, 1841. The next job was to get the colonials to elect a supportive government. Elections were set for March and April. “In Upper Canada they will be excellent,” Sydenham wrote, “In Lower Canada we shall not have a man returned who does not hate … everything which has a taint of British feeling.”
His plans to rig the outcome included the tough job of finding pro-British candidates, and the easier one of gerrymandering electoral districts to ensure voters were pro-British: “I shall reduce the limits of Montreal & Quebec to the Cities & cut off the suburbs” (the suburbs were mostly French, which largely disenfranchised the French, because these areas became rural ridings where tenants did not have the vote).
There was only one poll to a riding, and in largely French areas, Sydenham put the polls in English-speaking enclaves, then sent out mobs to prevent the French from using them. One French-Canadian leader, Louis Hippolyte Lafontaine, withdrew his candidacy rather than have his supporters risk trying to vote. Sydenham supporters won the election.
Qualifications governing the right to vote differed among provinces and governments. Finally, in 1920, Parliament took control of the federal franchise with the Dominion Elections Act (renamed the Canada Elections Act in 1951). Property requirements for voting in federal elections had ended, but racial and religious exclusions remained. Anyone barred on those grounds from voting provincially was also barred from voting federally. In both instances, British Columbia was centre stage.
British Columbia’s white settlers worried about being outnumbered by the growing Asian population. The gold rush of 1858 had spurred the influx of Chinese, and Japanese arrived about twenty years later. Both groups were denied the vote (if they lived in B.C.) and by the 1920s, immigration barriers reduced Asian newcomers to a trickle. Despite this, fears accelerated during the Depression.
Then in 1942, disaster after disaster followed the disaster of Pearl Harbour. The Japanese who lived in British Columbia — 22,000 out of 23,000 living in Canada — were moved to internment camps. Two years later they lost the vote, even though they no longer lived under B.C. election laws. On July 18, 1944, with the headline “No Votes for Japs,” the Sun beamed, “There will be widespread approval in British Columbia of the decision by the Parliament of Canada to deprive the Japanese of the right to vote in the next federal election.”
War also brought religious exclusions. In 1917, the Wartime Elections Act disenfranchised conscientious objectors, or anyone who refused to go to war. Paradoxically, war later played a part in religious groups regaining the vote. The horrors produced by racism during World War II made many people less accepting of discriminatory practices. British Columbia restored the franchise to Mennonites and Doukhobors, who had lost the vote around World War I.
Native peoples had also been targets of discrimination. In 1920, native peoples who served in the war got the federal vote, as did people who moved off reserves. In 1950, people on reserves also got the federal franchise, but only if they waived treaty rights, including tax exemptions. By 1960, those waivers were removed.
Those steps left one sizable group without the vote, the 35,000 or so inmates of provincial and federal jails. Their exclusion could be traced back to Edward III, king of England until 1377. Serious crimes meant civil death, he decided, and convicted felons lost civil rights. About 600 years later, some Canadian felons challenged his view.
In 1993, Parliament gave the vote to prisoners serving less than two years. That was too little for, among others, Richard Sauve, a Satan's Choice biker sentenced to life for murder. On October 31, 2002, the Supreme Court of Canada agreed with him, allowing all prisoners to vote.
Chief Justice of Canada Beverley McLachlin said, “the slow movement toward universal suffrage in Western democracies took an irreversible step forward in Canada in 1982” when the right to vote was constitutionally guaranteed through the Charter of Rights. The path to gaining the franchise has not been without struggles, but, as stated in The History of the Vote in Canada, the adoption of the Charter has been the “single-most effective move in reversing the last vestiges of discrimination.” By 1993, the legislation that gave the vote to prisoners finally gave it to judges. Now that judges and the people they send to prison can vote, there are few left to whom to extend the franchise.
According to the Elections Canada Act, the only citizens “18 years of age or older on polling day” prohibited from voting are the chief electoral officer and the assistant chief electoral officer.
Sid Jensen is a Toronto writer.
Et Cetera
An interactive website on the history of voting in Canada is offered through the Canadian Museum of Canada.
Elections Canada offers a dynamic website on Canada’s voting history, past election outcomes, and electoral law and policy.
by Joseph Graham
On the morning of April 25, 1849, Lord Elgin, Governor General of the Province of Canada, rode away from the Parliament Building in Montreal. He had just given assent to the Rebellion Losses Bill, a highly contentious piece of legislation that severely tested Canada’s newly won system of responsible government.
The bill authorized compensation to people in Canada East (Quebec) who had suffered losses as a result of the infamous uprisings of 1837-1838. It should have been adopted without incident.
A similar bill had passed years earlier for victims in Canada West (Ontario) and the assembly had endorsed this new bill by a vote of more than two to one.
As his stately horse-drawn carriage made its way slowly through the busy market, a large crowd surrounded it. Some French voices cheered, but English ones jeered. Lord Elgin had expected as much.
He had been under considerable pressure to veto the law, either by dissolving Parliament or by referring the bill to the Imperial Parliament in London. “The Tory party are doing what they can by menace, intimidation, and appeals to passion to drive me to a coup d’état,” Elgin wrote.
But he refused to counter the decision of the elected assembly — a triumph for Canada’s fledgling democracy, but a blow to Montreal’s pro-British Tory elite, the English business class. To them, the bill rewarded French-speaking rebel Patriotes.
Suddenly, Elgin’s carriage shuddered, hit by a large rock. The atmosphere became leaden, with the jeers drowning out all other noise.
That same afternoon, the Gazette of Montreal hastily printed an extra edition with a call to gather for a mass meeting at 8 p.m. that evening:
The Disgrace of Great Britain accomplished! Canada Sold and Given Away!
The End has begun.
Anglo-Saxons you must live for the future. Your blood and your race will now be supreme.
A crowd of respectable members of the English community gathered at Place d’Armes in central Montreal. The smell of alcohol filled the air. Angry voices stoked the crowd. Soon the mass of people moved purposefully towards Parliament, with torches in hand.
The large Parliament Building, a lovely two-storey limestone structure, spread over 106 metres on one side of the market square and contained two libraries, including all the archives of government. One end housed the elected assembly and the other the legislature.
Inside, the assembly was still in session and the large frame of Augustin-Norbert Morin, a man still remembered for his active involvement in the Rebellion of ‘37, calmly conducted business from the Speaker’s chair. Morin was a self-possessed, organized man who controlled the assembly with assurance. Noise from the unruly mob shook the windows as the session continued. Soon, rocks crashed through the glass, followed by fiery torches. A strapping young man ran into the assembly hall and declared, “I hereby dissolve Parliament!”
Simultaneously, the gas mains were opened and set on fire. Curtains were ablaze and the startled members, men from the furthest reaches of the Province of Canada (Ontario and Quebec today), began to rise.
Morin’s loud, calm voice called them to order: He insisted on a formal motion of adjournment.
William Rufus Seaver, a pastor who witnessed the event, described the crowd as “a rabble (for that is the only name to call it, even if it was made up of some of our finest citizens).” He went on to describe how they grabbed the golden mace, symbol of royal authority, and “carried it into the street, yelling scornfully and disdainfully all the while.”
A magnificent painting of Queen Victoria was hastily cut out of its frame and saved from the flames. It now hangs outside of the Senate in the Centre Block of Parliament Hill in Ottawa. Other priceless paintings and documents did not escape the fire. A total of 23,000 volumes in the Parliament’s two libraries and archives were lost. Much of it was irreplaceable.
The government had anticipated trouble, but had only two security men at its immediate disposal. Lord Elgin and others felt that resorting to extra protection would exacerbate the problem. And perhaps they did not believe that respectable businessmen would attempt to destroy the seat of government.
During the days that followed, shaken members of the assembly convened for a special meeting at Bonsecours — a domed two-storey market that still stands today. This time they were under the protection of British soldiers. As smoke lingered over the city, the members appointed a committee to report on the bills that were destroyed in the fire.
Controversy surrounding the Rebellion Losses Bill had rocked the colony since the end of the uprisings. Well-remembered in Quebec as La Rebellion des Patriotes de 1837-38, the uprisings began when followers of Louis-Joseph Papineau in Lower Canada (Quebec) and William Lyon Mackenzie in Upper Canada (Ontario) tried to throw off the colonial yoke in an attempt to create a republic. British forces suppressed the uprising, hanging or exiling some of the perpetrators, but the ideal of responsible government forged in the crucible of that period would eventually guide Canada to independence.
In the aftermath of the rebellions, thousands of people in both provinces who had remained loyal to the Crown filed for compensation. In the meantime, Britain merged the two provinces into one. The new Province of Canada would have an English majority, and Upper and Lower Canada became known as Canada West and Canada East, two regions of the same province. Legislation to compensate those living in Canada West (Ontario) passed without fanfare in 1845.
But there was much resistance to extending the same to people in Canada East (Quebec).
Louis-Hippolyte LaFontaine was the first prime minister of this new parliamentary democracy, experiencing its birth by fire. He had committed his government to making sure that those who had suffered unfairly at the hands of the soldiers would be compensated. In fact, in the minds of his French electors, the Rebellion Losses Bill had become a symbol, the necessary proof that his government really represented them. His voters felt a wrong had been committed against them, and if the government did not correct it, then it was not their government.
Robert Baldwin, the highly respected Reform leader in Canada West, had made common cause with LaFontaine.
They shared the belief that the British government would respect their right to govern if they demonstrated a convincing majority of support among the people of both Canada West and Canada East.
They won that majority in the elections of 1848, carried largely by the French vote in Canada East. LaFontaine, who became the first prime minister on January 18, 1849, had Lord Elgin read the Speech from the Throne in both French and English at the opening of Parliament.
This act showed that Canada had achieved responsible government and that French was accepted as an official language of Parliament. The one promise yet to be fulfilled was the passage of the Rebellion Losses Bill. But much still stood in the way.
Montreal’s Tories found themselves in opposition for the first time since the creation of Lower Canada in 1791. In previous elections, even if they found themselves in the minority, they still had the ear of the governor, they still controlled the legislature, the upper house, and they still had the final say. This time was different, though. Lord Elgin had committed himself to abide by the decisions of whichever party could demonstrate that it had the confidence of the people.
In 1844, the seat of Parliament had been moved from Kingston, Ontario, to Montreal. This brought it closer to the powerful English business elite that had controlled Canada since the late 1700s. They seethed with resentment in the face of the successful election of a French prime minister who had himself been a Patriote, a rebel. It seemed to the city’s English merchant class that LaFontaine’s insistence on the Rebellion Losses Bill was just a way for the rebels to exact revenge for having lost the rebellion.
The rioting that began with the burning of the Parliament Building lasted two days. During the riots, a mob attacked LaFontaine’s beautiful home in Montreal’s Overdale district. They set fire to his valuable library containing both books and manuscripts. They destroyed his furniture and china, and set his stables on fire.
Other supporters were attacked in the street. Elgin himself stayed behind the walls of his home. In a letter he wrote to Lord Grey, the colonial secretary, on April 30, he expressed deep concern about the situation: “It is my firm conviction that if this dictation [by the mobs] be submitted to, the government of this province by constitutional means will be impossible....”
Elgin ventured out only once. On that occasion his carriage was pelted with stones. Making his way home, he chose an unexpected route to avoid confrontation, but when the mob learned his route they gave chase, forcing his driver to whip the horses.
After that, he stayed home, protected by guards and indifferent to the accusations of cowardice published in the Tory papers. “I am prepared,” he said, “to bear any amount of obloquy that may be cast upon me, but, if I can possibly prevent it, no stain of blood shall rest upon my name.” Elgin knew that a confrontation could cause the whole French populace to rise in defence of the government, resulting in a “collision between the races.”
The situation calmed for a while, but the troubles flared up again in August after a number of arson suspects were rounded up and charged. LaFontaine was twice attacked on the street.
His house was again targeted, but this time friends rallied around him. They hid in the shadows behind the window shutters on the otherwise calm night of August 18. As they waited in the dark, a mob approached and began throwing stones. LaFontaine’s friends fired from their hiding places. The mob fired back. By the time the shooting was over, seven of the attackers were wounded and one of them, William Mason, eventually died.
Tory papers stoked the already smouldering situation, condemning the act of murder “of an Anglo-Saxon by a Frenchman.” William Mason was carried to his grave, surrounded by men in red armbands, and when LaFontaine testified at the inquest into Mason’s death, a rabble set fire to the hotel where the inquest was being held.
Lord Elgin, who could easily have called in the army and violently quelled the rioters, refrained from doing so. Even his most vocal supporters could not abide his patience, but, in the end, having no fresh fuel to feed their fury, the troublemakers calmed down.
Elgin’s tactic had worked. By backing the assembly’s decision in the face of doubt, questions, and violence, Lord Elgin proved to be the successful midwife attending at the birth of responsible government in Canada.
Over one hundred and fifty years ago, Canadian democracy faced its first major challenge: The transfer of power from the governor to an elected Parliament came at a cost with the burning of the Parliament Building, but the new government held and brought forth a modern, bilingual, self-governing society. While we celebrate Confederation as the beginning of our country, it would not have been possible without the successful birth of a self-governing Canada in 1849.
Lord Durham
The Englishman who kept French culture alive. by Richard W. Pound
It may be too late for Lord Durham to be embraced within Quebec as the person who made it possible for French language and culture to thrive in North America. After all, Durham had expected the French to eventually assimilate into English Canada. For this, as well as some of his more trenchant observations of Lower Canada, he has become a prime target in some histories.
But, consider the situation in Durham’s time. The 1837-38 rebellions in Lower Canada were not popularly based, were opposed by the Roman Catholic clergy were of interest only to certain members of professional classes, and were easily crushed. The leaders either were dealt with or escaped outside the country The real conflicts, as Durham saw them, were rooted in race, not politics.
The Patriotes were capable of tactical initiatives — such as paralyzing the colonial government — but were devoid of strategic planning to improve conditions for their compatriots. And they enraged the British minority in Lower Canada, which believed it should have political control out of proportion to its size. This was an unreasonable view, even allowing for the fact that universal suffrage was generations in the future and that the franchise of the time depended on ownership of real property.
Tensions between English and French in Lower Canada would inevitably have led to armed conflict. French Canadians would then have faced a dilemma, since Britain would certainly have taken the side of the colonists of British origin. The Americans might have intervened, but only out of self-interest — the survival of French-Canadian language, customs, and institutions would have been of no consequence to them. French Canadians themselves were unequipped for war and France was unable and disinclined to help them.
The French Canadians would lose much if war broke out. The extraordinary protections of the Quebec Act of 1774 and the Constitution Act of 1791 would certainly disappear. At best, they might maintain their traditional existence in isolated rural communities. At worst, they risked complete absorption into a North American melting pot.
Into this highly charged situation came Lord Durham, by far the most important British personage ever to visit the colonies. He arrived in May of 1838, clothed with unprecedented power as Governor General and High Commissioner to North America. The Constitution Act of 1791 was suspended. Not only was Durham to govern, he was also to find a solution to the future governance of the colonies.
No one else in the British Empire had the capacity and personal reputation to undertake this enormous task. Even at that, party politics in Westminster undermined Durham’s authority and he resigned as Governor General after only a few months in Canada. However, he continued with preparation of his report and devoted all of his efforts in the short time he lived thereafter — he died in 1840 at age forty-eight — to ensuring that his recommendations were accepted.
It has become fashionable to criticize the Durham Report. Critics point to the short time he spent in Canada, his assessment of French Canadians as “a people with no literature and no history,” and his expectation that they would eventually be assimilated into a British society. He’s also been taken to task for his views on Upper Canada and certain of his historical observations.
Many of the criticisms are valid, but they overlook the huge and central vision of responsible government contained in the report. The report was essentially a political document; it was never intended to be a doctoral thesis in history. No one, other than Durham, could possibly have put forward such an idea with any credibility; especially in the only place where it mattered — Westminster. It became Durham’s mission to bring Westminster to the conclusions he had reached. This was complicated by the fact that the Imperial Parliament was largely uninformed and uninterested in colonial matters, other than as fodder for domestic political advantage.
His larger vision was a form of confederation of all the Canadian colonies, but that time was not yet ripe. It would not fully ripen until Britain noted the size of the army the United States was able to mobilize for the American Civil War and realized that it could not hope to win a war in North America. In the short term, however, the Upper and Lower Canada situation had to be dealt with on an urgent basis. A French-Canadian majority could not be allowed to impede the development of the Canadas.
The solution was to join the two provinces, undoing the separation established in 1791. A single legislature would include an equal number of representatives from Canada East and Canada West. This ensured an overall majority for English Canada, infuriating the French Canadians, since the population was greater in Canada East (the former Lower Canada). But there was no other realistic possibility And it forced both parties to find ways to work together.
Almost three decades later, Durham’s vision found expression in Confederation, in which the rights of French Canadians were entrenched in a constitution. Given other circumstances, things might have turned out quite differently.
Moving Parliament
Ottawa was not always Canada’s capital. Here are some of its earlier locations:
Kingston, Ontario, 1841-1843
With Upper and Lower Canadian newly united as the Province of Canada, Governor General Charles Sydenham chooses Kingston as the capital. The first three sessions of Parliament are held in a vacant hospital that has been renovated for the purpose.
Montreal, 1844-1849
Parliament moves to Montreal because Sydenham’s successor, Sir Charles Bagot, believes Canada needs a seat of government acceptable to both French and English. Also, Kingston is seen as too vulnerable because of its proximity to the American border.
Toronto, 1849-1851
After a mob sets fire to the Parliament Building in Montreal, the capital moves to Toronto. However, there is continuing debate about the most suitable location for the seat of government.
Quebec City, 1852-1855
Parliament moves here after the government decides to rotate Parliament between Toronto and Quebec City every four years, a system known as perambulation. The Parliament Building in Quebec accidently burns down in 1854, so the government moves to the Quebec Music Hall and Courthouse.
Toronto, 1856-1859
It’s Toronto’s turn to host Parliament under the perambulation system. But many members think moving every four years is too costly, so they vote by a narrow margin to make Quebec the permanent capital. Even so, the debate rages on and a year later, the assembly asks Queen Victoria to settle the matter.
Quebec City, 1860-1865
Parliament returns to Quebec, but only temporarily. Queen Victoria has surprised everyone by picking Ottawa, a rough little lumber town located on the border between French and English Canada. It takes four years to construct the Parliament Buildings, which open in Ottawa in 1866.
By Nelle Oosterom
How do you go about choosing the greatest women in Canadian history?
At Canada’s History, we asked six distinguished women to come up with a list of thirty, out of which they would choose their Top Ten and Top Twenty.
Their results surprised some people, including one of the judges.
Listen to this podcast with writer and historian Charlotte Gray, who was on the judging panel.
Canada’s History decided to mark the centennial of the first women to win the vote in Canada — in Manitoba, Saskatchewan and Alberta in 1916 — by celebrating great women from Canada’s past.
To create our list we recruited a panel of prominent Canadians — former Governor General Adrienne Clarkson; bestselling author Charlotte Gray; historians Michèle Dagenais (Université de Montreal), Tina Loo (University of British Columbia), and Joan Sangster (Trent University); and author and English professor Aritha van Herk (University of Calgary).
Theirs was not an easy task, for how do you define greatness? The list of thirty names the panel came up with is by no means definitive; some of the names are familiar, others are obscure. But what can be said is that each of the great women chosen has in some way made a positive impact on Canada.
Magazine editor and women’s movement champion. Doris Anderson was a long-time editor of Chatelaine magazine and a newspaper columnist. Through the 1960s, Doris Anderson pushed for the creation of the Royal Commission on the Status of Women, which paved the way for huge advances in women’s equality. She was responsible for women getting equality rights included in the Charter of Rights and Freedoms. She authored a number of books, including three novels and an autobiography — Rebel Daughter — and sat as the president of the National Action Committee on the Status of Women. Anderson was also an officer of the Order of Canada and a recipient of a Persons Case Award and several honorary degrees. Photo: Barbara Woodley; courtesy of Library and Archives Canada/1993-234 NPC.
An inspiring Inuit artist. Born in an igloo on the south coast of Baffin Island, Kenojuak Ashevak’s career as an artist began in 1958 when a government administrator recognized her talent. She quickly became a role model for many other Inuit women, who have become almost as recognized. Among her more well-known works is Enchanted Owl, created for Cape Dorset’s 1960 print collection; it was used on a postage stamp in 1970 to mark the centennial of the Northwest Territories and soon became an artistic icon. Ashevak lived most of her life in Cape Dorset, where she had a large extended family of children and grandchildren. Gracious, composed, and thoughtful, she has been an inspiration and mentor for second- and third-generation Inuit artists. Photo: Ansgar Walk
A West Coast artist who has been described as “Canada’s Van Gogh.” Born in Victoria, Emily Carr began with few advantages. She studied art in San Francisco, London, and Paris while struggling to fund her education. Embracing the new modernist style, she came home in 1911 and applied her new skills to her favourite subjects — West Coast rainforests and the villages and artifacts of indigenous peoples. However, Canadian critics and buyers were not ready for her work and she abandoned painting for fifteen years. It wasn’t until the National Gallery mounted an exhibition of West Coast art in 1927 that she received the attention she deserved. By the time of her death she enjoyed international renown that has outlasted that of her contemporaries.
First black woman newspaper editor in North America. Mary Ann Shadd was a tireless advocate for universal education, black emancipation, and women’s rights. Born in Delaware, Shadd moved to Windsor in Canada West (now Ontario) to teach in 1851. She soon founded the Provincial Freeman, which was dedicated to abolitionism, temperance, and women’s political rights. During the American Civil War, she went back to the United States as a recruiter of African American soldiers for the Union army. After the war, she moved to Washington, D.C., to teach and to study law, becoming, at age sixty, the second black woman in the United States to earn a law degree. In 1994, Shadd Cary was designated a Person of National Historic Significance in Canada.
Activist, radio host, and politial leader. Despite being brought up in wealth and privilege, Thérèse Casgrain felt that life should be fair to everyone. She helped to found the Provincial Franchise Committee for Women’s Suffrage in 1921 and later hosted a prominent radio program, called Fémina, for Radio-Canada. She became the first female leader of a political party in Canada — the left-leaning Co-operative Commonwealth Federation (CCF) — in the 1940s. In the early 1960s, she founded the Quebec branch of the Voice of Women to mobilize women against the Cold War nuclear threat. Later, she became the Quebec president of the Consumers Association of Canada. She did much to better the lives of Canadian women. Photo: Archives nationales du Québec
Kwakwaka’wakw leader, cultural mediator, and activist. Born on Vancouver Island, Ga’axstal’as, Jane Constance Cook was the daughter of a Kwakwaka'wakw noblewoman and a white fur trader. Raised by a missionary couple, she had strong literacy skills and developed a good understanding of both cultures and legal systems. As the grip of colonialism tightened around West Coast nations, Cook lobbied for First Nations to retain rights of access to land and resources. She testified at the McKenna-McBride Royal Commission of 1914 and was the only woman on the executive of the Allied Indian Tribes of British Columbia in 1922. A fierce advocate for women and children, she was also a midwife and healer and raised sixteen children. Photo: Royal BC Museum, BC Archives
Challenged segregation practices in Nova Scotia. Long before the modern civil rights movement in the United States, a black woman from Halifax took a stand for racial equality in a rural Nova Scotia movie theatre. It was 1946, and Viola Desmond, a hairdresser, caused a stir by refusing to move to a section of the theatre unofficially set aside for black patrons. Desmond was dragged out of the theatre and jailed. While officials denied that Desmond’s race was the root of the issue, her case galvanized Nova Scotia’s black population to fight for change. In 1954, segregation was legally ended in Nova Scotia. Photo: Public domain
Challenged law discriminating against First Nations women. Mary Two-Axe Earley plunged into activism at age fifty-five, despite considerable opposition from her own community. In the end, she improved the lives of thousands of Aboriginal women and their children. Born on the Kahnawake Mohawk territory, close to Montreal, Two-Axe Earley moved to Brooklyn, married an Irish-American, and had two children. She was later widowed. Because she had lost her Indian status by marrying a non-Aboriginal, she was barred from going back to live on her reserve. For more than two decades, Two-Axe Earley lobbied to have the discriminatory law reversed. In 1985 she was successful. Her efforts benefited about sixteen thousand women and forty-six thousand first generation descendants. Photo: CP/Toronto Star
Quebec painter and stained glass artist. Marcelle Ferron is the only female artist who signed Les Automatistes’ polemical manifesto, Refus Global, in 1948. Her paintings were hung in all the major Automatiste exhibitions. Her painting technique became progressively forceful with vibrant colours and thick paint. Ferron changed her medium to stained glass after 1964. Her most known stained glass pieces are those in Champ-de-Mars and Vendôme metro stations in Montreal, which were installed in 1968. The Champs-de-Mars window masterpiece is sixty metres long and nine metres high and dapples the station with coloured light. Ferron was also an associate professor at Laval University in Quebec City and became a Grand Officer of the National Order of Quebec in 2000. Photo: Copyright Pierre Longtin
First alderwoman in the British Empire. When Annie Gale and her husband William immigrated to Calgary from England in 1912 she was appalled by the high costs of housing and food. Determined to change things, she helped to establish a local consumers’ league. A strong advocate for workers and women, she helped to organize the Women’s Ratepayers’ Association and it was this group of women who asked her to run for city council in 1917. Gale won a seat to become the first woman elected to municipal office in the British Empire. She also broke new ground when, while in office, she occasionally served as acting mayor. Gale’s non-partisan approach inspired other reformers, including Nellie McClung.
A writer whose work was universally recognized in all francophone countries. Anne Hébert won all the major awards in France and Belgium and the Governor General’s Award for fiction three times in Canada. She wrote poems, stories, novels, and plays that captured the tumult of human emotions against the backdrop of Quebec history. Hébert began writing at an early age and worked at both the National Film Board and Radio-Canada from 1950 to 1954. From there she went on to live in Paris for almost the rest of her life. The sense of a conquered society struggling to erupt and to break all obstacles is the fierce energy behind the three-dozen works she authored. Photo: lapresse.ca
Educational reformer and founder of the Women’s Institute. Adelaide Hoodless began her public life with the death of her infant son, who had consumed tainted milk. The tragedy inspired her to set about making sure that more women were educated in matters of domestic science, and she began pushing for home economics courses to be taught in Ontario public schools. She was also a powerful force behind the formation of three faculties of household science. Working with Lady Aberdeen, wife of the Governor General, she helped to found the National Council of Women, the Victorian Order of Nurses, and the national YWCA. Photo: Wikipedia
Poet and public speaker. Pauline Johnson (Tekahionwake) is best known for her poetry celebrating her Aboriginal heritage. The daughter of George Johnson, a Mohawk chief, she wrote stories about Aboriginal women and children that were based in an idealistic setting but were more realistic than those written by her contemporaries. Some of her work is included Songs of the Great Dominion (1884) by W.D. Lighthall, the first anthology to include French-Canadian and Aboriginal poetry. Johnson travelled across Canada, the United States, and England to give speeches and poetry readings. Her patriotic poems and short stories made her a popular ambassador for Canada. Photo: Bibliothèque et Archives Canada
Feminist, social reformer, lecturer, educator, and author. Marie Lacoste was from an early age acutely aware of the inequities faced by women. She was brilliant but had to educate herself through her father’s library because Quebec’s francophone universities were closed to women. In 1908 she helped to establish a girls’ school that would allow young women to pursue higher education. She was a driving force behind the the Fédération nationale Saint-Jean-Baptiste, a francophone women’s organization that championed education, equity under the law, women’s right to vote, and other social causes. Her work paved the way for the rise of the Quebec feminist movement during the Quiet Revolution. Photo: Centre d'archives de Montréal
One of the giants of Canadian literature. Born in Neepawa, Manitoba, Margaret Laurence graduated from United College (now the University of Winnipeg) and lived in Africa with her husband for a time. Her early novels were about her experience in Africa but the novel that made her famous — The Stone Angel — was set in a small Manitoba town very much like the one she grew up in. Her work resonated because it presented a female perspective on contemporary life at a time when women were breaking out of traditional roles. Laurence was also active in promoting world peace through Project Ploughshares and was a recipient of the Order of Canada.
First woman elected to the House of Commons. Agnes Macphail was born in rural Ontario. While working as a young schoolteacher she became involved with progressive political movements, including the United Farm Women of Ontario. She also began writing a newspaper column. She was elected to the Commons as a member of the Progressive Party of Canada in 1921. Her causes included rural issues, pensions for seniors, workers rights, and pacifism. She also lobbied for penal reform and established the Elizabeth Fry Society of Canada. She later was elected to Ontario’s Legislative Assembly, where she initiated Ontario’s first equal-pay legislation in 1951.
Author, lawyer, broadcaster, novelist, and Canadian politician. In 1963, Julia “Judy” LaMarsh became the second female cabinet minister in the House of Commons. She sat in Prime Minister Lester Pearson’s Cabinet as the minister of national health and welfare and minster of amateur sport from 1963 to 1965. During this time the Canada Pension Plan was implemented and the Canadian medicare system was designed. LaMarsh served as secretary of state from 1965 to 1968 where she oversaw the centennial year celebrations, brought in the new Broadcasting Act, which introduced many of the core features of today’s broadcasting policy, and established the Royal Commission on the Status of Women in Canada. Photo: Copyright Health and Welfare Canada
Novelist, reformer, journalist, and suffragist. Nellie McClung was a leader in the fight to enfranchise North American women. Her efforts led to Manitoba becoming the first province to grant women the right to vote in 1916, followed by Alberta and Saskatchewan. After a move from Manitoba to Alberta, she was elected to the Alberta Assembly as a Liberal member for Edmonton in 1921. In the legislature, McClung often worked with Irene Parlby of the governing United Farmers of Alberta party on issues affecting women and children. Both were members of the Famous Five. McClung was also the first female director of the board of the governors of the CBC and was chosen as a delegate to the League of Nations in Geneva in 1938.
An author with an enduring legacy. Lucy Maud Montgomery is most famous for being the creator of “Anne,” the redheaded orphan from Anne of Green Gables. Published in 1908, the book made Prince Edward Island famous around the world. Montgomery had a consummate literary career, publishing twenty novels, more than 530 short stories, 500 poems, and thirty essays. Raised by strict grandparents, she was a lonely, isolated child, with a vivid imagination. Later, she moved to Ontario, where she struggled with her husband’s religious melancholia, and the challenges of being wife, mother, and manse mistress. She also fought lawsuits with her publisher and with her own ill health. Long after her death, Montgomery’s legacy continues with the enduring popularity of “Anne,” a character so vivid that we can all visualize her immediately.
Brought domestic abuse to national awareness. Little is known of Angelina Napolitano’s tragic life, outside of the fact that she was an Italian immigrant who in 1911 killed her abusive husband with an axe as he slept, was convicted of murder, and was sentenced to hang. Since abuse could not be used as a defence, the case ignited enormous debate and a flood of petitions asking that her life be spared. It brought the “battered woman” defence into the spotlight and highlighted inequities in the law. On July 14, 1911, the federal Cabinet commuted her sentence to life imprisonment. She was granted parole in 1922 and is believed to have died in 1932. Photo: Lina Giornofelice pictured as the lead character, Angelina Napolitano in the 2005 movie, Looking for Angelina.
Christian missionary and spokesperson for Ojibwa people. Nahnebahwequay, also known as Catherine Sutton, took issue with the Indian Department in 1857, which prevented First Nations people from purchasing their own ceded land. She travelled to England to present the case to the colonial secretary and the British Crown. A group of Quakers in New York funded her voyage and provided her with a letter of introduction. She was introduced to Queen Victoria on June 19, 1860. The intervention of the British government allowed her and her husband, William, to buy back their land, but nothing was done for other First Nations families. Upon returning to Canada, she continued to argue for the rights of indigenous people. Photo: Copyright Grey Roots Museum, Owen Sound
Union organizer and social activist. Late in life, Madeleine Parent was recognized her indefatigable activism on behalf of workers, women, and minorities. But in her younger years she was marked as a dangerous woman and a “seditious” traitor. In the 1940s, Parent organized workers in the massive textile factories of Quebec. She was convicted — and later acquitted — of seditious conspiracy. From the 1950s to the 1970s, she led the Canadian Textile and Chemical Union, and launched historic struggles over workers rights. In her late eighties, Parent continued to speak out on a wide range of social justice issues. In the end, her radical, left-wing ideas not only defined who she was but became her lasting legacy to Canadian society.
A francophone writer who gifted to Canada some of the most memorable novels of the twentieth century. Gabrielle Roy chronicled hardship and hope, family and estrangement, and the difficulties of love. Born in St. Boniface, Manitoba, in 1909, Roy was the youngest of eleven children in a family without material wealth but replete with stories. Despite hard times, she saved enough to travel to Europe in 1937. There she began writing. She returned to Canada in 1939, and published her first novel — Bonheur d’occasion — in 1945. The novel won France’s Prix Fémina and its English translation, The Tin Flute, won Canada’s Governor General’s Award. She would go on to win two more Governor General’s Awards, as well as other literary prizes.
Explorer David Thompson’s wife and interpreter. Charlotte Small was born at Île-à-la-Crosse, a fur trade post in what is now northern Saskatchewan. She was the daughter of a Cree woman and a white trader with the North West Company. Raised among her mother’s people, her knowledge of both English and Cree made her a valuable companion to Thompson. Married at age thirteen to twenty-nine-year-old Thompson, Small would go on to accompany the explorer as he mapped much of western Canada, covering as much as 20,000 kilometres. Thompson acknowledged that his “lovely wife,” with her knowledge of Cree, “gives me a great advantage.” Their strong and affectionate partnership lasted 58 years and they raised 13 children. Photo: As depicted on the cover of Woman of the Paddle Song written by Elizabeth Clutton-Brock.
Labour organizer and workers advocate. Eileen Sufrin led the first strike of bank employees in Montreal in 1941. However, her biggest battle, and the highlight of her career, was her attempt to unionize employees at Eaton’s, Canada’s largest department store at the time. Of the 30,000 Eaton’s workers across Canada, Sufrin and her team were able to organize 9,000 employees between 1948 and 1952. Despite the low number of memberships, she took pride in knowing that during this time Eaton’s increased salaries, pensions and welfare. Sufrin was awarded a Governor General’s Medal in 1979, one of seven Canadian women honoured on the 50th anniversary of the Person’s Case.
North America’s first indigenous saint. The story of Kateri Tekakwitha is a story of resilience in the face of colonial incursions, and of a woman who tried to revitalize her traditions and values despite her conversion to Catholicism. Born in 1654 near what is now Auriesville, New York, Tekakwitha was orphaned at age four. At age nineteen, she went to the Catholic mission of Kahnawake near Montreal, where she befriended a group of devout women and devoted the rest of her short life to prayer, penitential practices, and caring for the sick and aged. Miracles were attributed to her shortly after her death, and her gravesite soon became a pilgrimage site. Tekakwitha was canonized as a saint on October 21, 2012. Photo: Dorothy M. Speiser
Peacemaker, guide and interpreter for the Hudson’s Bay Company. Thanadelthur was a member of the Chipewyan (Dene) nation who, as a young woman, was captured by the Cree in 1713 and enslaved. After a year, she escaped, and eventually came across the HBC York Factory post, governed by James Knight. Thanadelthur stayed to work for Knight, who needed a translator to help make peace between the Cree and the Chipewyan for trading purposes. Accompanied by an HBC servant and a group of friendly Cree, she went on a year-long mission into Chipewyan territory. She brought the two groups together and — alternately encouraging and scolding them — brought about a peace agreement. The HBC records refer to her as “Slave woman” or “Slave woman Joan.” Photo: This young Chipewyan woman from Cold Lake, Alberta, photographed by Edward Curtis in 1928, was popularized by historian Sylvia Van Kirk as a well-known representation of Thanadelthur.
A legendary heroine who held back an Iroquois raid. Around the age of fourteen, Madeleine, in the absence of her parents, defended the family fort from a group of Iroquois. There are at least five contemporary accounts of what happened. The most plausible, written by her about seven years after the event, suggest she escaped the clutches of an Iroquois warrior by loosening her kerchief, then rushing into the mostly undefended fort and closing the gate. She somehow fooled the Iroquois into thinking there were many soldiers defending the fort and fired a round from a cannon. The noise alerted other forts in the area and apparently scared off the Iroquois warriors.
First woman to be appointed to the Supreme Court of Canada. Born into a working-class family in Scotland, Bertha Wilson trained in law in Canada. When appointed to the high court in 1982, she already had a track record as a justice with the Ontario Court of Appeal, where she was known for her humane decisions in areas such as human rights and the division of matrimonial property. During her nine years on the Supreme Court, she helped her male colleagues to understand that seemingly neutral laws often operated to the disadvantage of women and minorities. She thus helped usher in groundbreaking changes to Canadian law. Photo: Copyright Cochrane Photography
One of Canada’s first professional social workers and the first head of the Bureau of Social Services in Halifax. Jane Wisdom completed her initial training and education in social work in New York because there were no schools of social work in Canada. She returned to Halifax in 1916 to lead the newly established Bureau of Social Services. She moved to Montreal in 1921 to complete her studies and lectured in social work. She continued her work in Montreal for eighteen years before moving back to Nova Scotia. In 1941 she accepted a position as the first welfare officer for Glace Bay, which made her the first municipal welfare officer in Nova Scotia. Photo: nsasw.org
Thank you for reading about some of Canada's Great Women.
by Paula Kelly
Absences in the historical record are often as compelling as the existing evidence, something I discovered in the process of writing and directing my first biography on film. I found that absence can become a space for speculation, for turning over the surviving historical fragments and trying to visualize the pieces that somehow went missing.
This kind of speculation can rapidly escalate into obsession, as I discovered about five years ago when I began catching occasional glimpses of a woman who would later become as familiar to me as the members of my own family. Her name was Helen Armstrong, a working-class housewife and mother of four who rose to the front ranks of labour leadership during the Winnipeg General Strike of 1919, one of the largest worker uprisings in Canadian history. She would become the subject of my documentary, The Notorious Mrs. Armstrong, but not before I undertook a journey into the past that would take me all over North America and back more than eighty years.
At that time, circa 1919, Helen Armstrong was a clarion voice in the Winnipeg labour movement for the plight of working girls and women. Identifying herself as a women’s labour organizer, she used every means to campaign against the wage inequality and unhealthy working conditions they faced as a minority presence in the industrial work force. Whether walking the picket line, making her case in the provincial legislature, or facing the police court magistrate, Helen Armstrong was an outspoken and vigorous advocate for all labouring women: laundresses, retail workers, stenographers, telephone operators, hotel waitresses; the list went on and on. In one letter to the deputy minister of labour, she went to hat for the candy-industry girls, citing case after case of poor wages, constant layoffs, and petty persecutions that made "the lives of many of our working girls ... so unbearable that in the end the street claims them as easy prey. She added that “we are making a light and have been taken under the protection of the Bakery and Confectionery Workers Union." It was a typically pugilistic sentiment from a woman who loved to gel into the ring.
During the 1919 strike, Helen Armstrong's soapbox-style oratory and street-level agitation were often reported in both the labour press and the mainstream media. In May, the Winnipeg Tribune told its readers: “At 5 o'clock this morning Mrs. Helen Armstrong started a drive against a number of smaller concerns where women and girls had remained at work. ... At 9 o’clock Mrs. Armstrong said her efforts had been far more successful than she had hoped, and that a large number of new strikers had been added to the rolls." In June 1919. the story would get bigger: Mrs. Armstrong to Stand Trial: Case Against Woman Labor Leader is Sent to Assize Court.
Even before the General Strike, Helen Armstrong's reputation for radical action was well established. In 1917, she rejuvenated the Women’s Labor League and transformed it into an active vehicle for union organization, political advocacy, and the education of women workers on the subject of their own rights. “A very striking personality is at the head of the Women’s Labor League,’’ wrote an admiring Gertrude Richardson in her column for the Leicester Pioneer. “She is Helen Armstrong, a woman whose ideals are pure and broad.”
Helen was also a woman whose opinions were made loud and clear, as expressed in her letter to the editor of the Telegram in 1917: “Girls have got to learn to fight as men have had to do for the right to live, and we women of the Labor League are spending all our spare time in trying to get girls to organize as the master class have done to protect their own interests." A year later, Helen Armstrong was still in the public eye, as a leading figure in the successful 1918 campaign for minimum-wage legislation for women in Manitoba, one of the first two provinces in Canada to enact it. By 1919, Helen Armstrong was already well equipped to deal with the unfolding labour strife, a seasoned campaigner for the rights of her particular constituency.
Until fairly recently, however, Helen Armstrong had devolved into little more than a footnote in the pages of Manitoba history. Throughout the months of research to follow, I would be frequently and forcibly reminded that this woman, so vivid a presence, so powerful a voice in her own day. had been rendered almost invisible in ours.
At the same time, I observed how much scholarship and popular opinion had been expended on an analysis of the male leadership of the strike and their subsequent role in provincial and federal politics. History, it seemed, took a powerful interest in the "Famous Ten.” those ten men who were arrested for their role as seditious conspirators in the workers' uprising — in fact, Helen’s own husband, George Armstrong. was one of this select group. There is still at least a passing familiarity with such names as R.B. Russell, J.S. Woodsworth, William Ivens, and John Queen, who later served seven terms as mayor of Winnipeg.
Helen (Jury) Armstrong was born in 1875, the eldest daughter of ten children, to a Toronto tailor. In 1897, she married George Armstrong. When the Armstrongs moved to Winnipeg with their three daughters in 1905 (a son, Frank, was born in 1907) George quickly moved to the forefront of the labour movement. Public notice was first taken of Helen in 1914 when she campaigned alongside her husband in his unsuccessful bid for a seat in the Manitoba legislature. By 1917, with her daughters old enough to mind the household, she began to take an active role in labour politics on behalf of working women. In that year, she became president of a revitalized Women's Labor League,presided over the founding of the Retail Clerks' Union, and took up the anti-conscription banner in the debate over the Military Service Act, against the judgment of most middle-class leaders of the women’s movement. In 1919, during the six-week Winnipeg General Strike, she was front-and-centre, organizing female workers, picketing, managing a strikers’ soup kitchen, signing up new union members, speaking, and marching, until she ended up in jail on June 24. (She was released four days later.) After the strike, she continued to advocate for working& women and in November 1923 ran unsuccessfully for Winnipeg city council. However, with George blacklisted and unable to find work, the entire family, including their daughters with their husbands, moved to Chicago. After the 1929 Crash, Helen and George returned to Winnipeg, where they remained until the early 1940s.They retired to Victoria, relocated in California to be near one of their daughters. Helen died in Baldwin Park, California, in 1947.
George Armstrong, who was born on a farm in Ontario in 1870, met Helen in her father’s Toronto tailor shop. Trained as a carpenter, he went wherever work was available, which took him in 1897 to Butte, Montana, where Helen travelled to marry him. At the turn of the twentieth century, the Armstrongs lived in New York, but George regarded New Yorkers as too parochial in their political outlook, and so in 1905 moved the family to Winnipeg, which was then a boomtown for the building trades as well as a hotbed of socialist activity. He quickly became involved in labour organizing and political activity, running (and losing) three times for a seat in the provincial legislature under a labour banner. He was arrested in the 1919 strike, the only Canadian-born of the “Famous Ten” who were charged for their role as seditious conspirators in the workers' uprising. He was sentenced to a year at a provincial prison farm, and released in February 1921. However, in the 1920 provincial election, he won a labour seat in the Manitoba legislature. He took his seat immediately upon his release from prison, but only served one two-year term. With continued political success and construction work difficult to find, George and his family left Winnipeg for Chicago in 1924. He died in California in 1956.
However, Helen Armstrong hits been the object of much less attention, despite the fact that she carried just as much responsibility within the administration of the Labor Temple as any of her male counterparts. As president of the Women's Labor League, she had become the only female delegate to the otherwise all-male Trades and Labor Council and her views were heard regularly and with respect in those gatherings, according to reports in The Voice and the Western Labor News. In those years, it was rare for a woman to be so prominent in trade-union affairs, which were just as much a male preserve as any conservative business gathering. Yet during the 1919 strike, regular deputations of women workers brought information from the field to Helen Armstrong, as though reporting to a commanding officer: “A couple of girls from each box, bag and candy factory, laundry, etc., where the staff is supposed to be on strike, report regularly to room 23 in the Labor Temple, the office of Mrs. Helen Armstrong,'' the Winnipeg Tribune reported in June 1919.
If imprisonment was the most convincing wav to earn equal time in the history books, well, Helen also got herself tossed into the provincial jail for inciting two women to harass scabbing newspaper sellers. She was arrested on at least two other occasions for her own disorderly public conduct. The fact that a housewife of respectable working-class origins was incarcerated at all suggests a great deal about her status as a malcontent in the eyes of the civic authorities, one of those unnatural “female bolsheviki” as a Citizen editorial put it. Why would anyone be surprised to discover that Helen's career as a radical labour activist was a long and storied chronicle?
The most accurate way to describe my interest in Helen Armstrong is both as a student of history and as a filmmaker. As a history undergraduate at the University of Manitoba, I was introduced to historians such as Robert Roberts and Eric Hobsbawm, whose vivid and authoritative writings in working-class history were all the more fascinating because they were chronicling human conditions that had once been dismissed as having minor historical significance.
It wasn’t long before I became aware of the emerging scholarship on another long-neglected front: the realm of women's history, particularly working-class women's history. As a student of history, therefore, I believed there was a value in tracing the threads of Helen Armstrong’s life. First, her crusade on behalf of working girls and women might well provide a fresh perspective on the shattering events of the 1919 strike, as experienced by its only female leader. Second, an investigation of Helen’s family roots and personal relationships might explain how a working-class mother of four became such a powerful lightning rod for the anger, frustration, and determination of female workers to speak out about their wretched conditions. Third, to express the turbulence of this period through Helen’s point of view might communicate something meaningful—I wasn’t yet sure what—to others of my generation, perhaps the sense of genuine hope and conviction that fired people up in 1919 and seems so elusive to us now. The more I thought about it, the stronger was my own conviction that Helen Armstrong deserved to be reanimated, so that she could speak her mind again.
As a filmmaker, however, I quickly realized that I had set myself a very difficult challenge. As powerful as my instinct was about the value of reconstructing Helen’s story, the shortage of materials to support it as a film documentary was, at the outset, nothing short of daunting. I had very little information about her family’s descendants, about her life before the 1919 strike, or her experiences afterward. Worst of all to a filmmaker, I had only three images of Helen herself.
I scoured every conceivable public-domain source for images of Helen. One was the now-famous portrait of the 1919 strike committee with more than fifty men and two women silting against the wall of the Labor Temple. Helen is the woman on the left, although even this fact was apparently in dispute for a number of years. The second was a news photo taken of Helen during her campaign for election as city alderman in 1923. The third was a murky photograph from the pages of the One Big Union Bulletin, a casual image of the convicted strike leaders and their wives picnicking on the grounds of the prison farm east of Winnipeg. Helen and her husband George Armstrong are blurred almost beyond recognition. You can just make out that Helen has one hand draped protectively over George’s shoulder—she is looking off to one side, a barely perceptible smile on her face.
And that was it lor the visual record of Helen Armstrong. Fortunately, newspaper reports of her various exploits were less difficult to track down. I found that Helen Armstrong was steeped in a tradition of political activism, both as the daughter of Toronto tailor Alfred Jury, a respected labour leader with liberal leanings, and as the wile of George Armstrong, a red-hot orator lor the Socialist Party of Canada.
As a tailoress in her lather’s shop, Helen watched her lather preside from his sewing bench over regular gatherings of labour intellectuals, socialists, trade unionists, even the odd businessman, all of whom spent many hours thrashing out the issues of the day. “It is a tradition among old-timers that everything proposed had to square with principles or Alf Jury would not let it pass,’’ read his obituary notice in The Voice of September 1916. In her own public speeches to labour groups, Helen herself would later acknowledge the importance of her father as an inspiration for her own labour activism.
I pieced together more and more from the available evi-dence. I read in The Voice (Winnipeg’s organ of labour news) about Helen's rejuvenation of the Womens Labor League in early 1917, leading the Woolworth's retail clerks out on strike in May of the same year. A police court summons from 1917 (evidently a busy time) told me she had been arrested for distributing pamphlets opposed to military conscription to Winnipeg women entering a Next-of-Kin Committee meeting. I discovered, too, that she regularly took food and clothing parcels up to Stony Mountain prison near Winnipeg, where young men were serving out their two years for evading conscription.
There were many other fragments, all fascinating, often startling. Transcripts of the One Big Union conference in early 1919 revealed Helen to be the only woman who stood up and spoke her piece at that historic gathering in Alberta; she challenged the labour men to help educate the women about union activities. Yet in her own speeches, I found her trying to persuade women to educate themselves so they could organize effectively. The Western Labor News of 1919 described her herculean efforts to organize the Labor Cafe, a soup kitchen that fed thousands of striking women and men. The Winnipeg Citizen, on the other hand, told me she was a female agitator who, by her own admission, had spent time in some kind of lunatic asylum. Of course, all the papers reported the news of her imprisonment for inciting women strikers to violent behaviour. Taken together, these sources implied two more important facts: that Helen Armstrong was prepared to act on her beliefs, and that when she did so, she didn't give a damn for anyone’s opinion.
On the other hand, here’s a sampling of what I didn’t know: where she was born, where she spent her childhood, where she went to school, if she went to school, little about her father, nothing at all about her mother, where and when she and George were married, where they lived before coming to Winnipeg in 1905, where they lived in Winnipeg for the first ten years, where her daughters were educated, what kind of relationship she had with them and with her husband, what she thought about socialism, whether it was true that she had been in an asylum, what she thought about housework, what her views were on suffrage, what labour men thought of her, what happened to her while George was in prison for a year, what happened to the Armstrong family in the years following the strike, and most important, who on earth was left that could remember her at all?
The weight of what I didn't know pressed down like a stone. However, I had now been working for some time with a researcher of formidable talents, Carol Preston of Winnipeg, who offered an inspired suggestion that would eventually open up worlds of possibilities. She’d located the last known address of Helen's son, Frank Armstrong, who had died in Winnipeg in the early 1990s, and suggested I try calling the neighbours to find out what they knew about the sale of Frank’s house. Maybe they'd met the relatives involved, with the disposition of his estate. I remember thinking, it's a long shot, but why not?
I made the phone call to one Bill Burrage, who turned out not only to have lived next door at the time of Frank’s death, but had purchased his house from the Armstrong family's estate. The executrix was Elsie Friesen, great-niece by marriage to Helen Armstrong. To my growing excitement, Bill told me she lived in Winnipeg.
A visit to Elsie proved to be a godsend—she had a number of Armstrong family photographs, a selection of Helen’s letters and notes, and other documents, including the police summons for Helen’s appearances in court and two complete sets of her handwritten speeches on such topics as suffrage and the importance of women’s political education. There was also a set of clippings the Armstrongs had saved themselves, mostly about Helen’s activities. Clearly, she had at least some sense of her own place in the annals of labour history.
From these documents, I learned that Helen first woke up to the particular problems faced by women while she and George Armstrong were living in the United States—the first I’d heard of that. She wrote that “my own early training was in the Radical Liberal school with the early labor leaders of Canada and I heard little of the sex fight—it was all to me a light for wages and conditions and hours of labor. It was not until I married in the U.S. and made my home there that I became acquainted of the fight for Woman's Suffrage.” The speech goes on to delineate the entire history of female suffrage through the nineteenth century in the United States. I was to find out later that she referred to the vote as “a club,” a weapon that working-class women needed to make their voices heard. “Without a club, you will not be listened to,” was a favourite call to arms.
Elsie Friesen had something even more important than photographs and documents—she had phone numbers. She was in contact with an American branch of the Armstrong family, a distant cousin named Dottie Dyer. When I called Dottie, she told me she knew very little about her gret-aunt Helen, but she thought she might have a family photo album belonging to the Armstrong clan in a box in the basement. And, oh yes, maybe I should speak to Helen Cassidy in Phoenix—she might remember a few things too.
Helen Cassidy, it turned out, was Helen Armstrong’s granddaughter and namesake. I flew down as soon as I could to meet her, and realized within minutes that she was an indispensable living link to my subject. She had lived with her grandmother for a number of years and known her for many more. She could testify to those ephemeral qualities of Helen’s personality that no clipping or photograph could offer, and fill in many puzzling gaps in her history. The photo album from Dottie Dyer arrived while I was visiting Helen Cassidy in Phoenix. We went through it together, identifying numerous photos of Helen and her family, circa 1880 to 1947. There were pictures of her in every stage of her life: of her sisters, of her children, of her husband, of their friends—there was even a postcard of Karl Marx. Sitting there, in Helen Cassidy’s kitchen, I realized I was more than halfway home to a documentary that could truly be grounded in visual, textual, and personal testimony to my subject and her world.
From Helen Cassidy. I learned about the woman herself. Ma Armstrong, as she knew her grandmother, was a compassionate mother figure to just about anyone who needed help. She informed me that Ma hated corsets and eventually gave up wearing one, and that she despised housework so much that to avoid it she would feign illness and take to her bed, declaring to her long-suffering family that “she wasn’t long for this world.” This made sense to me—I recollected that in one of Helen Armstrong’s speeches, she departed from the history of suffrage to praise the new labour-saving machines that would one day free women from the drudgery of housework, it was from Helen Cassidy that I finally learned her grandmother had been married in Butte, Montana, a booming mining town where George Armstrong, a carpenter had found work in construction. She told me that the two of them absolutely adored one another, hut that “you would never know it because they bickered so much over everything.” Especially socialism. Ma was definitely not a socialist, I was told. She had even warned her granddaughter not to make the mistake of marrying a socialist, if she wanted her children to wear shoes.
Just as interesting was Helen Cassidy’s assertion that her grandmother had been a patient at Brandon Mental Hospital, but not because she was a lunatic: she’d had a breakdown after all four of her children came down with scarlet fever at the same time. (The hospital record called it ”reactive depression”) From Helen Cassidy, I also learned that the Armstrong family was a close-knit one. Helen's son and daughters took their mother’s constant whirl of activity in stride, although the girls sometimes resented having to do all the household chores while she was out at one of her many meetings.
There was yet another surprise in store in this period of new discoveries: the sudden appearance of Helen Armstrong's grandson, Bob Waters of Hot Springs, Arkansas. While I was on my own trek into the Armstrong family's colourful past, Bob Waters was tracing his family roots in a journey that brought him from Arkansas to Winnipeg. One of his first stops was to the City of Winnipeg Archives, where archivist James Allum, upon learning his identity, hurried to contact me with the amazing news that Helen Armstrong’s grandson was in town. When I met Bob Waters in his hotel room in Winnipeg, we traded bits and pieces of family history back and forth, filling in more spaces between fragments. He affirmed that his grandmother had indeed become a suffragist in the U.S., citing a well-rehearsed family story that she and a group of female activists had chained themselves to a fence around the White House.*
In Helen's own correspondence, I discovered her efforts on behalf of women’s rights continued well into the thirties, as she worked to reform the Mothers Allowance Act, which provided support for widows and single mothers. She spent the rest of her time sewing clothes, organizing soup kitchens, and putting food on her own table for anyone who needed help during those terrible years. Helen Cassidy remembered how her grandfather George used to declare that “the bums put a mark on our fence, so the next bum who came along would know where to go for a free meal.” Bob Waters, too, had fond memories of a warm, maternal grandmother who loved to put on a spread for family and friends.
These family recollections certainly contradicted the loud, aggressive, even hostile persona that was portrayed in reportage of the redoubtable Ma Armstrong. Arguably,
Paula Kelly is a writer and director living in Winnipeg. Her documentary, The Notorious Mrs. Armstrong, first aired on WTN in May 2001.
et cetera
Enlisting Women for the Cause: Women, Labour, and the Left in Canada, 1890-1920 by Linda Kealey. University of Toronto Press, Toronto, 1998.
Profiles in Dissent: The Shaping of Radical Thought in the Canadian West by Harry Gutkin and Mildred Gutkin. NeWest Press, Edmonton, 1997.
*Bob Waters knew well the socialist and humanist legacy left in his grandparents, because it resonated in his own father's union activity in the Chicago of the Roaring Twenties. According to Bob, business leaders brought in the Mob to bust the fledgling union of downtown building and construction trades. “They blew up my dad's car with grenades,” he told me. “But the unions won. They actually outgunned the Mob!” Bob was insistent that his father Charles' resolve was a trait learned from Ma and Pa Armstrong.
by Yvette Nolan
I imagine it was cold and windy the day they killed Annie Mae. I imagine her standing there on the precipice, knowing it was over, praying for her daughters. Was she terrified, or was she graced in those last few moments with courage, with faith, with the belief that her journey had been worth it?
Annie Mae Pictou was born in Nova Scotia on March 27, 1945 and raised on the reserve at Shubenacadie, and later, when her mother remarried, at Pictou Landing. Canada’s reserves had little to offer, and so Annie Mae, like many Maritime natives, migrated to Maine for the annual blueberry and potato harvest. In 1962, she headed for Boston with Jake Maloney, a Micmac from Shubenacadie, with whom she had two daughters, Denise and Deborah.
Many natives who move to the city find themselves on skid row, and Annie Mae too found herself in Boston’s “combat zone.” But instead of succumbing to the siren call of booze and drugs, she began to work for change. She was one of the early organizers of the Boston Indian Council, which established housing, employment, and drug and alcohol programs. She worked in the early “survival schools,” educating young natives in an atmosphere that fostered a sense of pride in their culture and heritage.
Annie Mae hungered for faster change than survival schools could offer. When the American Indian Movement occupied Wounded Knee in 1973, Annie Mae and her lover Nogeeshik Aquash chose to join the protesters. Placing her two daughters in the care of her sister Mary, she left for South Dakota, running food and medical supplies into besieged Wounded Knee. Once inside, she dug bunkers and took part in nightly patrols with the men. She and Nogeeshik were married at Wounded Knee, in a traditional ceremony symbolizing their commitment to traditional values. Annie Mae had thrown her lot in with the warriors.
She became a leader in AIM, but she lost neither her connection to the women nor her commitment to systematic community work. She trained physically with the men and sewed with the women, where she continued to espouse the importance of education, of healthy diet, of resistance.
However, the American Indian Movement that Annie Mae embraced was already destabilized, infiltrated by agents for the FBI. The most well-known, Doug Durham, who passed himself off as one-quarter Chippewa, also rose swiftly within the ranks, taking charge of security, despite misgivings voiced by Annie Mae and the other women.
Durham’s exposure as a spy, and his subsequent bragging in the press about the FBI’s infiltration of AIM, made the AIM members paranoid and defensive, and suspicion fell on Annie Mae. After the shootout on Jumping Bull property in 1975 that killed two FBI agents and one native man and led eventually to the imprisonment of AIM leader Leonard Peltier, Annie Mae became a target of the FBI. She was picked up and questioned several times and released, which served to fuel rumours that she was an informant.
The last few times her family heard from her, Annie Mae had been arrested and knew she was in danger. She spoke of men being out to get her if the FBI didn’t get her first. In a prescient instruction, she told her sister to save her letters so that her daughters might know her. She never called home on Christmas 1975, and on February 24, 1976, her body was found at the base of the cliff in Wanblee, South Dakota. No one was charged with her murder for twenty-seven years.
The spirit of Annie Mae refused to die. Movies, documentaries, and books about the unsolved case continued to appear, and rumours continued to fly, in the press and on the Internet, about the involvement of AIM leaders in her execution. Then, at the end of March this year, there was an arrest and the promise of another.
The man who is charged worked security for AIM; he would have been twenty-one in 1975. When arrested, he was homeless in Denver. The other suspect, still at large, would have been about the same age. If these two men are convicted and go to jail for the murder of Annie Mae, will it be justice? Will it be enough for the family, for friends, for the legion of women like me who are compelled to speak and to work for native people because Annie Mae’s refusal to be silenced cost her her life?
Yvette Nolan’s play Annie Mae’s Movement has been produced in Whitehorse, Winnipeg, Toronto, and Halifax. She is the artistic director of Native Earth Performing Arts in Toronto.
This article originally appeared in the August-September 2003 issue of the Beaver.
by Terri Hunter
”The girls are coming! The girls are coming! They'll be here any day!” So screamed the headlines of Victoria's British Colonist in September of 1862. The Tynemouth, forever after known as the “bride ship” was on its way. For Colonist publisher Amor De Cosmos — a man with a strong sense of the ridiculous who would eventually go on to become British Columbia's second premier — it was a perfect opportunity to attract male readers, not to mention advertisers.
The situation was this: To the horror of the British government, Queen Victoria, and the Anglican Church, the glittering-with-gold valleys of the mighty Fraser River were home to 30,000 people, of whom very few were women, or British, for that matter. Most were single, young American men drawn in by the gold rush. How to make them British? Thus the gift they were about to receive from London — a cargo of sixty young women from Britain.
Organized by the Columbia Emigration Society under the auspices of the Anglican Church, this was not the first shipment of brides to the nascent colony. At around the same time the Tynemouth was on its way from Britain, The Seaman's Bride, a ship from Australia with about twenty women on board destined for Victoria, docked at San Francisco. “And what did the young Yankees do?” De Cosmos complained in the Colonist. “Alas! They captured the affections of the girls.... The vessel came on to this port (Victoria) without even a petticoat aboard to delight the eyes and cheer the palpitating hearts of the Victorians.”
De Cosmos’s interest in the bride ship may not have been simply commercial. The Nova-Scotia-born future politician, whose original name was William Alexander Smith, had a keen interest in unifying what were then two British Crown colonies — one on Vancouver Island and one on mainland British Columbia — as well as the other British North American colonies, and joining them into a single nation. At the time, Americans dominated the West Coast colonies, and some saw it as inevitable that the United States would eventually take over the region. De Cosmos, a smart, dapper, if eccentric man, who stood out for always being well-dressed, perhaps perceived the introduction of the British women as one way of turning back that tide.
Vancouver Island’s stricken lonely hearts were in an uproar when the California bachelors raided the Seaman's Bride. Undaunted, De Cosmos tried to keep the fires burning until the next bride ship was expected to arrive. To titillate his male readers, the editor ran sentimental love poems and such lurid stories as, “A Mysterious Queen of Fashion,” stirring the minds of prospective suitors to the glories awaiting them “Trying on a Hoop Skirt” had a blushing young male clerk outwitted by a beautiful lady desiring to try on a fashionable underskirt. The salacious tale ended with the clerk discovering that instead of retiring to “rearrange her toilette,” the lady had made off with the merchandise.
De Cosmos also regaled his male readers with advice on choosing a bride. Beware, he wrote, “the girl with a romantic confidence in her Cinderella-like destiny,” who didn't appreciate “steady, good-looking, industrious young men.” Shouldn't she instead “anticipate marriage with one in the humbler walk of life?” No doubt his humbler readers agreed.
De Cosmos finally had some good news to report when, on September 11, 1862, the Colonist announced: The Tynemouth's Invoice of Young Ladies The screw steamer Tynemouth, from London, with sixty young ladies aboard, should be here in a few days, and bachelors both young and old must prepare to give fitting reception. A general holiday should be proclaimed; all the bunting waved from flagstaffs; salutes fired from Beacon Hill; clean shirts and suits of good clothes brought into requisition, and every preparation made to give this precious “invoice” a warm welcome. We are sorry to say that the Tynemouth will stop at San Francisco on her way up. ... The Immigration Board should send an agent to San Francisco to prevent “desertions” while the Tynemouth lies at that port.
The men of the colony were abuzz with anticipation. Was it true? Were they really coming? On September 17, De Cosmos's Colonist passed on more hot news from San Francisco:
The Tynemouth at San Francisco: How many hearts will beat with pleasure as this paragraph reaches their eyes, we do not dare think; but we are sure that pleasurable emotions will pervade every bachelor heart in the “great” metropolis when we state that the good steamer Tynemouth, with sixty select bundles of crinoline, arrived at San Francisco on the 10th... and was to sail in a few days for this port with her precious freight — that is, if the Yankees don't steal their affections. The local editor of the San Francisco Herald must himself have been smitten with the fair damsels, to judge from the following: “Colonization of British Columbia'... their rosy cheeks and embonpoint [full-figured bodies] show that they will be valuable accessions to the Colony.”
Next morning’s Colonist reported: “The ship had left San Francisco on the 12th... and is now fully due here.” And, De Cosmos noted in a column, “She was very fast — steaming at fifteen miles an hour.” He added, “It may be consoling to those of our citizens who have expressed a fear that the young women might be stolen by the Californians, that they are under the charge of an agent, whose duty it is to see that they do not leave the vessel.”
De Cosmos, however, had been fooled. The ship had in fact arrived the previous night and was anchored a few kilometres away in Esquimalt Harbour.
On September 20, the Colonist made the official announcement:
Arrival of the Tynemouth: This fine, iron steamship... cast anchor in Esquimalt harbour at 8 o'clock [the] night before last. As a matter of course, we went aboard the steamer yesterday morning and had a good look at the lady passengers. They are mostly cleanly, well-built, pretty-looking young women — ages varying from fourteen to an uncertain figure; a few are young widows who have seen better days. Most appear to have been well raised and generally they seem a superior lot to the women usually met with on emigrant vessels. Taken altogether, we are highly pleased with the appearance of the “invoice,” and believe that they will give a good account of themselves in whatever station of life they may be called to fill.
Bedlam erupted at the news of the ship’s arrival. Anything that floated was hired to get eager young swains out to the ship. Others, said the Colonist “...toiled along primitive roads to the port, hacking miles through the heat and dust… arrayed in their best, down to polished shoes and delicately perfumed handkerchiefs.”
For the next few days, De Cosmos gleefully reported on the antics. Hoping to inspect the ship’s “lovely freight,” some respectable notables “hove in sight.” Despite their “protestations of honorable intentions,” the newspaper reported, the boatload found the gangplank pulled up against them, and were forced to return to shore “like baffled birds of prey.” Chortled De Cosmos in a column: “A large number of citizens visited Esquimalt ... and were generally ordered off and returned from their fruitless errand with heavy hearts.”
It had not, however, been fruitless for the newspaper. Eager advertisers bought space to promote products for the lovelorn. A large ad for toiletries suggested, among other delights, “Essence Jockey Club” for men, a product called “Kiss Quick,” and de rigueur castor oil pomade for gentlemen’s hair. Other advertisers bypassed the courtship stage altogether and went directly to flogging crockery and blankets.
Also in the ads was the announcement of a gala regatta for the girls, to be followed in coming weeks by ads for whale boat races, horse races, and other delights to share with a new sweetie.
Interest was so keen that the Royal Marines were excused from their regular duty of guarding the Pacific Ocean to escort the girls ashore. It was a startling welcome through a noisy, overheated, and not always respectful throng of what De Cosmos called “breeches-wearing bipeds.” There were friendly flirtations, lewd comments, and jokes as rough as some of their owners.
The sea-weary women were led in rows toward the legislative building, where tubs of warm water with soap were set up in front of the building for the women to wash their clothes. Many had been deprived of such luxuries for months and a very public scrubbing took place.
After the ceremonies, a women’s committee divided the bride-ship women into three groups. The very young were placed in homes as servants until they were old enough to marry. Girls fifteen years and up would be available as brides and housed at the military barracks until a suitor was found. The ship’s older passengers would also stay in the barracks until employment was found for them. The girls lived under tight twenty-four-hour surveillance in the aging military complex, and no one, except immigration committee members, was admitted.
Still, this high level of security wasn’t completely effective. Some days after the women’s arrival, the Colonist reported a “SHOCKING DEPRAVITY” — apparently two clergymen and a naval officer had made “a melancholy discovery.” They had come across one of the girls in the act ! She was talking through the barracks fence — to a man !
In his newspaper, De Cosmos warned: “What will become of a young lady who exhibits such extreme depravity ... who would allow ... converse with that most dangerous of all animals — a young man. ...To guard against a repetition ... we respectfully recommend a file of marines drawn from among the oldest men ... with especial reference to their ugliness, be stationed around the barracks in future with strict instructions to bayonet every young man who may have the audacity to approach.
Eventually, the women found husbands, or work, or both, and their presence had a significant impact. They helped found communities all over British Columbia, and many families today can trace their ancestry back to the bride ship Tynemouth.
The Tynemouth was not the only bride ship to arrive in Victoria. The Columbia Emigration Society also sent out the Robert Lowe the following spring. After that, ships were no longer chartered, but women were still given assisted passage. The emigration of young women from Britain was taken over by the Salvation Army in the late 1800s and by the YWCA after that. The practice of sponsoring British women to come to the West Coast did not end until before the Second World War.
Terri Hunter’s family came to Vancouver Island in 1851. She has a master’s degree in anthropology and is considering doing a Ph.D. on the bride ships. She writes and lectures in Victoria B.C.
Et Cetera
Voyages of Hope: The Saga of the Bride-Ships by Peter Johnson, BC Books, Heritage Distribution, Surrey, British Columbia, 2002. (Part fiction).
In The Beaver: “Different Drummer” (about Amor De Cosmos) by Norm and Carol Hall. October/November 2006.
Whatever became of the bride-ship girls?
Only half of the sixty young women aboard the Tynemouth have been traced by historians, and, as could be expected in the raucous frontier days of British Columbia, their lives varied enormously.
Louisa Townsend spoke for many when she said, years later, that she “happily took to husband, housework, and babies with no regrets.” She and her sister brought Victoria its first piano and first sewing machine.
Besides farming with their husbands and children, many of the women became midwives and teachers to the new communities they helped found. It is said of Tynemouth passenger Isabel Robb that she never lost a mother or child in all her years of midwifery in the Comox Valley.
Mary Macdonald, with a widowed mother and three sisters to support, is credited with inspiring Victoria’s love of music. She was much in demand to sing at parties and weddings, and, at one time or another, she played the Sunday organ for most of Victoria’s hastily erected churches. Years later she married Peter Leech, a one-time gold miner who was by then Victoria’s respectable city engineer.
Jane Saunders fulfilled her dream of riches, parlaying her late husbands biscuit company into a business empire with the help of her seven children. This led local wags to call their home the Cracker Castle.
The beautiful Isabel Curtis was married at fifteen and whisked away to a cabin on the dark forested shores of what is now the town of Chemainus on Vancouver Island. Her arranged marriage eventually left her a young widow with several children and at the mercy of those who wanted her land. Eventually, she settled happily near Jane Nesbitt, a fellow bride-ship girl, in Victoria. Like many of the girls, she was helped over the years by the Royal Navy and the citizens of Victoria, who always took care of the bride-ship girls who had won their hearts. - T.H.
by Annmarie Adams and Peta Tancred
In the 1960s, Montreal was a Modern architectural showcase. From Place Ville Marie to Place Bonaventure to Expo 67, the city reverberated with the construction of new and remarkable buildings. Remarkable, too, for the time were the number of women architects at the centre of this activity. As this account, adapted from Designing Women by McGill University's Annmarie Adams and Peta Tancred, indicates, Montreal's women architects altered more than a skyline. They altered the profession.
In the heady days of the 1960s, with western economies booming and politics and culture emerging from a conservative postwar stasis, Montreal found itself through circumstance and the force of personalities at the centre of the Modern architectural movement. Expo 67, the world’s fair on Ile Ste-Hélène and Ile Notre Dame in the St. Lawrence River, one of the most creative moments in Canadian history, brought international exposure to designs by some of the world’s most talented architects — pavilions that were imaginative, audacious, and often breathtaking. Montreal, then Canada's largest city, was a particularly magical place in the country's centennial year, a laboratory for bold expression and experimentation in architecture.
But the groundwork for Montreal’s role as architectural cynosure had been laid some years before. Place Ville Marie, aluminum-and-glass-clad office towers in a shining cruciform, was built between 1958 and 1965. One of the finest examples of midcentury Modern design in Canada, it became the veritable symbol of the new Montreal. Place Bonaventure, meanwhile, built between 1964 and 1968, was one of the largest new constructions in the world at the time. Occupying a two-and-a-half hectare site, it included 93,000 square metres of retail space and 9,300 square metres of offices, and connected to both railway and subway. Structurally bold, expensive, massive, and multifunctional, it had enormous implications for Montreal’s urban design, giving it the distinction of having the world's largest underground city.
Among those at the centre of Place Bonaventure’s design and construction was Eva Hollo Vecsei, who, working intensely on the project under Raymond Affleck, partner-in-charge of the architecture firm ARCOP (Architects in Cooperative Partnership) & Associates, was catapulted into the city's architectural foreground. Born in Vienna in 1930, an émigré to Canada after the 1957 Hungarian revolution, Vecsei brought to Montreal an impressive portfolio of large-scale constructed projects, including miners’ housing in Hungary and schools in Budapest. For the time and place— Canada in the early postwar period — she was an exceptional figure. The few Canadian women registered as architects almost invariably found themselves forced into careers in residential design, interiors, and historic preservation-stereotypically ghettos for women architects. Rarely did they have opportunities to design the large commercial and industrial structures that marked cityscapes and built substantial careers.
But Vecsei was living in an exceptional time in an exceptional place. Though an entire world’s fair could without irony designate its theme Man and His World, the 1960s were a time of turbulence and social transformation that challenged the norms of North American society, including the role of women. Quebec, particularly, underwent concentrated change at a remarkable pace. The death of Premier Maurice Duplessis in 1959 and the defeat of his ultra-conservative Union Nationale party in the ensuing elections in 1960 marked the start of the so-called Quiet Revolution in Quebec. Over the next decade and a half, the province passed from a right-wing conservative government to a nationalist/separatist government, the Parti Québécois, which first came to power in 1976. This political upheaval reflected major social and economic changes, not least of which were the massive decrease in the farming population, the waning of the Roman Catholic Church, the rising dominance of the public sector, and increased access to education. It was into this milieu that Vecsei and a number of her female colleagues stepped. While Quebec in 1942 was the last province to accept women as registered architects, the early experience of its pioneers took place in a context much different than that of the rest of Canada. Montreal saw an unprecedented building boom in the 1960s, and women architects, more than their counterparts elsewhere in the country, were able to take highly visible roles in creating the built environment. In doing so, they changed their career trajectories, shattered myths about women in the profession, opened doors to other women, and, in good measure, gave Montreal its contemporary face.
Their accomplishments did not pass without notice, but the attention was of a kind incidental to the work. In the substantial press coverage of Place Bonaventure, Vecsei's gender was called out in high relief. She clearly resented the implications and took every opportunity to distance herself from traditional women’s work. She told the Montreal Star in 1965: “Please don’t put me in the category of women who add their little pink touches. ... I’m not interested in home-building projects that are uniform and repetitious. ... Huge massive structures that allow for individual expression and require complex solutions to integrated problems excite me.”
She was not alone. Blanche Lemco van Ginkel, a graduate of McGill’s school of architecture, had done the original master planning for Expo 67 with her husband. In 1980, at the University of Toronto, she became the first woman dean of architecture in North America. Dorice Brown Wal-ford was a project architect for the innovative Telephone Pavilion at Expo and went on to specialize in hospital planning for several of the major medical centres in Montreal, including the Allan Memorial Institute at the Royal Victoria Hospital. Pauline Clarke Barrable. a member of the Place Bonaventure design team, eventually became senior architect for the Royal Bank of Canada. Sarina Altman Katz was senior project architect for Habitat projects in the offices of Moshe Safdie. Janet Leys Shaw Mactavish developed innovative designs for schools on the west island of Montreal, including a circular school with an auditorium in its centre. In Quebec, most of the eighteen women architects who registered with the Ordre des architectes du Québec (OAQ) before 1970 did anything but so-called “women's work.” Instead, they gained their early experience in the design of high-profile, nonresidential buildings. Many of these pioneering women cite their experience working on Place Bonaventure as instrumental to their subsequent careers.
In many cases, these women were helped by having had foreign educations. In Eastern Europe, where Vecsei was born, women architects were relatively commonplace. English-born van Ginkel worked in France with Modern master Le Corbusier, and specialized in city planning. Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan-born Walford, too, gained her early experience with Le Corbusier in Paris, where she also worked with Skidmore Owings and Merrill, known today for such buildings as Chicago's Sears Tower. Either being born in, or having trained in, Eastern Europe, where women architects were already a sizable percentage of the profession by the postwar period, gave them the knowledge, skill, and experience to make it in the male-dominated Montreal architectural scene.
In some cases, too, the women were helped by having husbands in the same or related professions, who were well aware of the difficulties involved in architectural practice. However, while marriage to architects in most cases helped women to secure employment, it also ensured that women were paid less. Some managers even queried the necessity for two salaries if a woman worked in the same office as her architect-husband. Nonetheless, there were a few important places of support: In addition to ARCOP, two other Montreal offices — Barott, Marshall, Merrett and Barott (BMMB) and David, Barott, Boulva (DBB) — were notable for hiring women.
But the times, as much as anything, had a felicitous effect on the role of women in architecture. In the 1960s in Montreal, a symbiosis took place between creativity, capital, and challenges to old ways that opened doors hitherto closed. It was a turning point. Despite the barriers to women in the profession, women architects in Quebec found themselves with an unprecedented opportunity to contribute their expertise to the planning and design of enormous public and commercial ventures. The sheer scale of the commissions, in such projects as Expo 67, the speed with which projects were designed and then constructed, new ways of working in teams (such as with Place Bonaventure), and the use of new building technologies provided Quebec women architects with the experience to occupy the centre, rather than the margins, of the profession.
After 1970, the presence of women registered architects grew at breakneck speed in Quebec. By 1992, 55 percent of all Canadian women registered architects were members of the professional association in Quebec. In fact, despite their late start in 1942, Quebec women came to dominate the official female practice of architecture in Canada, most of their entry into the profession having taken place during the 1970s and 1980s. By the early 1970s, when Vecsei began to design the highly controversial project La Cité, a $120 million mixed-use urban development that called for the partial demolition of an old neighbourhood of Victorian triplexes and apartments, her gender was of little notice. Place Bonaventure press clippings had all stressed her perspective as a woman and her “attractiveness.”
La Cité clippings did not.
Designing Women: Gender and the Architectural Profession by Annmarie Adams and Peta Tancred is published by University of Toronto Press.
One More Profession “Invaded”
A book on English houses inspired Esther Marjorie Hill to become Canada’s first registered woman architect. “The thought soon grew, though bidden carefully from the outside world,” Hill confessed during a 1921 interview. Following studies at the University of Alberta, Hill transferred to the University of Toronto where she was the first woman admitted to the architectural program. She graduated on June 4, 1920, to a great cheer. “A storm of applause ... nearly shook the building,” The Globe reported the next day.
Not everyone, however, was pleased about the first woman to graduate in architecture. C.H.C. Wright, Hill’s professor at the University of Toronto, boycotted the ceremony. And the day before the graduation, The Globe reported “The Canadian woman has invaded one more profession.”
Never one to follow the crowd, Hill took a job in the interior decorating department at Eaton's in Toronto following her momentous graduation. When she returned to Alberta in 1921, she found her reception as a “lady architect” to be considerably cooler than she might have anticipated from the thunderous ovation at her Toronto convocation. Hill’s application for membership in the Alberta Association of Architects was denied. Perhaps anticipating her application, the association had devised a new requirement for a year’s work experience. It was not until 1925, following postgraduate studies in town planning at the University of Toronto, a summer course at Columbia University, and a stint in an architectural firm in New York, that Hill was finally accepted by the Alberta association, becoming Canada’s first registered woman architect.
Hill, however, was not the only woman to encounter resistance within the profession. The first woman to register with the Ontario Association of Architects (OAA) was Alexandra Biriukova, best known for designing an icon of Canadian Modernism, the Toronto home of Group of Seven artist Lawren Harris. Like many of the women architects who practised in Quebec a generation later (see main story), she was born in Eastern Europe and arrived in Canada already trained as an architect. Unfortunately for the course of Canadian architecture, she resigned from the OAA in 1934 and spent the rest of her life as a tuberculosis nurse in Toronto.
In the pre-World War II era, there were only five women, including Hill, registered as architects. Compared to other countries, the entry of Canadian women to the profession of architecture was quite late. Louise Blanchard Bethune was the first woman to register as a member of the American Institute of Architects, in 1888. Ethel Charles became a registered architect as early as 1898 in England.
After a second stint practising in New York, Hill returned to Alberta in 1928 to work with an Edmonton firm on such projects as the Edmonton Public Library. When work dried up in the Depression, she turned her design skills to weaving, making gloves, producing greeting cards, and teaching. She moved to Victoria in 1936, but her architectural practice didn’t really begin until after World War II, when she began designing modern, no-nonsense houses for returning veterans and their families, usually for a fee of $50 per house. Her houses are easy to recognize. They are typically rectangular in form, with long sides framing a central entry. Hill’s houses also feature deep eaves, coved ceilings, large windows, raised hearths, dressing rooms, a range of built-in furniture, and generous storage spaces.
Like many early women architects in English Canada, kitchens were an important part of her practice. And since kitchens are often among the first rooms to be modernized in older homes, Hill’s kitchens constitute a mostly invisible legacy, hidden within the walls of buildings designed by other (men) architects. Hill’s kitchens were efficient and undecorated, and included sensible features such as unusually high counters (ninety-nine centimetres) with rounded corners, Lazy Susans, built-in appliances, and passthroughs between the cooking and eating zones. A Victoria kitchen she designed in 1966, for a home built in 1930, fetched her $60.
Perhaps her own kitchen served as a model for those she designed, as her practice occupied the main floor of her parents’ home until long after her father’s death in 1960. Working from home was and is more common among women architects. Hill was unmarried, and seems to have had no employees or associates. Her father, Ethelbert Lincoln Hill, who had been chief librarian of the Edmonton Public Library from 1912–36, was a central figure in her life. She even wove the fabric from which his suits and coat were made.
Among the more public, large buildings Hill designed in Victoria is Glenwarren Lodge, Canada’s first purpose-built housing for seniors. She was also responsible for the 1955 addition to the Emmanuel Baptist Church, now the Belfry Theatre.
Marjorie Hill died in 1985 at the age of eighty-nine, leaving a legacy of distinctive homes and buildings. Though a pioneer as a woman in the practice of architecture in Canada, she remains little known. That, one hopes, is about to change.
by Louisa Blair
During its first half-century, in the wake of the Counter-Reformation that regenerated Roman Catholic faith, New France witnessed an explosion of missionary zeal. Jesuit fathers came to proselytize to the Huron people.
In the summer of 1639 three young women arrived in Quebec City in a small rowboat, perched on a heap of salted codfish. They were there to start the first hospital in the Americas north of Mexico. On the beach to meet them were the governor of New France, the Jesuits, and a few other notables of a city whose population had not yet reached two hundred. The women were both nurses and nuns; they were still in their twenties, and they had come all the way from Dieppe, France.
The hospital they founded is still there 361 years later, with its high stone walls, its monastery, and its beautiful secret garden, and so is the community of Augustinian sisters. The last nun stopped working at the hospital four years ago, and the sisters ceded it to the province only five years ago.
In the lobby of this busy modern institution is a large mural of those three young women, full of enthusiasm, setting out from Dieppe for a new life worthy of their wildest dreams. The long sea crossing was gruelling, but the sisters were each provisioned with twenty bottles of “good wine,” which must have helped, as well as smelling salts and a mattress. They kept up their morale by singing several church services a day below deck, in two-part harmony, and handing out rosaries to the sailors.
The women belonged to the Congrégation des réligieuses hospitalières de la Miséricorde de Jésus, a religious community based on the Rule of Saint Augustine that began in France in 1155, and had been running hospitals since the Middle Ages. By 1949 the order had opened nine more hôtels-dieu in Quebec.
Hôtels-dieu were the institutional expression of a spirituality that saw practical hospitality towards the poor and the sick as the best way to know divine love. In addition to their vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience, these sisters look extra vows of hospitality towards the poor who were ill.
It was through the very bodies of the poor that they were to serve Christ, “collecting the drops of the precious blood of Jesus Christ and, in their daily tasks, applying them for the salvation of the souls for whom it was shed.”
Their mission in this case was to help and convert the First Nations, for whom, as the Jesuit Father Le Jeune reported back from New France, to be the least bit ill was to have one foot already in the grave. The Algonquins might respond very well, he reasoned, to a hospital where they would he cared for and emerge alive. Since he himself had rewritten the rule book of the Augustinian order a couple of years before, he was in a good position to know that the sisters would do a good job. Their hospital in Dieppe was, in his view, “one of the best-run in Europe.”
But in Quebec the nuns found themselves on what might as well have been a different planet. There was wilderness, war, lire, starvation, cold to a degree they had never imagined, and epidemics of mysterious and terrifying diseases. They were immediately faced with a smallpox epidemic that wiped out half the Huron Nation. From the description of the nineteenth-century historian Francis Parkman, we can gather a little of what their first days were like:
In the infected air of their miserable hovels, where sick and dying savages covered the floor, and were packed one above another in berths — amid all that is most distressing and most revolting, with little food and less sleep, these women passed the rough beginning of their new life.
The sisters literally gave the shirts off their own backs. They used up their entire supply of sheets to bandage their patients, and resorted to tearing strips off their own habits and wimples.
By 1644, the Iroquois wars made their second hospital, which was slightly upriver in Sillery, too dangerous to inhabit. But the sisters didn’t give up. They took Algonquian lessons in between tending the sick and lending a hand with the hammering and the planing for their third hospital. The fourth was a stone building they were given in 1658, with a ten-bed ward and a chapel. This is the one whose foundations are still there today, next to the Budget car rental and just up the road from McDonalds.
Unfortunately for their plans for winning the confidence of the First Nations, their hospital quickly became known among the Algonquins as “the house of death,” thanks to the waves of epidemics that were ravaging them, and soon none came there any more.
The sisters were kept more than busy, however, with the illnesses of the sailors, soldiers, and settlers, who died like flies almost every lime a boat docked in the harbour carrying the next epidemic.
The sisters knew that New France was a challenge, hut that's what they wanted. They were infected with a mystical fervour, inspired partly by theologian Vincent de Paul, that was sweeping through French society in reaction to the Protestant Reformation. In the twenty years following the sisters’ arrival, hundreds of priests and sisters were propelled across the sea from France by some mystical vision of a saint calling them to the New World. By 1642 the city had five major religious communities on fire to serve the First Nations, whom they considered the very poorest of God’s poor. If it meant martyrdom so much the better. At one point the French communities were so keen to send sisters that the Quebec contingent had to write and threaten that any more sisters who showed up would he put on the next boat home.
There was also money to be had, as French aristocratic patrons were inspired by the passionate letters home written by the Jesuits and Marie de I’Incarnation, an Ursuline nun who arrived in Quebec to educate French and native girls the same year as the first Augustinian sisters. The letters are still some of the most important documents in Canadian history.
The money for Hôtel-Dieu came from the Duchesse d’Aiguillon, niece of one of the wiliest politicians in the history of France, Cardinal Richelieu. Widowed at eighteen, she was filled with the mystical fervour of the era, but being also an eminently practical woman, she set up a foundation for the new hospital by investing in several trucking companies (or their seventeenth-century equivalent), whose revenue was to support the hospital.
The only payment the Duchesse exacted was that the sisters were to pray for her, and have the sick pray for her, daily, in perpetuity. (The sisters are still praying for her, 361 years later, but they no longer require their patients to do so.) Her patience must have worn somewhat thin, prayers in perpetuity notwithstanding, since the nuns had abandoned their first two hospitals within a few years of arriving and had asked the Duchesse to fund each remake. When they asked her to fund an expansion of the third, she raised 10,000 Iivres, but the ship carrying the money to New France sank in mid-Atlantic. The Duchesse never laid eyes on any of her hospitals, as she never set foot in the country.
Medical care was evolving quickly in Europe, for the first time in about fourteen hundred years. (Galen, the Greek anatomist whose theories formed the basis of European medicine until the Renaissance, died in 200 A.D.) The discovery of William Harvey, for example, that blood circulates rather than ebbs and Mows, had only been published in 1628. But the discoveries of the Renaissance had only limited relevance in New France. Doctors had to adapt, deal with things they’d never seen before, and depend on local aboriginal knowledge.
In any case, hospitals weren't medical places anyway. It wasn’t until two hundred and fifty years later that Hôtel-Dieu hired its first intern (and. incidentally, acquired its first washing machine). Until then the doctor dropped in once a day to diagnose and prescribe, and if he couldn't make it, he'd send his son. It was in 1885 that a doctor first suggested that the sisters install a telephone, so that they could call him if an emergency arose.
Until that same year there was no operating room in the hospital. Operations were performed in the patient’s bed or on a table in the middle of the ward, which must have made for some interesting and messy spectating.
It was the nurses who sheltered, washed, fed, and comforted the patients. They were also the administrators and the apothecaries who made medication out of the herbs they grew in their walled garden. Some medications they imported from France, hut some Canadian remedies were becoming fashionable in France, and for a while Canada had the distinction of being an exporter of medicines in the form of ginseng, maidenhair fern, and heaver kidneys, the latter considered unrivalled in the treatment of madness. The hospital's apothecary was no small enterprise: when the hospital burned down in 1755, forty thousand livres worth of medicine was lost.
The constitution, revised in 1666, made every detail of hospital life very clear. The patients were to he treated with great respect and tenderness. The nuns were never to exhibit any squeamishness or discouragement, and were always to show themselves delighted to be serving the patients, so that they could read on the nuns’ faces “the joy and the pleasure they take in serving Jesus Christ in the persons of the poor.”
Men and women were to be kept strictly segregated, and the constitution itself demanded that the doors between them be kept locked. In times of war or epidemics, however, even this rule was stretched, and men were cheek by jowl with women. Even in times of peace, one might find officers lounging around in the wards gossiping, or some woodsmen, arriving hack with an armful of the logs that were used to heat the hospital (250 cords per year!), relaxing by the ward's huge woodstove to warm up again for the next load, and smoking their pipes.
Sisters kept order in the wards, and patients weren't allowed to sing, gamble, or read inappropriate books.
Each patient had a little wooden bedside table with an enamel teapot on it for tisanes. What’s more — and this was an innovation — no bed was to hold more than one patient. Curtains around the beds were changed on Ash Wednesday and All Saints Day. The sheets were to be made of good quality material and, the rules specified, should be of a pleasant colour.
The highly ceremonial mealtime ritual had come over from France with the founders, and remained unchanged until the 1930s. The food was the best in the city, such that people began to fake illness so they could come and eat there. A menu for 1744 lists the following daily requirements:
1 ½ lbs bread (part in soup)
12 oz of meat or fish
fruit
vegetable
wine
a shot of spirits (only on prescription)
Much of this, except the fish and wild game, was raised by the sisters themselves. Outside the city they had their own farmland to supply the hospital’s needs, including an entire island in the St. Lawrence River. The buildings of the hospital complex included a bakery, a morgue, a chapel, a butcher, a laundry, and a chicken coop. Clearly such juxtapositions raised no eyebrows in the seventeenth century.
The sisters not only enclosed their new hospital and monastery within a high stone wall, but deliberately situated it on a promontory overlooking the St. Charles Estuary, so that the wind would blow away the pestilential smells of the young city.
These smells can only be imagined by the number of city ordinances that were passed in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries regarding, for example, not allowing pigs to roam the streets, insisting that corpses and dead animals be carted out of town, that garbage be disposed of, and that open drains (in effect, the sewers) be of a certain depth and covered with planks. Such ordinances were passed so often that one senses they were not taken very seriously, and disease proliferated.
The medical history of Quebec City consists of a litany of epidemics. The sisters lurched from crisis to crisis, and some of them succumbed themselves. As early as 1685 they had to put up extra tents in the courtyard to shelter all the victims of one epidemic, most likely smallpox. In 1702-3, smallpox carried off a quarter of the city's population. And in 1740, Mère Ste-Helene wrote that during a yellow fever epidemic that year, “the wards, the garrets, and outer parlours were all filled, and we can hardly pass between the beds. All became as black as negroes as soon as they were dead.”
In spite of the fact that Pasteur was not yet even a microscopic glimmer in his mother’s eye, the sisters standards of cleanliness were high, and they were required to “keep the place very clean, burn incense sometimes, and dispose of waste as quickly as possible.” This concern for cleanliness was perhaps why, in spite of the epidemics, the hospital became known as a place where one could reasonably hope to stay alive. Annual mortality was only 10 percent.
The sisters also found their dedication to the poor highly relevant in Quebec. In 1664 they decided to set aside half the assets and revenue of the community for the care of the poor, including providing food, medicine, and even rent. The Iroquois wars, poor harvests, a decline in the fur trade, and the epidemics were taking their toll. The population of the city by 1676 was already 1,200, but a third of those were officially classified as destitute.
The colonial government regularly ordained money especially for the poor, specifying the ”pauvres malcides” (the sick who were poor) and ”enfants trouvés (abandoned children)-the earliest form of public welfare in Canada.
Soon the Duchesse suggested that ships’ captains begin to contribute toward the care of their sailors, and the king of France offered to take some responsibility. By 1744, 27 percent of the hospital’s revenue was from the state, to pay for the king's soldiers, sailors, prisoners of war, militias, and even shipyard workers. The king’s officers had long had a special ward of their own, and the sisters didn't mind this favoritism so much, as the revenue helped them subsidize caring for the poor. But when the bishop in 1719 demanded the priests have their own quarters, too, at the hospital's expense, Soeur Marie-Andrée Duplessis de Sainte-Hélène complained in writing that this amounted to “Christ's ministers taking the sustenance from the members of his body.” But they went along with it anyway.
The vocation of the sisters was as much to restore souls as bodies — a sort of retreat house crossed with a hospital. Even the architecture reflected this. Masses, held frequently in the wards, could be attended without even sitting up in bed. Hanging over the altar at the end of the ward was a devotional painting, which was changed regularly so that patients wouldn't get complacent.
Each bed, instead of being identified numerically, was dedicated to a particular saint, whose name was carved in the wooden bedstead and into whose care the occupant was commended. This practice was only changed at the end of the nineteenth century. Prayers were said loudly and distinctly before the altar twice a day. And another tradition that might take patients today by surprise: the nuns washed each person’s feet on admission to the hospital. They considered their vocation as a cross between that of Mary, the contemplative in the Gospel of Luke who sat at Jesus’ feet so as not to miss a thing that he said, and her sister Martha, the practical one who made sure Jesus got a decent meal.
This concern for the souls of their non-Catholic patients, whether they were First Nations heathens or Protestant heretics, took the form of trying to convert them and thereby save them from the fires of hell. But when their patients were obstinate, the sisters’ creativity did not stop at care, prayer, and proselytizing: When one sailor refused to convert in 1665, a sister dropped the ground-up bones of one of the Jesuit martyrs into his herbal tea when he wasn’t looking. The sailor was miraculously converted, made a public confession of faith, and was discharged from the hospital “perfectly cured.” After the British conquest in 1759, the new bosses frowned upon this evangelical aspect of their mission, but the nuns carried on anyway.
The concern for the patient in his or her entirety, body and soul, threatened to disappear as the nineteenth century progressed and the medical sciences began to dominate hospital care. But the nuns never let this concern go, and as hospital archivist François Rousseau observed, it's one thing that has never changed about Hôtel-Dieu. Now they call it “attention to the client’s biopsychosocial contextual reality.”
The nuns lived in a society that was full of tumult. In addition to epidemics, fires were an ever-present threat. The entire hospital burned down four times in its first 115 years. Debt so engulfed them that in 1762 they had to sell all their cutlery and take in other people’s laundry and mending. The cold of winter was absurdly cruel, and war was a constant menace. This wasn’t France, it was the wild north.
But inside the walls, prayers were said four times a day, the wards were decorated with special care on feast days, and modesty of the eyes was practised with the male patients. The sisters kept patiently cultivating their onions and turnips. In their relentless and centuries-old struggle for order, peace, and goodness, they carried on baking the bread, feeding the chickens, and weeding the medicinal herb garden.
Louisa Blair is a freelance writer and translator who lives in Quebec City.
This article originally appeared in the April-May 2000 issue of the Beaver.
by Cecil Rosner
No research into torture or such subjects as sensory deprivation should be undertaken without consideration of the motives of the sponsoring organization or individual, so that at least some estimate can be made of the eventual use to which the results of the work will be put. — Amnesty International Report on Torture, 1975.
It was a cool summer morning in August of 1974 when Donald Capri drove over Winnipeg’s Redwood Bridge and noticed something unusual floating in the Red River below. He called police, and within minutes officials made the grisly discovery of a male body. There were no marks of violence, and nothing to suggest foul play. Police recovered a black case with eight keys, a gold Omega watch, and enough identification to determine that the man was forty-nine-year-old John Zubek, a research professor in psychology at the University of Manitoba. Zubek had been reported missing three days earlier from his downtown apartment. The medical examiner came to a speedy conclusion: suicide by drowning.
John Peter Zubek’s tragic death shocked his family and colleagues. He was a brilliant researcher who had earned his doctorate at twenty-five and became head of the University of Manitoba’s psychology department at twenty-eight. Almost single-handedly, he built the department’s international reputation, bringing in more than half a million dollars in research grants and authoring six books and scores of scholarly papers. His credentials in the world edition ofWho’s Who in Science showed that he was a major international researcher.
”He was at the forefront of his field, a world-renowned figure,” says professor Todd Mondor, current head of the psychology department at the university.
But close examination of his field clouds his legacy. Zubek was a world leader in sensory isolation, a murky area of human experimentation that had its origins in Cold War hysteria and Central Intelligence Agency involvement in Canada. For fifteen years, Zubek conducted experiments on more than five hundred volunteers at his isolation laboratory. He plunged some people into darkness and silence for up to two weeks; he immobilized others in a coffin-like box. He asked students to lie quietly in a translucent Plexiglass dome while he subjected them to constant light and white noise. All the while, he tested his subjects for behavioural, cognitive, and psychological effects. “It was horrible, really uncomfortable,” recalled one of his research subjects.
Only after Zubek’s death did the full extent of CIA involvement in human experimentation and mind control across North America become known. Foreign military and intelligence agencies were intensely interested in sensory isolation and deprivation research. A generation later, the lessons of this field of work can be seen in interrogation methods at Guantanamo Bay, Abu Ghraib, and other detention centres.
Secret meeting in Montreal
Zubek was born in Trnovec, Czechoslovakia, in 1925 and came to Canada five years later. He grew up in Grand Forks, B.C., and graduated with first-class honours in psychology at the University of British Columbia. Over the next four years, he rose meteorically in the academic world, earning his master’s degree in social psychology at the University of Toronto, followed by a Ph.D. in physiological psychology at Johns Hopkins University In 1950, just after his twenty-fifth birthday he was appointed assistant professor of psychology at McGill.
His earliest research interests were in the field of somesthesia, the study of sensory systems and perceptions associated with the body. Zubek experimented with rats, blinding them and then determining their capacity to distinguish between rough and smooth surfaces, as well as differences in temperatures. He did similar tests with cats, building small boxes and tempting cats with liver treats so that they would lift the lids of the boxes in order to get the food. Floorboards with rough and smooth surfaces were in front of each box. Zubek first subjected the cats to peripheral blinding by sectioning their optic nerves; then more invasive surgeries were performed to discover which areas of the brain were responsible for the results. The research started Zubek on the road to a successful scholarly publishing career.
Though he didn’t realize it at the time, covert machinations were taking place in Montreal that would have a profound effect on the future direction of Zubek’s work.
Donald Hebb, the head of Zubek’s psychology department at McGill, was invited to a secret meeting at the Ritz-Carlton Hotel in Montreal on June 1, 1951. The topic of the high-level gathering of defence and research experts from Canada, the U.S., and Britain was brainwashing. At the height of the Cold War, Anglo-American intelligence agencies were convinced that the Soviets and the Chinese had discovered new ways of controlling human behaviour and encouraging people to provide false confessions.
”We did not know what the Russian procedures were, but it seemed that they were producing some peculiar changes of attitude,” Hebb said later. “How? One possible factor was perceptual isolation, and we concentrated on that.”
Hebb offered to do sensory deprivation research at McGill. Everyone at the meeting agreed this was a good idea, including researcher Caryl Haskins and Commander R.J. Williams, official representatives of the Central Intelligence Agency.
Three months later, Hebb received a secret grant from the Canadian Defence Research Board called X-38. Using student volunteers, he placed subjects in a small cubicle and had them wear translucent goggles over their eyes and tubing on their arms while subjecting them to the constant hum of a fan. It was perceptual rather than sensory deprivation, but his results were dramatic. Students reported hallucinations, delusions, increased susceptibility to persuasion, and impaired cognitive performance. Copies of his research were sent to all three branches of the U.S. military, as well as the CIA, and money continued to flow for further research.
When news stories about the unusual research began to leak in early 1954, defence officials concocted a cover story claiming that it was designed to understand how people responded to monotonous and boring work tasks. The true purpose of the research wasn’t revealed until 1956, when testimony at a U.S. congressional hearing explained the reasons for the testing. It would take another thirty years before the CIA’s involvement would become public.
By the early 1950s, the CIA was embarking on what historian Alfred McCoy has called “a veritable Manhattan Project of the mind.” Through operations variously known as Bluebird, Artichoke, MKUltra, and by other names, the agency was exploring every known method of controlling minds. Virtually no details of these projects were ever made public until the 1970s, when a torrent of exposures emerged from congressional hearings and freedom of information requests.
”The Central Intelligence Agency conducted a fourteen-year program to find ways to control human behaviour through the use of chemical, biological, and radiological material,” the New York Times reported on July 21, 1977.
What followed were lurid details of experiments with LSD, electric shock, hypnosis, sensory deprivation, and psychic driving (being continuously exposed to repeated audio messages). Front organizations were set up to provide money to researchers, universities, and institutions. As Admiral Stansfield Turner, CIA director in the late 1970s, eventually revealed: “Most of the people and institutions involved are not aware of agency sponsorship.”
Intrigued by brainwashing
By 1953, Zubek was on his way to the University of Manitoba. As the newly hired head of the psychology department, he was being asked to clean up a history of administrative problems and put the department on the map from a research standpoint — a tall order for a twenty-eight-year-old. To succeed, Zubek knew he had to convince granting agencies to fund projects at the university. He had been inspired by Hebb’s isolation experiments, and the prospect of progressing from animal to human experimentation excited his imagination. Burned by press exposures of its X-38 project, the federal government cancelled funding for Hebb’s research in 1954. Zubek knew it would be expensive, but he set out to make Manitoba the new Canadian centre for sensory deprivation research.
Though he would later deny being directly involved with Hebb’s original research, recently discovered documents among Zubek’s papers tell a different story. In a handwritten note for a speech, Zubek describes how the federal government was intrigued by issues surrounding brainwashing and “asked several of us at McGill, I was on the staff there at the time, if we would care to embark upon such a study, of course with all the financial resources that we might require. Naturally we jumped at the chance. The reason for including me was largely because of my training in both psychology and physiology, having a doctorate degree in both. This research was classified as top secret for several years.”
Zubek described the McGill recruitment process in detail: “In securing our subjects we made use of the university placement service and told the people there that we would pay any student twenty dollars a day, plus all the food he could eat, just for lying on a comfortable bed and doing nothing, and that we would continue to pay them this sum for as long as they would continue to lead this kind of happy existence for us. Well, when word of this got around you can imagine what happened. Students began quitting their summer jobs, the university switchboard was jammed, long lineups began to form in front of our building.”
At the University of Manitoba, Zubek realized his dream of building a sensory deprivation laboratory in 1959 when the Defence Research Board, the original funder of Hebb’s work, approved the first of fifteen years’ worth of grants that would eventually total $275,000. He constructed a futuristic, translucent Plexiglas dome housed in a semi-soundproofed chamber. It was completely self-contained and could accommodate experiments of constant darkness and silence or constant light and white noise.
Microphones and a closed-circuit television system allowed for monitoring, and an escape button was provided to subjects who panicked. Zubek himself was the first test subject, enduring ten days of darkness and silence. He described hallucinations, loss of motivation, feelings of euphoria, and an inability to concentrate on intellectual activity The next year, Zubek followed up by spending nearly fifteen days in the chamber in a perceptual deprivation experiment. Local newspapers couldn’t get enough of the story, describing the chamber as a space prison.
Dozens of student volunteers began enlisting in sensory isolation experiments. Many projects required volunteers not to shave or change their clothes, not to walk about, sit up, sing, whistle, or engage in any other activity to relieve boredom. Monitors were told to make sure volunteers didn’t ever know what time it was, and to enforce a monotonous diet. Zubek’s subjects were sworn to secrecy about their experiences.
Even though there had been a number of sensory deprivation tests across the U.S. since Hebb’s first work, no one had ventured to try the length of confinement that Zubek employed —up to two weeks.
For instance, Maitland Baldwin, an American neurosurgeon who had studied under Hebb, once placed an army volunteer in an isolation box for forty hours with disastrous consequences for the man’s mental health. Baldwin, who worked at the National Institute of Mental Health in the U.S., concluded that anything more than six days of sensory deprivation would “almost certainly cause irreparable damage.” There has never been a documented case of serious adverse reactions among Zubek’s volunteers.
Zubek’s subjects were paid from $100 to $125 per week — not an inconsiderable sum for university students in those days. Yet about a third of all volunteers pulled out before the tests were over, usually before the third day.
“Horrible, really uncomfortable”
Zubek and his colleagues began publishing results of the tests by the early 1960s. While they were unable to duplicate the dramatic McGill experiences, they noted widespread cognitive and perceptual-motor deficits in the volunteers. People spending fourteen days in isolation continued to have abnormal EEG (brain wave) readings ten days after emerging from the dome. Though the results varied, they also found confinement had produced instances of hallucinations, extreme worry and anxiety in the subjects. By adjusting variables, they discovered what contributed to the ill effects and what alleviated them. Exercise, for instance, was shown to counteract the damages caused by perceptual deprivation.
”We would like to have them stay in longer but we are running risks,” Zubek told the media in 1960. “We are pushing into unexplored territory. These are very drastic conditions.” Though they were happy with the publishing success and research dollars Zubek was attracting, university officials were worried about his next idea: building a coffin-like box to immobilize people for long stretches.
One university dean suggested no first- or second-year students be used for the immobilization experiments for fear of liability and lawsuits, an idea Zubek rejected. Another administrator, Dr. George C. Sisler, the chair of the university’s psychiatry department, expressed graver fears. “The immobilization can be expected to result in an increased incidence of psychotic ideation and sensory experiences —hallucinations, delusions, disorientation, etc. The possibility of individuals predisposed to psychotic illness having some continuing reaction to this experience is thereby increased.” In a memo to Zubek, Sisler suggested using armed forces personnel for the tests, which Zubek occasionally did. “Originally we expected to keep people completely immobile for long stretches and we started out asking for volunteers to remain in this state for twenty-four hours at a time,” he told the Winnipeg Free Press. But few could endure being completely immobile for more than twelve hours.
Psychology major Gordon Winocur, attracted to what he called Zubek’s dynamic and captivating lecturing style, became a research assistant and one of the coffin’s first guinea pigs. As he lay in the box, his arms were secured to his sides, his legs were strapped down, and his head encased on three sides by an immobilizing contraption. “I think I lasted about an hour and a half,” recalls Winocur, now the senior scientist at the Rotman Research Institute and professor of psychology at Trent University and the University of Toronto. “It was horrible, really uncomfortable. If you have any latent claustrophobia, it’s going to come out.”
Zubek had a strict and disciplined approach to the research and demanded loyalty from his team of assistants. Winocur fell out of favour with Zubek when he declined his mentor’s proposal to do a master’s thesis in isolation work. “He went berserk, throwing me out of the office and threatening to throw me out of the department,” said Wincour.
Few questioned the purpose of the experiments. Reporters were told that the results would help astronauts cope with isolating conditions in space, but there is no evidence the research was ever intended for that purpose.
”As a young, impressionable graduate student, I didn’t question it in the early stages,” says Wincour.”We were encouraged to think this was groundbreaking research. As I became more sophisticated and talked to more people, I realized there was relatively little of theoretical interest attached to it. The major question was how well people reacted to this kind of treatment and what kinds of changes there were in perceptual and cognitive functions, things that might be useful in developing interrogation techniques. I began to realize there was a different agenda.”
Whether Zubek had any overt agenda other than basic research is unknown, but his findings were attracting attention in many quarters. Thomas Myers, at the U.S. Army Leadership Human Research Unit in California, wrote to say he felt a strong research kinship with Zubek and invited him to visit. The U.S. Army Chemical Research and Development laboratories in Maryland also wrote to Zubek asking for further information. The Naval Medical Research Institute in Bethesda, Maryland, invited him to visit and brief its members on his research, which he did. By 1964, Zubek had convinced the U.S. National Institute of Mental Health to provide him more than $90,000 in funding over three years for his ongoing isolation work.
All of the research was published, and it was avidly read by agencies interested in more than pure experimentation. Decades later, when the CIA’s Kubark Counterintelligence Interrogation manual of 1963 was made public through a freedom of information request, it became clear just how interested U.S. intelligence was in sensory deprivation. “The more completely the place of confinement eliminates sensory stimuli,” the manual says, “the more rapidly and deeply will the interrogatee be affected. Results produced only after weeks or months of imprisonment in an ordinary cell can be duplicated in hours or days in a cell which has no light ... which is soundproofed, in which odors are eliminated, etc.”
Declining interest
In 1969, Zubek edited a comprehensive book entitled Sensory Deprivation: Fifteen Years of Research, confirming his status as a leading authority on the subject. With new funding from the National Research Council in place, along with continuing Defence Research Board money, Zubek was arguably at the pinnacle of his career. But the climate had begun to shift.
In 1963, the CIA’s inspector general reviewed the MKUltra project and found serious ethical and legal problems. One of the directly funded projects involved Dr. Ewen Cameron of Montreal, who was secretly administering LSD to patients and engaging in psychic driving. Other covert operations were also judged to be questionable. While none of these criticisms were public at the time, they caused internal strife at the CIA. The agency suspended MKUltra, though further research continued under different forms and guises. But the flow of funds to researchers slowed, and this had its inevitable effect across the continent.
Departments of psychology in Canadian universities are now about to starve to death for lack of research support,” wrote Dr. C.R. Myers of the Defence Research Board in 1964. He said American and Allied defence support had been responsible for building up psychological research departments in postwar Canada. “There appears to be no other scientific discipline in Canada that is so dependent for research support on U.S. sources.”
By the end of the decade, Zubek was feeling the pressure. There was grumbling at the Defence Research Board that his research was not making any notable advances in knowledge and that its quality was questionable. By 1971, Zubek was pleading for continued support, arguing that his program uniquely required subjects to live in the lab for prolonged periods of time, which “adds considerably to the defence applicability of our results.” He managed to get extensions of his grants until March 1974, but no further prospects were on the horizon. For the first time since 1959, the research professor faced the prospect of having no research dollars.
Accusations of torture
Even more trouble was brewing for Zubek overseas. On August 9, 1971, Britain passed legislation allowing for internment without trial in Ulster. That morning at 4:30 a.m., police arrested 342 people. Twelve of the detainees were transferred to a special centre where they were subjected to in-depth interrogation. Among the techniques used to soften them up for questioning were hooding and loose-fitting boiler suits, bombardment with white noise, forced wallstanding, a bread-and-water diet, and sleep deprivation.
The techniques led to accusations of torture, triggering two official inquiries. The result of the second inquiry was known as the Parker Report of 1972. The appointed committee noted that similar interrogation measures had played an important part in counter-insurgency operations in Palestine, Malaya, Kenya, Cyprus, and other places. The majority report accepted the techniques in exceptional circumstances, but a minority opinion by Lord Gardiner said they were not morally justified. Referring to sensory isolation, Gardiner added: “There is a considerable bibliography of experiments in this field, particularly in Canada.”
That passing reference immediately caught the attention of Canadian reporters, who lost no time tracking down John Zubek for his reaction. “There have been statements that we are involved in brainwashing techniques, and that is not the case at all,” Zubek told the media. Zubek stressed that the research he was doing could be applied in many ways, including addressing the practical problems of northern living and confinement in such quarters as bomb shelters, submarines, spacecraft, and prisons.
Significantly, Zubek never denied that the British could well have used his research for interrogation purposes. “Results can be used for wrong purposes, and over this we as scientists have little or no control,” he said in an interview “To be realistic, these techniques for extracting vital information may have their place in certain situations such as times of war.” A CBC reporter asked him how he felt about people taking his principles and applying them to develop such things as brainwashing techniques. Zubek’s response: “I can say that in certain circumstances, for example during the war, that it would be extremely important to get certain types of information down there. There’s a time and place. What bothers me about the cases in Northern Ireland is that these are non-convicted individuals on whom these techniques have been employed.”
On campus, student activists denounced the use of university facilities and researchers for defence-related research. More than a hundred students attended a meeting in November 1972 to discuss the University of Manitoba’s connection to interrogation techniques used in Ulster. Zubek refused an invitation to attend, but he always patiently explained to interviewers that he felt his work involved basic research that wasn’t intended to further war-related aims. Peter Suedfeld, a close colleague and fellow sensory isolation researcher, felt the criticisms directed against Zubek were unfair, since he wasn’t even studying aspects of attitude change.
”He was very sensitive to how he was being treated,” Suedfeld said in an interview “It really upset him.” But as an avowed world authority on sensory isolation, Zubek was seen as a spokesman for all its aspects. The criticisms continued throughout 1973 as student groups never forgot the Ulster incident. Any time torture was raised as an issue, Zubek would get calls from media.
Zubek’s health began to suffer under the pressure of constant criticism and the potential loss of his research funds. Outwardly confident, demanding, and rigorous, he was notoriously thin-skinned when it came to conflict and criticism. Documents in his archives show that a 1961 interdepartmental spat with two other professors was forcing him “to consider seriously my departure from this university.” At the time, his doctor told him to take several months off.
He took on a haggard look and became withdrawn. He told one friend he thought his phone was being tapped. “We realized that he was in a very bad state and we tried to get him out of it,” Dr. Al Pressey, a close friend, said in 1981. “The lack of university support and demonstrations were a major factor that contributed to his depression.” Colleagues said he was taking heavy doses of antidepressants and was disoriented at times.
By the beginning of April 1974 his research dollars had vanished, and he never filed a final report for the Defence Research Board. On April 27, he resigned from the board of the Canadian Psychological Association, citing poor health. He disappeared during the evening of August 17 and was never seen alive again. Some of his colleagues thought he may have become disoriented and wandered into the river, while others believed it to be suicide.
What did he know?
How much did John Zubek know about who was funding him and how his research was used? No single piece of evidence links Zubek directly to the CIA, though the full list of researchers and institutions who were covertly funded has never been made public. Zubek received the bulk of his funds from the Defence Research Board, which freely shared all its information with British and American intelligence agencies. Omond Solandt, founding chairman of the board who served until 1957, said CIA representatives were “free to attend Defence Research Board staff and committee meetings where defence research programs were discussed.”
Zubek served as a member of its Human Resources Scientific Advisory Committee from 1958 to 1964. He was also chair of its Human Engineering and Psychophysiology subcommittee and knew that the board needed defence-related research. When the Ulster torture controversy erupted, Zubek was quick to point out that his work was merely basic research.
“The fact that these results may have been misused overseas, I seriously don’t think should affect the future support of this program,” he said. But in his 1986 review of Dr. Ewen Cameron’s psychic driving work, former Halifax MP George Cooper made the Defence Research Board’s mandate clear: “The DRB was not to conduct basic scientific research, but rather applied research.”
Through work on the board and in other forums, Zubek kept contact with Hebb, who originally created the sensory isolation field at the prompting of Anglo-American agencies. Though Hebb’s exact knowledge of CIA involvement has also been disputed, there is evidence he had several meetings with interested U.S. research agencies over the years and received a CIA security clearance as late as April 10, 1964.
Zubek dedicated his 1969 book to Hebb and associates, while Hebb wrote a heartfelt obituary of Zubek in the journal Canadian Psychologist, calling him the recognized authority in the field of sensory deprivation. Interestingly, when Zubek came under fire for his research, he stated that he was not directly involved in Hebb’s earliest work, even though handwritten notes in his archives clearly show that he was.
An entire contingent of psychologists, however, considers Zubek’s work to be ethical, and they reject any implication it might be connected with torture. Steven Kennedy, formerly with the American Psychological Association, argues that the Ulster interrogation methods were very different from sensory deprivation research, with the partial exception of continuous noise and masking of normal sight. He says it’s far-fetched to connect the techniques to sensory isolation research and says most of the abusive procedures used in interrogation have figured in the arsenal of jailers and torturers throughout history.
But that is not a universal view, even among interrogators. Detective Superintendent Colin Sturgeon of the Northern Ireland police service, in a visit to Harvard Law School in 2005, cited sensory deprivation as one of the techniques used in the region’s recent past. “Although these techniques proved quite successful in gaining intelligence, they also alienated a vast proportion of the population,” he said.
Recently released U.S. documents reveal the ongoing use of such techniques. A top-secret CIA report from 2004 says measures such as hooding, isolation, white noise, and cramped confinement “are designed to psychologically ‘dislocate’ the detainee, maximize his feeling of vulnerability and helplessness, and reduce or eliminate his will to resist our efforts to obtain critical information.”
The combination of fewer available research dollars and the controversies of the 1970s led to a widespread abandonment of sensory deprivation and isolation research. It was reborn somewhat later with a more palatable name: restricted environmental stimulation technique, or REST. It argues that people can actually benefit from the lessening or elimination of sensory stimulation, much in the same way they can by sleeping or resting in bed. Peter Suedfeld’s research in this area argues that it can also be an effective treatment in habit modification, such as getting people to stop smoking.
Sensory isolation’s modern legacy
For American historian Alfred McCoy, the infamous photo of a hooded Iraqi standing on a box with arms extended and wires attached to his hands in Abu Ghraib prison is a summary of U.S. research methods over the years. The hood is an outgrowth of sensory deprivation research, while the extended arms are a technique the CIA has developed to convince prisoners they are inflicting pain on themselves. Both are part of a “no-touch torture” paradigm that leaves no overt wounds or scars but can terrorize nonetheless and soften up inmates for questioning.
McCoy traces a clear historical path from the mind control experiments that began in the 1950s, to the KUBARK interrogation manual of 1963, to an updated Honduras interrogation training manual of 1983, to commander Ricardo Sanchez’s approval of specific techniques for interrogation in Iraq in 2003. All of these included, among other measures, isolation.
Nor is Canada oblivious to such measures. In a declassified memo from the Department of Foreign Affairs, a narrative is provided of the techniques used to prepare prisoner Omar Khadr for a visit with Canadian representative Jim Gould in Guantanamo Bay naval station in 2004: In an effort to make him more amenable and willing to talk, (name deleted) has placed Umar on the ‘frequent flyer program’ for the three weeks before Mr. Gould’s visit. Umar has not been permitted more than three hours in any one location. At three-hour intervals he is moved to another cell block, thus denying him uninterrupted sleep and a continued change of neighbours. He will soon be placed in isolation for up to three weeks and then he will be interviewed again.
In the end, when confronted by the possibility that his research was being applied to prisoner interrogation, John Zubek threw up his hands and said he couldn’t be held responsible. It’s a view shared by many other academics who feel they can’t be choosy when deciding to accept scarce research dollars.
But cognitive expert Timothy Shallice has a different view. In the wake of the Ulster interrogation scandal in 1972, he wrote: “In the present social system of research, research workers do not have to provide any public and debatable justification of the likely social consequences of their work.” While the Ulster methods were produced by a conscious use of available scientific knowledge, he added: “Not surprisingly, psychologists, by investigating the nature of brainwashing, have improved it.”
Shallice provided an amazingly prescient analysis of how the future might unfold: “As the lack of clearly visible after-effects makes allegations of the use of such techniques much more difficult to substantiate than for physical tortures, there may well be an increasing use of such techniques in the future.”
The sensory deprivation laboratory at the University of Manitoba was never used after Zubek’s death. The research came to an abrupt end. But the legacy of that research survives, in ways that John Zubek might never have imagined.
This article originally appeared in the August-September 2010 issue of Canada’s History.
by Chris Raible
Exceedingly handsome, commodious, healthful and safe...a monument to the Christian liberality of the people,” wrote Toronto Globe editor George Brown of the new Provincial Lunatic Asylum in 1850. He optimistically viewed it as a true asylum, “where disturbing influences are absent — not a mere hospital or prison — where every good part of human nature is brought into play.”
Within a few short years, however, Brown’s attitudes radically altered. An old political adversary, Dr. Joseph Workman, was named head of the institution. Brown soon became a harsh critic, most severely in February, 1857, when the Globe published an attack on the moral character and medical competence of the Medical Superintendent. Dr. Workman was guilty of “villainy, deceit, and tyranny,” wrote a disgruntled former hospital porter, James Magar. Calling himself “the moral Sentinel of the Asylum,” his letter was headlined by the Globe, “Recent Disgraceful and Outrageous Doings at the Provincial Lunatic Asylum.” Magar outlined a number of alleged incidents of sexual misconduct, inadequate security, physical harassment, and administrative mismanagement. The letter ended with this comment: “He [Workman] has been sustained by the present corrupt government from graver charges, and until the moral pestilence of his superintendence stinks in the community, he is likely to continue his villainy and outrage.”
Dr. Workman responded by immediately suing Brown for libel, seeking damages of five thousand pounds.
The opening of the Provincial Lunatic Asylum in Toronto in 1850 was the climax of a long political struggle, and marked a major change in attitude toward the treatment of the mentally ill in Upper Canada. In the early years of the province, there was no provision for the insane. “Quiet lunatics,” as one authority dubbed them, were confined at home, while “furious lunatics,” those more of a threat to persons or property, were consigned to jails. In 1830 the magistrates of the Home District called for some more humane form of treatment. After nine years of wrangling, the legislature authorized “the erection of an asylum within the Province for the reception of Insane and Lunatic persons,” and temporary provisions were made at the old Toronto jail. Negotiations for a permanent facility began, but continued squabbles meant more delays. It was not until 1845 that construction began on the building (later notorious as “999 Queen Street”), designed by the noted city architect John George Howard. Five more years passed, however before the asylum, only half complete, opened its doors.
The new hospital was situated well outside the city, in a large open area on the lake shore. It was intended to be a sanctuary, a safe place, for persons who were suffering. Inmates were to be treated as patients, there to be cured in an atmosphere of cleanliness, kindness, decency and compassion. The impressions of Susanna Moodie, visiting Toronto in the autumn of 1852, well captured the new attitude:
The asylum is a spacious edifice, surrounded by extensive grounds for the cultivation of fruits and vegetables... (with) ample room for air and exercise... Ascending a broad flight of steps, as clean as it was possible for human hands to make them, we came to a long wide gallery, separated at either end by large folding-doors, the upper part of which were of glass; those to the right opening into the ward set apart for male patients who were so far harmless that they were allowed free use of their limbs, and could be spoken to without any danger to the visitors. The female lunatics inhabited the ward to the left... The long hall into which their work-rooms and sleeping apartments opened was lofty, well lighted, well aired, and exquisitely clean; so were the persons of the women, who were walking to and fro, laughing and chatting very sociably together. Others were sewing and quilting in rooms set apart for that purpose. There was no appearance of wretchedness or misery in this ward; nothing that associated with it the terrible idea of madness I had been wont to entertain — for these poor creatures looked healthy and cheerful, nay, almost happy, as if they had given the world and all its cares the go-by.
For all its light, however, the place was not all sweetness. The administration of the facility continued to be marked with political favouritism in the employing of staff and a not-always-benign neglect of the patient residents. The chairman of the board and the hospital superintendent engaged in constant in-fighting.
Early in 1853 a grand jury was called in to investigate. Its members avoided involved medical or administrative controversies, focusing their interest instead almost exclusively on the building and physical arrangements. They found the rooms “uniformly clean, in good order, comfortably warm, and with one or two exceptions properly ventilated.” In their opinion, the kitchen was “well managed,” and the food “of the best description.” The patients were “clean,” “well behaved,” and during the whole of the jury’s three-hour visit, “not one obscene or profane word reached the ears.” The jurors thought “the treatment of the patients appeared to be mild and indulgent, the persons in charge of the wards attentive; and with the more violent cases even forbearing towards the unfortunate persons whom it was their duty to watch over.” The grand jury made a number of minor suggestions about such matters as ventilation and plumbing, noting that there did seem to be a drainage problem, but “no offensive smell could be detected in consequence”
The stink of politics, however, persisted. A second grand jury also visited the asylum. Its members found “every portion of the building ... well ventilated, and free of all unpleasant smells,” but they did note the need for a few physical repairs. These jurors also showed an interest in godliness as well as cleanliness by commenting that they “in no instance heard an improper expression.” While jurors could not claim to be “good judges of how such an establishment should be regulated,” they commended the administration: “We feel bound to say that, in our opinion, their treatment pursued towards the unhappy insane of the Asylum is humane, kind and attentive.”
Despite such uncritical reassurances, controversy continued. By July, 1853, a new “Act for the Better Management of the Provincial Lunatic Asylum at Toronto” went into effect and the medical director resigned.
Into the troubled place, Joseph Workman stepped, armed by the provisions of the new act with the powers required to clean up the place. Workman was no stranger to political conflict. A native of Northern Ireland, he studied medicine at McGill in Montreal, taking a particular interest in the Asiatic cholera epidemic which was then plaguing Canada. He received his medical degree in 1835, but the next year moved to Toronto to take over a struggling family hardware business. In Toronto he soon plunged into city politics as a champion of the Reform cause. Ten years later, he returned to his first love, medicine, built up a large practice, and began teaching at the Toronto School of Medicine, specializing in midwifery and diseases of women and children. He also continued his political activity, was elected as a city alderman, was appointed to a three-man committee to inquire into the affairs of King’s College, and was elected chair of the first Toronto Public School Board. He also found time to assist in the establishment of a Unitarian Church.
During this time Workman often wrote his opinions to the press, and for a time he edited the Toronto Mirror, one of the Globe’s fiercest competitors. It was during this period that Workman’s antipathy toward George Brown (and Brown’s toward Workman) probably developed. By 1852 Workman was referring to Brown as “an unprincipled editor ... an enemy with whom the public should do battle”
Upon his appointment to direct the asylum, Workman immediately set about cleaning and ordering the physical facility. His knowledge of hardware — especially plumbing — no doubt came in handy. There were problems with flues, problems with vents, problems with windows, problems with the water supply, and especially problems with drains:
Every apartment abounded with foul air; and it was found beneath the basement floors, covering a space of six hundred feet in length by thirty to one hundred feet in breadth, there had ... accumulated a mass of filth and impure fluids, the stench from which, when first exposed, was so insufferable and overpowering, as instantly to sicken several of those ... who chanced to inhale it ... Beneath the kitchens and adjoining parts, the filth was found to measure from three to five feet in depth; and was of varying consistence, from that of dense mud to thin molasses. The superjacent floors and joists were so rotten as to yield under every passing foot, and in several places had given way, leaving openings from which issued the most offensive effluvia. A rank fungous vegetation hung from the under surface of the decayed timbers. The dry-rot had seized the wood skirtings ... and extended into the upper stories.
The new superintendent also found himself faced with a very different type of problem to clean up:
An evil of inconceivable magnitude ... in the working and present condition of this Institution has been the introduction into it, of criminal Lunatics from the Provincial Penitentiary, and the County Jails. It is an outrage against public benevolence, and an indignity to human affliction, to cast into the same house of refuge with the harmless, feeble, kind-hearted and truthful victims of ordinary insanity, those moral monsters ... or, yet worse, those villains who affect insanity by means of evading the just punishment of the most atrocious crimes.
Workman believed that for his patients to benefit from being under his care, both the physical and the spiritual environment had to be unpolluted. Surprisingly, perhaps, he believed in making as little use of medicine as possible. When it was necessary, it was to be “administered for the relief of bodily ailments and not for the cure of the mental malady.”
Paradoxically, perhaps, Workman was aware that his asylum was not necessarily a therapeutic place for all sufferers. There were many cases of “unreal or ephemeral lunacy” which, he believed, were better refused admission, “many of which might, by dragging the poor creatures to Toronto, and incarcerating them amongst the dense crowd of maniacs in our house be transformed into cases of real madness.” He believed that “50 per-cent of the alleged cases of lunacy for which admission into the asylum is sought are curable at home, under appropriate treatment.”
Such a stance was politically unpopular. Almost as soon as the Provincial Lunatic Asylum had opened its doors, local officials began to recognize its utility as a boarding house for unmanageable persons, whether or not they were actually mad. As one modern historian describes it, authorities sent “all variety of misfits and trouble-makers, their indigent, their congenitally defect, and their old and senile.” Most of these may have been harmless, but most were also incurable, taking up space needed for those who were, in Workman’s words, “acute, improvable or truly dangerous.” The superintendent tried to maintain strict admission standards, but it was not easy, and in time the institution became more and more crowded.
In consequence, Workman was constantly lobbying for funds to allow the completion of his half-finished building. The intransigence and stupidity of the Legislature, he believed, was preventing him from doing his job. A few weeks before the libel trial, he poured out his frustration to a Member of Parliament:
If we had a single man in the Legislature who had ever studied the subject of insanity & insane Hospitals, before today this house would have been completed. What sort of an account can any of you give at the bar of Heaven, for your willful ignorance, and woeful negligence? “Depart from me, ye cursed.”
Although this was a private communication, such hostile feelings can hardly have helped Workman in his public efforts to gain approval and assistance for his asylum.
Workman could be equally harsh in reproaching his fellow physicians. “Nothing,” he once wrote, “has so largely contributed to the filling of this asylum with incurables, as the almost astonishing ignorance of the medical profession, on the true nature, & the proper treatment of insanity.” One of his reports attacked the maltreatment of the mentally ill with “active and depressing therapeutic measures,” including, “bloodletting, purging, vomiting, salivation, blistering, cupping, setons, low diet, and the whole battery of medical destructives.”
He scoffed at most of the presumed causes of mental illness, “in nineteen cases out of every twenty, entirely fallacious.” Among the extraordinary causes listed by relatives or medical examiners were:
Grief; Love; Loss of Property; Religious Excitement; Religious Despair; Family Quarrels; Jealousy; Fright; Disappointed Affections; Excessive Study; Reading and Fasting; Intemperance; Breach of Promise of Marriage; Suppression of Menses; Slander; Want of Employment; Marriage; Miscarriage, and bad treatment; Spirit Rapping; Death of Child; Death of Husband; Death of Wife; Business Difficulties; Political Excitement; Disputed Boundary; Strong Tea; Eclipse of the Sun; Religious Controversy; Inhalation of Nitrous Oxide Gas; Reading Religious Books; Tobacco; Remorse of Conscience, &c., &c.
If any one of these, Workman asked “may be regarded as adequate to the overthrow of reason, how many lunatics should this Province contain? Intemperance alone would people fifty Asylums as large as our present one. Jealous wives and husbands would probably fill thirty.” “Political excitement,” he continued, “would tenant a mad-house in every county, and one of superior class and size in the metropolis.” While “religious controversy would send in half the clergy of this Province, and large detachments of their congregations.” If “tobacco and slander” caused insanity, there would be few in Canada left “at large.” Such scathing judgments were perhaps the source of some of the enmity against him.
On the other hand, Workman was clear about what he thought were the real causes of madness, such agencies as:
Gestation; Puerperal disorder; Over lactation; Fevers resulting in cerebral lesion; Sun-stroke; Intense cold to the head; Injuries of the skull; Apoplexy; Epilepsy; Parental intemperance; Masturbation; Scrofulous and syphilitic taint; Defective diet.
Nonetheless, for all such largely physical causes, Workman believed there was something more: “Underlying or interwoven with these, or other efficient causes of insanity, are to be detected evils in the existing state of society, and it is to be feared in the pernicious tendencies of modern education and the moral training of youth.”
In one annual report, Workman quoted one of his colleagues, the director of an American asylum, who reported the case of one poor patient:
The hair becomes dry and falls off; the eye becomes vacant and watery, and the lids are red and tumid; the countenance is pale and expressionless, the flesh wastes, the limbs hang loosely to the trunk, the muscles are flaccid, the skin loose and scurfy, the hands are purple and cold, and the palms exude a constant viscid sweat. Long periods of utter inaction are sometimes suddenly broken by spells of uncontrollable fury, spending themselves on the nearest object within reach. Finally the wretched object becomes motionless and inert. He rises and sits down, eats and sleeps, only as he is prompted to such acts by others.
There was no doubt in Workman’s mind that some unknown “secret evil” lay behind all this, causing such awful behavior:
The corrupt family servant, the vicious school-fellow, the libidinous book or picture, or simply the unchecked work of a wanton imagination, has sown the small but fatal seed of ruin — has broken down the golden wall of youthful purity and let in vice in one of its most loathsome and destructive forms.
Here, no doubt, was the reason why Workman was so shaken by the supposed revelations printed in the Toronto Globe. They were not simply accusations of a faulty asylum administration. They brought into question the environment of virtue which he believed was essential to his institution.
Caring for the mentally ill was, to him, not merely a matter of medical therapy, it demanded moral management.
The libel case of Workman v. Brown held in the York County courthouse on 22 and 23 April, 1857, created something of a public sensation. Nearly all the Toronto newspapers gave it extensive coverage. Former asylum porter James Magar’s accusations were examined in detail. Two of them were perhaps titillating, but hardly shocking, save that they suggested an unacceptable permissiveness at the asylum:
First ... that the female lunatic patients were exposed to improper intercourse by the Steward ... who allowed Thomas Pearce, a patient ... formerly a convict in the Penitentiary, to go at his pleasure through the female wards to examine whether the windows required glazing, until he was detected by ... a nurse ... with a female in a private room ... Report No. 2. That the Steward did not pay proper attention to the security of the Government property in allowing (the same) Thomas Pearce ... to take one of the horses and go for whiskey ... and ... with a horse and cart that he might get through the gates for sugar sticks.
A parade of witness were called to testify, many of them former employees who had reasons to be hostile toward Workman. Little was actually proved, however, although spectators at the trial were treated to testimony by Pearce himself. Amidst laughter, he tenaciously stuck to his explanation that he had been fixing the pipes when he had been discovered in the women’s ward bath room, in the dark, at eleven at night. It was, however, never ascertained whether a woman had in fact also been in there with him.
A third accusation made by Magar was obviously far more damaging:
A female in one of wards was in the family way, and when she took labour and her pains increased her madness, the nurses did not know, and put on her a straight jacket, and confined her in the common place of punishment, when it was discovered by the cries of the infant, without Dr. Workman ever having told the attendants of her having been pregnant; the sight of the mother was awful, her face was all covered with blood in endeavouring to extricate herself.
Once more there was a parade of witnesses — nurses, attendants, doctors, hospital commissioners — who, while denying that the patient had been put in a strait jacket or had been put in a confined space for punishment, confirmed that a birth had taken place. They also confirmed how constantly dirty and distraught the patient had been. Professional medical witnesses disagreed, however, as to whether such an surprise birth was evidence that the patient had been improperly treated, either by Workman or by others on his staff. (The child, by the way, was baptized — with Workman as godfather — but it lived only a few days.)
Scandalous as these accusations were, they were not exactly new. When they had first been brought to Workman’s attention, he immediately called for an official investigation by the Visiting Commissioners of the asylum. They quickly made a full inquiry, took statements, examined witnesses (including Magar) and unanimously concluded that the charges “were utterly without foundation and completely void of truth.” Although their report had been immediately forwarded to provincial authorities and had been printed on 5 March, George Brown had refused to publish the report in the Globe, thus allowing Magar’s charges to stand unanswered.
All this might be juicy scandal to the ordinary reader, but there was more, fed perhaps by old underlying political hostilities. Trial testimony brought out two damaging facts, albeit not specifically relevant to the libel suit. For at least two years there had been a fierce feud between Workman and his bursar — the two rarely spoke. Also, the former assistant superintendent had recently been forced out, the post being filled by Workman’s brother, Dr. Benjamin Workman. Such evidence can hardly have helped the Medical Superintendent’s case.
Despite its name, Provincial Lunatic Asylum, the hospital was not a safe place separate from the world. Its creation and its administration were inevitably involved in the political machinations of the time. Since it spent public money — a great deal of public money — it was always subject to public scrutiny, especially by journalist/politicians like George Brown. Since it hired many public employees, it was ever subject to accusations of patronage — in those days patronage politics touched every provincially administered institution. Brown had taken an interest in it long before it opened. He had opposed Workman’s appointment — itself a patronage gift from Dr. John Rolph, then an influential member of the provincial government.
Once he became asylum director, however, Workman saw his sole responsibility to be his patients. He did not do enough to curry the favour of those, like Brown, who were in positions of influence. “My politics,” he wrote but two years after taking office, “are lunatic asylums.” Only a few weeks before the trial, he revealed his hostility to the press in a private note to the editor of another paper:
I solemnly declare that my duties amongst my patients are to me a source of happiness beyond all sublunary enjoyments. I love my patients — and they love me — they are honest, truthful, grateful. I detest the world outside these walls. You had rather be an editor. I had rather restore reason. You rejoice in the function of distracting it. God help the world!
Why had Workman, instead of going to court, not written a response to the Globe refuting the scurrilous charges? Because he carried an old grudge. Three years earlier there had been a dispute about the Toronto School of Medicine. “Brown then lied with perfect knowledge of the sin,” declared the righteous Workman to the father of one of his patients. On that occasion, the Globe editor had steadfastly refused to print the doctor’s refutation. He was not about to try that course again.
Workman’s lawyer argued that Brown had published the reports “to gratify a vindictive and malicious spirit.” Had he, Brown, taken the trouble to visit the Lunatic Asylum, he would have found it in perfect order. The lawyer pointed to a conspiracy against Workman, implying that Brown was part of it, out to use “the evidence of discarded and degraded menials to crash a man.” The institution’s recent history was well known, each of its four previous superintendents had been “subjected to every kind of libel slander” so each “had been driven from the Institution.”
The trial ended with the jury unable to reach a decision. The Globe reported that only two of the twelve jurors had favoured damages for Workman while nine had sided with Brown — apparently they believed that at least some of the accusations against the asylum were true. Workman weathered the storm — he did not resign his post. He went on to serve as Medical Superintendent for more than two decades, retiring in 1875 — “for reasons understood by myself” he recorded in his diary.
Toronto writer and historian Chris Raible is a frequent contributor to "The Beaver" and is the author of the recently published "Muddy York Mud: Scandal and Scurrility in Upper Canada," Dundurn Press, 1993.
This article originally appeared in the February-March 1994 issue of the Beaver.
Compiled by Jennifer Nault
The office of the Governor General is Canada’s oldest enduring institution. It was formally established with the appointment of Viscount Monck in 1867, and has extended to the Right Honourable David Johnston’s term, which commenced in October 2010. Johnston — who was recommended to Queen Elizabeth II by Canada’s then Prime Minister Steven Harper — succeeded Michaëlle Jean. Jean stepped out of the role of Governor General after the traditional, though not official, five-year period. In March 2015, Johnston accepted an invitation to stay in the viceregal office until September 2017. If he does so, he will be the longest-serving Governor General since Georges Vanier.
VISCOUNT MONCK (1867–1868)
Born: Oct. 10, 1819, Ireland
Died: Nov. 29, 1894
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• The “Trent Affair” erupted just before Lord Monck took office; Lord Monck calmed the diplomatic crisis that threatened to bring the feud between the United States and Britain to Canadian soil.
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• His diplomatic finesse was matched by his promotion of Confederation. Helped build “The Great Coalition,” which promoted federalism.
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• Known for his kindness and wit. John A. Macdonald wrote of Monck: “I like him amazingly … he has been a very prudent and efficient administrator of public affairs.”
LORD LISGAR (1869 –1872)
Born: Aug. 31, 1807, India
Died: Oct. 6, 1876
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• Red River Rebellion began during his first year in office.
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• As nominal Lieutenant Governor of Rupert’s Land, declared an amnesty during the Riel Rebellion.
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• Acted as mediator when the Irish Fenians raided Canada in an attempt to win independence from Britain.
EARL OF DUFFERIN (1872–1878)
Born: June 21, 1826, Florence, Italy
Died: Feb. 12, 1902
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• P.E.I. admitted to Confederation during his term ( July 1, 1873)
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• Served during the creation of several prominent institutions, such as the Supreme Court, Royal Military College and Intercolonial Railway.
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• In 1873, established Governor General’s Academic Medals to recognize excellence among Canadian students
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• Promoted unity by travelling to every province.
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• Realized thet Rideau Hall needed space where ceremonial events could be held, so added a ballroom in 1873. Lord and Lady Dufferin organized numerous balls, concerts, dinners, theatrical performances and other social events.
DUKE OF ARGYLL (MARQUESS OF LORNE) (1878–1883)
Born: Aug. 6, 1845, England
Died: May 2, 1914
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• At 33, was youngest GG; married to Queen Victoria’s fourth daughter, Princess Louise, who gave the name Regina to the capital of Saskatchewan.
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• Encouraged establishment of the Royal Society, Royal Canadian Academy of Arts and National Gallery.
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• Travelled Canada promoting the creation of numerous institutions.
MARQUESS OF LANDSDOWNE (1883–1888)
Born: Jan. 14, 1845, England
Died: June 3, 1927
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• Served during tumult: outcry over building of the railway, economy moving into recession, Northwest Rebellion.
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• Travelled throughout the west on the newly built Canadian Pacific Railway.
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• Helped negotiate peaceful settlement of fishing rights dispute with U.S.
EARL OF DERBY (LORD STANLEY OF PRESTON) (1888–1893)
Born: Jan. 15, 1841, England
Died: June 14, 1908
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• In 1893, gave Canada a prized icon, the Stanley Cup, for top amateur hockey club. (In 1926, NHL adopted the cup.)
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• Sir John A. Macdonald died during his term, on June 6, 1891. GG replaced the prime minister with Sir John Abbot, later replaced by Sir John Thompson.
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• Cemented the politically neutral role of the GG, declining to join provinces’ opposition to the Jesuit Estates Bill of Quebec.
EARL OF ABERDEEN (1893–1898)
Born: Aug. 3, 1847,Scotland
Died: March 7, 1934
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• Four prime ministers served during his term: Sir John Thompson, Sir Mackenzie Bowell, Sir Charles Tupper, Sir Wilfrid Laurier.
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• His term saw the completion of the CPR and discovery of gold in the Yukon.
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• Was made honorary chief of both the Six Nations and Blackfoot people.
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• Participated in Queen Victoria’s Diamond Jubilee celebration in 1897.
EARL OF MINTO (1899–1904)
Born: July 9, 1845, England
Died: March 1, 1914
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• Term was a time of strong nationalism and increased immigration.
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• Believing in the importance of preserving heritage, created the National Archives.
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• In response to national tuberculosis crisis, established first anti-TB foundation.
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• Loved the outdoors, promoted the creation of national parks.
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• Took great interest in development of the Canadian military.
EARL GREY (1904–1911)
Born: Nov. 28, 1851, England
Died: Aug. 29, 1917
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• Saw Alberta and Saskatchewan become provinces in 1905)
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• Strong advocate of national unity among French and English Canadians, played an important role in having Plains of Abraham designated a national park.
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• Lady Grey was the first spouse of a GG to be called “Her Excellency.”
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• In 1909 donated the Grey Cup to the Canadian Football League.
HRH DUKE OF CONNAUGHT (1911–1916)
Born: May 1, 1850, England
Died: Jan. 16, 1942
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• First member of the Royal Family to become a Canadian GG.
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• Against the backdrop of World War I, encouraged enhanced military training and readiness for Canadian troops.
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• Sought to enhance participation and support for the war on the home front.
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• Port Arthur, now part of Thunder Bay, Ont., named in his honour.
HRH DUKE OF DEVONSHIRE (1916–1921)
Born: May 31, 1868, England
Died: May 6, 1938
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• Appointment caused early political problems: British Cabinet neglected to consult the Canadian government.
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• With World War I raging, there was great unrest in Canada during his term. Tried to mend relations between French and English Canadians after conscription.
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• Women got the vote during his term.
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• Extremely interested in farming issues; while in the West discussed agricultural concerns with farmers.
LORD BYNG (1921–1926)
Born: Sept. 11, 1862, England
Died: June 6, 1935
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• First to appoint Canadian aides.
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• King-Byng Affair” – political crisis redefined role of GG. After losing two votes, and facing a third, over corruption, Prime Minister Mackenzie King sought dissolution of Parliament. GG refused, Canada was left temporarily without a PM. Once the crisis subsided, the King government redefined the role of GG as a representative of the Sovereign, not the British government.
VISCOUNT WILLNGDON (1926–1931)
Born: Sept. 12, 1866, England
Died: Aug. 12, 1941
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• First GG to represent the monarch and act on advice of Canadian ministers, rather than representing the British government.
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• In 1927, made first official visit of a GG to Washington.
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• Having a great appreciation for the arts, introduced the Willingdon Arts Competition, with awards for painting and sculpture.
EARL OF BESSBOROUGH (1931–1935)
Born: Oct. 27, 1880, England
Died: March 10, 1956
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• Installation was the first to be broadcast on radio.
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• In 1932, witnessed first trans-Canadian phone system and creation of CBC.
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• Took 10 percent salary cut to show empathy for those affected by the Depression.
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• Theatre lover created nation-wide competition for amateur companies, the Dominion Drama Festival.
LORD TWEEDSMUIR (1935–1940)
Born: Aug. 26, 1875, Scotland
Died: Feb. 11, 1940
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• Well-known author; his suspense novel Thirty-Nine Steps became famous when Alfred Hitchcock made a film adaptation.
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• Creator of the Governor General’s Literary Awards.
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• With Lady Tweedsmuir, created the first library at Rideau Hall.
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• Encouraged Canadians to develop distinct identity; believed in building national unity and overcoming divisions.
EARL OF ATHLONE (1940–1946)
Born: April 14, 1874, England
Died: Jan. 16, 1957
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• Very active in supporting the war effort; inspected troops, training schools, and hospitals.
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• Twice hosted Prime Minister Mackenzie King, British PM Winston Churchill and U.S. President Franklin D. Roosevelt at La Citadelle in Québec; the strategic meetings became known as the Quebec Conferences.
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• When the war ended in 1945, he spoke about the future of Canada — one not marked by war, but by reconciliation and reconstruction.
VISCOUNT ALEXANDER (1946–1952)
Born: Dec. 10, 1891, England
Died: June 16, 1969
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• Esteemed World War II military hero.
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• A great communicator; saw role as vital link between Canadians and their government.
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• Presented with a totem pole made by Kwakiutl carver Mungo Martin on July 13, 1946, marking his installation as an Honorary Chief of the Kwakiutl. It stands on the front lawn of Rideau Hall.
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• At the Commonwealth Prime Ministers’ Conference in 1949, the GG’s power was redefined, and the GG began to be referred to as representing the “Commonwealth” instead of “Dominion.”
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• Saw Newfoundland enter Confederation in 1949.
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• Visited Canadian Forces fighting in Korea in 1950.
RIGHT HONOURABLE VINCENT MASSEY (1952–1959)
Born: Feb. 20, 1887, Toronto
Died: Dec. 30, 1967
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• First Canadian-born and Canadian citizen to be GG; all since have been citizens.
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• Emphasized importance of learning English and French.
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• Promoted Canada’s accomplishments in science, business and the arts; helped found National Arts Centre in Ottawa.
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• Greatest dream was a Canadian honours system – Order of Canada created in 1967, after his term; Massey one of the first to be appointed a Companion.
MAJOR GENERAL RIGHT HONOURABLE GEORGES VANIER (1952–1959)
Born: April 23, 1888, Montreal
Died: March 5, 1967
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• Spoke out on behalf of the disadvantaged, youth and the family. In 1964, helped organize Canadian Conference of the Family at Rideau Hall; led to the creation of Vanier Institute of the Family.
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• As Quebec separatism gained popularity, defended Canadian unity.
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• Supporter of Scouting movement, held role of Canada’s Chief Scout.
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• In 1967, started Vanier Awards for Outstanding Young Canadians.
RIGHT HONOURABLE ROLAND MICHENER (1967–1974)
Born: April 19, 1900, Lacombe, Alta
Died: Aug. 6, 1991
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• In Canada’s Centennial year Michener was appointed GG.
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• Queen Elizabeth II presented him with the Royal Victorian Chain in 1973; one of two Canadians to receive the honour (also former GG Vincent Massey).
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• Devoted to exercise and athletics, strong supporter of Participaction campaign, advocated for improved fitness among Canadians.
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• Encouragement of excellence in journalism led to 1970 creation of the Michener Awards for meritorious public service in journalism.
RIGHT HONOURABLE JULES LÉGER(1974–1979)
Born: April 4, 1913, St-Anicet, Que.
Died: Nov. 22, 1980
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• Had a stroke six months after sworn in; Madame Léger helped in his duties as he recovered. She is the only spouse in an official portrait of a GG that hangs at Rideau Hall.
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• Léger promoted artistic and cultural excellence; introduced Jules Léger Prize for New Chamber Music in 1978 and Gabrielle Léger Medal for heritage conservation in 1979.
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• Léger appreciated Canadian fine art and supported numerous artistic endeavours.
RIGHT HONOURABLE EDWARD SCHREYER(1979–1984)
Born: Dec. 21, 1935, Beausejour, Man.
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• Advocated for Canadian unity, promoted bilingualism, encouraged atmosphere of goodwill.
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• Promoted women’s equality; in 1979, established Governor General’s Award in Commemoration of the Persons Case, to commemorate the fight for women’s rights.
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• Interest in environmental issues led to creation of the Governor General’s Conservation Awards in 1981.
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• Wife Lily interested in many social issues, including people living with disabilities; she inspired the construction of the Fountain of Hope, dedicated to Terry Fox, at the main entrance at Rideau Hall.
RIGHT HONOURABLE JEANNE SAUVÉ(1984–1990)
Born: April 26, 1922, Prud’homme, Sask.
Died: Jan. 26, 1993
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• First female federal Cabinet member from Quebec and first woman elected as Speaker of House of Commons, became first female GG.
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• Concerns centered on youth, peace and national unity; established Jeanne Sauvé Youth Foundation, dedicated to youth excellence.
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• Interest in environmental issues led to creation of the Governor General’s Conservation Awards in 1981.
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• Provided foreword for national publication What Peace Means to Me, marking “International Year of Peace” in 1986.
RIGHT HONOURABLE RAMON JOHN HNATYSHYN (1990–1995)
Born: March 16, 1934, Saskatoon.
Died: Dec. 18, 2002
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• With wife Gerda, worked to showcase Canadian excellence at Rideau Hall.
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• In 1994, represented Canada in France at 50th anniversary celebration of D-Day.
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• In 1992, created Governor General’s Performing Arts Awards, as well as Ramon John Hnatyshyn Award for Voluntarism in the Arts.
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• Supported education through various initiatives, including GG Ramon John Hnatyshyn Education Fund.
RIGHT HONOURABLE ROMÉO LEBLANC (1995–1999)
Born: Dec. 18, 1927, Memramcook, N.B.
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• An Acadian, first GG from Maritimes.
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• Brought attention to voluntarism, Canadian history, aboriginal peoples, peacekeeping and military.
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• Instrumental in founding the Governor General’s Award for Excellence in Teaching Canadian History.
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• Proclaimed June 21 National Aboriginal Day in recognition of aboriginal people, their culture and their contributions.
RIGHT HONOURABLE ADRIENNE CLARKSON (1999–2005)
Born: Feb. 10, 1939, Hong Kong
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• Travelled extensively with husband John Ralston Saul to meet Canadians.
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• Brought attention to voluntarism, Canadian history, aboriginal peoples, peacekeeping and military.
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• Recognized and encouraged Canadian troops at home and abroad. On New Year’s Day 2004, visited Canadian Forces in Kabul, Afghanistan.
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• At Rideau Hall, hosted first Governor General’s Youth Forum in February 2002; about 100 high school students attended.
RIGHT HONOURABLE MICHAËLLE JEAN (2005–2010)
Born: Sept. 6, 1957, Port-au-Prince, Haiti
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• Immigrated to Canada with her family in 1968, fleeing Haiti's dictatorial regime.
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• Studied comparative literature at the Université de Montréal and taught Italian in the Université’s Department of Literature and Modern Languages.
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• Worked for eight years with Quebec shelters for battered women.
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• Was a highly regarded journalist and news anchor with Radio-Canada and CBC Newsworld.
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• In 2007, attended the first Canada's History Forum.
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• In late 2008 Jean followed advice of the then Prime Minister, Steven Harper, to prorogue Parliament until late January 2009 after a coalition of three opposition parties threatened to rescind their confidence in the Cabinet.
RIGHT HONOURABLE DAVID JOHNSTON (2010–PRESENT)
Born: June 28, 1941, Copper Cliff, Ontario.
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• Grew up playing hockey in Sault Ste. marie with future NHL stars Phil and Tony Esposito.
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• Attended Harvard, Cambridge, and Queens universities and was a law professor at numerous post-secondary institutions across Canada.
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• Married his highschool sweetheart, Sharon Johnston, with whom he has five daughters. They have thirteen grandchildren.
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• Co-authored more than twenty-five books.
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• Focused his mandate on strengthening the pillars of learning and innovation, philanthropy and volunteerism, and families and children.
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• In a ceremony held in February 2016, presented nine Medals of Bravery and six Stars of Courage to members of the RCMP and the House of Commons Protective Service for their role in stopping the Parliamentary attack on October 22, 2014.
This article originally appeared in the December 2005-January 2006 issue of The Beaver.
Additional information on the Governors General is available on the GG website.
by Paul Jones
My genealogical chum Heather recently unearthed this oddball case as she searched for the origins of her grandfather, Malcolm Hilborn. His earliest certain appearance in documentary records is the Canadian census of April 1891, when he was enumerated at age five as the eldest child of Joseph and Sarah Hilborn of Yarmouth Township, Elgin County, Ontario, the site of all events related below. It is important for what follows to know that, as an adult, Malcolm Hilborn seemed to accept — without second-guessing — that his birthdate was August 26, 1885.
Things start to get murky when we investigate Malcolm’s family more closely:
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• Joseph and Sarah’s marriage: They didn’t tie the knot until May 17, 1887, well after any likely date of young Malcolm’s birth. We also learn that Sarah was the daughter of Samuel and Caroline Reid.
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• Malcolm Hilborn’s birth registration: There isn’t one. The only remotely similar candidate is Malcolm Reid, but he was reportedly born on January 23, 1886, to the aforementioned Samuel Reid and Caroline Stotts (Caroline Reid’s maiden name). Could Malcolm Reid and Malcolm Hilborn be the same person?
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• Records mentioning Caroline Reid: From various sources we project that Caroline would have been an improbable fifty-three at the time of Malcolm Reid’s birth. Worse, we find her death recorded on April 16, 1885, a full nine months and one week before the birth of her supposed son. A clerical error? Unlikely. Her gravestone displays the same date of death.
If Caroline’s death record is accurate, then Malcolm Reid’s birth record must contain misinformation. Yet Samuel Reid reported both events to the same registrar on the same day, February 23, 1886. Had the registrar known that Caroline Reid and Caroline Stotts were the same person, he would surely have objected. But the Reids were newcomers to Elgin County, and Stotts was a surname no doubt unfamiliar to him.
The key question for Heather is, one Malcolm or two? We have no smoking gun. Yet, what are the odds that there were two Malcolms in the same extended family? One of them was never officially born; the other was only documented at birth, with everything that came after a mystery. Like Clark Kent and Superman, the two Malcolms were never in the same room at the same time.
So through a process of analysis and correlation of such evidence as exists, we incline to the theory that Malcolm Reid was born of a mother other than Caroline Reid, and later became Malcolm Hilborn. Here is one hypothetical timeline that fits this conjecture and, perhaps more importantly, tallies with what we imagine to have been the emotional state of Samuel Reid. Problem is, I can’t prove it.
April 16, 1885: Caroline Reid dies. Her husband Samuel discovers around this time that his unmarried daughter Sarah is pregnant. He concocts a plan to preserve his daughter’s honour by claiming the child as his own.
August 26, 1885: Malcolm Reid/Hilborn is born to Sarah Reid on the date that will be observed as his birthday throughout his life. But Samuel cannot bring himself to report the birth at this time. He is willing to shift the burden of shame for an illegitimate child from his daughter to himself, but he’s not prepared to cast himself as a man who was unfaithful to his wife during her lifetime.
January 23, 1886: A full nine months and a bit have passed since Caroline Reid’s passing, and this is the fictional date Samuel decides to assign to the birth of Malcolm.
February 23, 1886: Samuel reports to the registrar both the death of his wife Caroline Reid and the birth of his son with a woman named Caroline Stotts. He relies upon the registrar’s ignorance of his wife’s maiden name.
February 4, 1887: Samuel Reid dies. His will mentions all of his children, except Malcolm. Hmm.
May 17, 1887: Sarah Reid and Joseph Hilborn marry. They raise Malcolm as their own, which he may well have been. As the circumstances of his birth recede into the past, they see no reason not to observe his birthday on the correct date.
Are there other scenarios that fit the facts? Certainly, but none that seems more plausible. Do you have a better hypothesis? Thanks to Heather for exposing me to an engrossing case history that illustrates both the power and the limits of genealogical research.
Paul Jones, a former publisher, is a writer, a consultant, and an avid genealogical researcher and volunteer.
This article originally appeared in the February-March 2016 issue of Canada's History.
by Graham Chandler
In a dusty glass cabinet sharing the front room of a turn-of-the-century house at 206 Beaver Street in Banff sits a model of a curious looking three-masted sailboat. Its figurehead is a ferocious eagle, something more natural to a West Coast native war canoe. The house was owned by Norman Kenny Luxton, and the model is indeed that of a Nootka canoe —a canoe that ioo years ago this spring took him from Victoria to Fiji and went on to become the only canoe ever to have sailed sixty-four thousand kilometres around the world.
Luxton was a prairie lad born November 2, 1876, in Upper Fort Garry to the founder of the Winnipeg Free Press. After apprenticing with the Indian Agency where he claimed he once met Louis Riel, and an eight-year stint with the Calgary Herald, he grew restless, and at the age of twenty-five found himself on the West Coast working for the Vancouver Sun. At a waterfront bar one night in 1901, he met a swashbuckling fortyish sea captain named John Claus Voss. Luxton had never sailed in his life, but he was ripe for romance, adventure, the meaning of life, and lots of money. And he had the newspaperman’s eye for a story.
Over a beer Luxton hatched a plan to the barrel-chested Jack far with the handlebar mustache. Voss later described it: “Mr. Luxton ... asked me if I thought I could accomplish a voyage round the world in a smaller vessel than the American yawl Spray, in which Captain Slocum, an American citizen, had successfully circumnavigated the globe.”
Of course, Voss thought, and immediately proposed that they make it a real challenge by doing it in a canoe. Luxton sweetened the deal with five thousand U.S. dollars, the result of a bet with some Americans. The venture was a publicity stunt from the start, hut the two’s motives were different. Voss smelled high-seas adventure.
Luxton smelled money. Luxton was a visionary, a promoter, always looking to new ideas and the future. “When I get to Australia I am going to try and do business in timber,” he wrote his mother before their departure. Voss and Luxton signed an agreement, and weeks later purchased a used twelve-metre, red-cedar dugout canoe built in Clayoquot, B.C.
They took her to Spotlight Cove on Galiano Island, and with the assistance of a shipwright named Harry Vollmers got her ready to meet the rigours of blue-water sailing. Oak frames reinforced the hull and eighteen centimetres were added to her gunwales. They ballasted her inside and added a keel with 170 kilograms of lead on the bottom. Rigging her with three masts and four sails adding up to twenty-one square metres, they decked her over and built a 1.5 x 2.4 metre cabin on top. Ahead of her time, all running gear led back to the cockpit in the manner of modern racers so she could be easily sailed single-handedly. Two galvanized water tanks and storage completed the conversion.
She was christened Tilikum (Chinook for “friend ”) and taken for a shakedown in coastal waters. “She would have been a bit of a dog to steer,” says Ron Mack, master sail-maker, who last year was commissioned by the Maritime Museum of British Columbia to re-create the sails. “In a sloppy sea that rudder wouldn’t touch water.” But it seems Voss and Luxton thought otherwise. “I have seen such mountains of water as I never could dream of hut the Tilikum went over everything like a bird, and wind has no effect on her at all. I am more than ever convinced that she is safe as any boat on the sea,” Luxton wrote his mother.
Satisfied with her performance, the boys provisioned her with canned goods, sea biscuits, a medicine chest, two rifles, a shotgun, a pistol, a camera, a sextant, a compass, and a chronometer. A Victoria secondhand store yielded a Pacific Ocean directory and chart. They were ready to set sail.
At six o’clock on the morning of May 21, 1901, the intrepid pair caught the wind out of Victoria harbour. They were weatherbound at first, anchoring at Port San Juan and Dodges Cove on the west coast of Vancouver Island, where they were shot at while looting some Indian burial grounds for “curios” to sell on the trip. Finally, on July 6, they set their sails for the Marquesas Islands in the South Pacific.
One day Voss didn’t like the way Luxton was handling the boat. He grabbed him by the collar and threw him into the cabin, threatening to kill him and throw him overboard.
Just eight days into that first ocean leg, 1,170 kilometres from Vancouver, Luxton discovered that seawater had leaked into their provisions. Biscuit boxes were bursting, cans were swelling, and everything was mouldy. “It was so bad that I had to pick over our oatmeal flake by flake, all according to colour. It was the whites against the greens, the latter always winning ten to one.” But they caught a few fish and a sea turtle, and pressed on.
Making 145 to 160 kilometres a day, they encountered some vicious storms and waves, many with faces much longer than their boat. But Captain Voss was an expert in the use of a sea anchor, one that he had designed himself, and it helped him keep the small craft headed safely into the wind over the open sea.
Bypassing the Marquesas Islands due to strong winds, their first land was at Penrhyn Island, one of the Cook Islands. Here they met two British traders, Dexter and Winchester, who for three weeks treated them to the charms of the islands, from feasts to princesses. The islanders generously repainted and restocked their boat.
Satiated, they weighed anchor and set course on September 26 for the Danger Islands and Samoa. After the joys of the island stop, sharing a small cabin for days on end began to wear thin. One clay Voss didn’t like the way Luxton was handling the boat. He grabbed him by the collar and threw him into the cabin, threatening to kill him and throw him overboard. Luxton’s response was to calmly have his dinner and wash the dishes. Then, he grabbed the .22 calibre pistol and held it to Voss’s head, ordering him into the cabin and locking him inside until they reached Apia Harbour in Samoa. Luxton was clearly getting fed up. “I have made up my mind that when I get to Sydney that will be the last time I get into that canoe to cross any open sea,” he wrote his mother when they arrived in Samoa. Voss never mentioned the incident in his account. On approaching Suva, Fiji, Luxton was again on watch. About 2:30 in the morning he heard breakers and wakened Voss to ask his advice. “Keep her on course,” Voss sleepily replied.
At that instant they were on top of a reef and broadsided by a massive wave that rolled the canoe onto its side. Luxton was pitched overboard and lost sight of the boat. He knew he was inside a shark-infested lagoon, so he decided to try and stay on the reel, hoping Voss would find him in the morning. But the pounding made it impossible. “Extra large waves, casting tons of water over the reel, would throw me further into the lagoon. Frantically would I put on more steam to reach the reef away from the sharks, only to get more Hell from the coral,“ he wrote. He didn’t remember how he got there, but by morning he found himself on an uninhabited beach “as raw as a butcher’s hind-leg of beef.” Voss, who had given him up for dead, nursed him back to health while spending a couple of days repairing the canoe. On entering Suva harbour, a weakened Luxton consulted a doctor, who advised him not to continue with the voyage. He set out to find a replacement, but Voss already had a man, a Tasmanian named Louis Begent. Voss and his new crewman reprovisioned, including liquor, which to Luxton was taboo at sea. Luxton secured passage on the SS Birksgate to Sydney.
Arriving in Sydney, he waited for Voss and the Tilikum. Ten days overdue, he had given them up for lost. But early one sunny afternoon, John Voss stepped up on the veranda where Luxton was sitting and told him of storms never dreamed of. And, shockingly, the news that his mate Begent had been swept overboard and lost at sea with the ship’s only compass. As Voss recounts the story, he had been in the cabin repairing their compass and had just passed it out to Begent when “I saw a large breaking sea coming up near the stern.“ He shouted a warning, but it was too late. The rogue wave hit them, knocking Voss back against the cabin. By the time he regained his balance, his mate was gone. Because of the strong wind and waves, he couldn’t beat back to find him. Luxton wrote afterwards he never believed Voss’s story. He knew Voss’s dark side and was convinced he had killed Begent in a drunken fight. After the news of the death, both Luxton and the local newspapers dropped interest in the boat’s story. Luxton tried to coax Voss into abandoning the trip. But Voss’s 2,000 kilometres to Sydney “steering by the sun, moon, stars and ocean swell said a lot for his capabilities as a seaman. He was determined to continue the voyage in the Tilikum. To raise funds for a new mate and fresh provisions, he exhibited the canoe in Sydney, then put her on the train to Newcastle a hundred kilometres north.
Just before leaving Newcastle, Voss reported seeing Luxton, who again pleaded with him to abandon the venture. That was the last they saw of each other. Voss sailed off to Melbourne with a new mate. At Melbourne, Voss had more bad luck. At another exhibition, Tilikum was sent crashing to the ground when a hauling block broke. The fall split her hull in five places. Voss successfully sued for the £200 needed for repairs. Changing mates yet again — he hired Buckridge, who had been part of Robert Scott’s first Antarctic expedition — he set sail for Adelaide, then Hobart, Tasmania, and then to Invercargill and other spots along the coast of New Zealand, in Wellington, after a show and talk on Tilikum, a young Royal Navy lieutenant named Ernest Shackleton came up and shook his hand. Such recognition warmed Voss and inspired others: in Auckland, Buckridge announced he was leaving the Tilikumto sail his own small boat and race him to England. Voss signed on yet another, Herbert Macmillan, a former man of the cloth, and on August 19, now nearly two years and three months since leaving Victoria, shaped a course for the New Hebrides. They lowered their Canadian Ensign to half mast as they crossed the point where Voss had lost Begent to the sea.
Thousands visited her in Johannesburg and Pretoria, including war hero General Louis Botha, “who told [Voss] that he would go through another South African war than attempt to cross the Atlantic in the Tilikum.”
After a cordial stay with some missionaries in the New Hebrides, the two aimed the canoe due west for the Torres Strait. Apart from some food poisoning on Voss’s part, the trip through the strait and across the Gulf of Carpentaria was uneventful. They made for the Cocos (Keeling) Islands in the Indian Ocean. The wind died clown on their approach. With the boat becalmed, Voss and Macmillan rested for the night. But morning found them drifted far away. They tried sailing back into the wind, but the drifting’ current was too strong, and they soon lost sight of the islands. Their only option now was to push on to their next destination, Rodrigues Island, more than three thousand kilometres to the west, without fresh provisions. Down to just a few pints of water, they prayed. Five days later, luck brought them torrential rains and they filled their tanks. On November 28, 1903, they sighted Rodrigues Island. Following a short stay enjoying the hospitalities of the island folk, they hit the open ocean for Durban, South Africa. They made good time and on December 22 sighted the South African coast. Visions of Christmas dinner filled their heads. But two wicked storms tossed them about for three days. So they ate their last corned beef for Christmas dinner, then put into Durban.
It appears they neglected to tell anyone. Back in Australia, The Observer of Adelaide reported on January 30, 1904: “It is feared that the 4-ton yacht Tilikum... has been lost. Today the tiny vessel is 119 days out from Thursday Island to Cocos Island, a distance of 2,800 miles and she has been declared missing.” The newspaper continued with an obituary of the whole Tilikum odyssey since leaving Victoria harbour.
In Durban, Voss heard the news that his former mate Buckridge had perished in his attempt to beat him to England. Macmillan left him to seek a fortune in the gold and diamond mines of South Africa. But the Tilikum was again the star of travelling shows. Thousands visited her in Johannesburg and Pretoria, including war hero General Louis Botha, “who told me that he would go through another South African war than attempt to cross the Atlantic in the Tilikum.“ Following a train trip down to East London, he hired his tenth crew member and sailed around the Cape of Good Hope to Capetown. There his eleventh and last mate, Harrison, met him for the voyage across the South Atlantic to Pernambuco (Recife), Brazil.
Harrison, who suffered from consumption, spent most days hanging over the side with seasickness, so Voss altered course and landed instead at St. Helena, where Napoleon Bonaparte had been banished. Harrison recovered and continued on with Voss to Brazil. On May 20, 1904, just a few hours short of three years after his departure from Victoria, they anchored at Pernambuco. He wrote of the milestone, “Thus the Tilikum had succeeded in crossing the three oceans and the contract I had entered upon with Mr. Luxton was fulfilled.” At Pernambuco, the British consul congratulated the two and treated them with free railway passes to see Brazil. On the afternoon of June 4, they were towed out of the harbour to set course for the final leg, to London. On the way, they pulled into the Azores for more of the royal treatment before pressing on to England.
Finally, at four o’clock in the afternoon of September 2, 1904, Tilikum sailed into Margate, England, to a cheering welcome, exactly three years, three months and twelve days after leaving Victoria.
Voss’s account of the voyage comes to a rather abrupt end at this point. With the help of Shackleton, whom he had met in New Zealand, Tilikum was exhibited at Earl’s Court for the Navy and Marine Exhibition of 1905. Voss was elected a fellow of the Royal Geographic Society, where he became a popular lecturer. But after this he appears to have faded from public view. Author Francis Dickie, in an October 1959 article in Seacraft, said an unknown researcher claimed he had been lost at sea in 1913 on a venture out of Yokohama. But according to his daughter, Caroline Kuhn, he ended up driving a taxi in Tracy, California, where he died in 1922.
The Tilikum came close to suffering a similarly ignoble fate. After her Earl’s Court showing, she changed hands a few times and was abandoned on the Thames in 1929. Inquiries by an unnamed Canadian naval officer led to London’s B.C. House advertising as to her whereabouts. A response came back from a Mr. Byford, on whose property she was rotting. She was shipped back to Victoria on the Furness Line in 1930.
The Empress Hotel provided a display site next to the Crystal Gardens on Douglas Street. In 1936 the Thermopylae Club restored her, and in 1940 she was moved to Thunderbird Park. She was relocated to her present home, the Maritime Museum of British Columbia, in 1965.
Luxton worked his passage from Sydney back to Victoria as an able seaman and found his way to Banff, there marrying the daughter of David McDougall, one of the region’s most prominent citizens. He opened a tourist shop, a taxidermist shop, and started Banff’s first newspaper, the Crag and Canyon. Luxton lived at 206 Beaver Street until his death in 1962.
Graham Chandler is a freelance writer living in Calgary. He holds a doctorate in archaeology from the University of London, England.
This article originally appeared in the April-May 2001 issue of The Beaver.
For further reading:
Tilikum: Luxton’s Pacific Crossing, edited by Eleanor Georgina Luxton. Gray’s Publishing Ltd., Sidney, B.C., 1971.
The Venturesome Voyages of Captain Voss, 3d ed., by J.C. Voss. Gray’s Publishing Ltd., Sidney, B.C., 1976.
by Phil Koch
The large motion picture format shown in theatres around the world had its beginnings in Canada’s National Film Board and in the creative energies showcased at Expo 67.
Graeme Ferguson and Roman Kroitor had both been interns at the NFB, and Kroitor was employed there when he proposed a multi-screen experimental film for the Expo. Ferguson, meanwhile, worked as an independent filmmaker and was asked to make his own film for Expo 67. He approached his former Galt, Ontario, schoolmate Robert Kerr to set up a production company.
At Expo 67, experimental film projections using many screens and projectors in different arrangements were a huge success, and the Fuji company asked Kroitor to participate in Expo 70 in Osaka, Japan. He and Ferguson discussed the possibility of using a single projector to improve image quality and reduce complications. With Kerr they formed the Multiscreen Corporation, which soon changed its name to IMAX.
Extending techniques developed in Norway and Australia, and with help from another former Galt schoolmate, Bill Shaw, the company developed a large-format projector and camera in time to show the film Tiger Child in Osaka.
The following year, the first permanent IMAX theatre opened at Ontario Place in Toronto. The first film to be screened was North of Superior (see film clip below).
In 1989, the Canadian Museum of Civilization (now the Canadian Museum of History) in Ottawa became the first IMAX theatre in the world to combine an IMAX screen with a full 180-degree IMAX dome. Then, in 2010, while retaining the dome, the museum converted its main IMAX screen to show 3-D films (see video below), making it the only theatre in North America to offer both experiences.
by Paul Butler
New York, 1909. The creative and hungry from all over the U.S., Canada, and beyond converged upon the city like bees to a honey jar. It had been only fourteen years since the first paying cinema audience had gazed in horror at the image of a full-size train hurtling towards them. The thrill of that Lumiere brothers presentation in Paris had sent ripples all around the world. In North America, New York was the first major centre of production.
Public thirst for this magnificent new style of entertainment with its lifelike murders, magic tricks, and amazing stunts needed constant sating. New films were needed — and needed fast. No entertainment media before or since has had quite the lure as moving pictures in this period. Anyone with a driving hunger to “make it” could stand a realistic chance of at least some kind of work in the industry. Crowd scenes, involving hundreds of extras, were common.
There were no ready-made qualifications for standing in front of a camera. Film actors and actresses had yet to be recognized in the same way as stage performers. And classically trained actors and actresses were suspicious of this new medium, which allowed for only ten-minute storylines and no dialogue. Film actors were rarely even billed. The last thing producers wanted was a “star” who would demand a greater salary to match their drawing power.
Qualities that made a good director, producer, or even camera operator had also yet to be defined. And no one was too squeamish about who did what. An actor was free to direct or write. And many writers and directors started as actors.
Into this egalitarian world came two Canadians of working-class origins who would permanently etch their influence onto the landscape of the moving picture. They were Mikall Sinnott (Mack Sennett) born in 1884 in Danville, Quebec, to Irish immigrant parents, and Gladys Smith (Mary Pickford), born in 1892 in Toronto.
Far from holding them back, humble origins were soon to propel their ambition. And an understanding of blue-collar sensibilities would also be a decisive factor helping both Canadians achieve popularity and success on a massive scale. Sennett and Pickford were both pioneers. Within a few short years, Sennett became the first major film producer who specialized in comedy. His style helped to define screen comedy in the silent era — and some would say beyond.
Pickford’s contribution was no less revolutionary. She would blow apart the idea of anonymity in screen acting, becoming the first woman who could be known, recognized, and sought after in her own right. By 1909 both Pickford and Sennett had gained entry into the world of film through the same rising star — principal director at the Biograph production company, D.W. Griffith.
Gladys Smith’s introduction to show business had come about through necessity rather than desire. Her father, a labourer, had been killed in a job-related accident when she was five years old. With little income, her mother resorted to putting her on the stage. The child toured as “Baby Gladys” so she could help feed her two younger siblings, Lottie and Jack.
Gladys made the successful transition from vaudeville to Broadway at the age of fourteen, changing her name to Mary Pickford. She was sixteen when she entered the offices at Biograph in 1909 and charmed Griffith into taking her on.
Sennett’s road to moving pictures was also uneven. When he left his native Quebec at the age of seventeen to find work in the American Iron Works in Connecticut, his only obvious show-business aspiration was to sing; his rich bass voice fueled dreams of the opera. It was likely this dream that took him in 1902 to New York. He began to carve out a minor career in burlesque, which ultimately was to prove a major influence on his work in film.
Sennett approached Biograph a year before Pickford. He had already acted in many short films before he found himself opposite the golden-haired sixteen-year-old from Toronto in such shorts as The Gibson Goddess (1909) and The Englishmen and the Girl (1910).
By this time Griffith was already taking the whole Biograph company to California for the winter where fewer filming days were lost to bad weather. He also found an impressive range of natural landscapes — deserts, jungles, swamps, and mountains — that did not exist in the east.
While Griffith experimented with locales, two of his prodigies had ambitions of their own.
Like most actresses of her time, Pickford received no billing in her Biograph films. But as a former stage performer, she knew how to project her personality through the limitations of the medium. Her trademark blond curls and her mixture of vulnerability and pluckiness were a cocktail audiences could not resist. Soon the public identified so strongly with the name in the intertitle of one of her films — “Little Mary” — that it stuck.
Astute and determined, the real Little Mary understood the business and her bargaining power within it. She realized that each time she moved from one company to another, she could negotiate afresh and improve on any existing contract. So Mary moved often, leaving Biograph for IMP (later to become Universal), from IMP to Majestic, back briefly to Biograph, then to the Famous Players Company.
She achieved this whole cycle in the three years between 1909 and 1912. Her weekly salary increased during the same period from $40 to $500.
Pickford soon anticipated the power of the modern film star by demanding (and getting) creative input into every aspect of the films in which she appeared. In 1916 she successfully lobbied her employer, Famous Players, for a separate production offshoot, The Mary Pickford Company, just for her movies. Three years later, together with Charlie Chaplin, Douglas Fairbanks, and Griffith, she formed United Artists.
Meanwhile, Pickford’s old Biograph colleague had also risen to prominence. Although consistently an actor in his years with Griffith (1908–1912), Mack Sennett was most drawn towards writing, directing, and producing. Constantly grilling Griffith and his technicians about every aspect of the industry, he contributed scripts for Griffith productions as early as 1909. By 1910 he was directing as well.
Sennett also focused much attention on the all-important craft of film editing. It was through this discipline that a straight scene could be made funny. Sennett soon became the master of “absurd” comedy. A typical Sennett scenario might find a small, two-door Ford coming to a hall by the curb. Out spills two, four, six, eight, twelve, twenty policemen.
Like Pickford, Sennett wanted control of his product and in 1912 struck out on his own, forming Keystone in association with two former bookies.
He brought comedy talent from Biograph with him, notably his close friend Mabel Normand. But it was in spotting and hiring new comics that Sennett excelled. Many of the comic greats, such as Charlie Chaplin, Roscoe “Fatty” Arbuckle, Harold Lloyd, and Ben Turpin, came through Keystone.
Although Sennett was influenced by the surreal comedy of French filmmaker George Melies and paid close attention to the trickery through which it was achieved, he brought in vital elements of his own. The vulgarity, the exaggerated caricatures, the lampooning of authority figures, and the sheer physical speed owed much to his own stints in burlesque and his knowledge of working-class tastes.
While his one-time mentor Griffith was drawn to vast stories with noble themes, Sennett was drawn to the anatomy of instant laughter. And often this meant parodying the “serious” films of the day. In Sennett’s first feature comedy, Tillie’s Punctured Romance (1914), tiny Charlie Chaplin (before he invented his tramp character) is a city slicker preying upon an innocent farm girl played by the enormous Marie Dressier (Farm waif preyed upon by sophisticated rake was a stock melodramatic situation in “serious” films.)
Sennett inserted the incongruous or absurd into other popular storylines, casting cross-eyed Ben Turpin or Fatty Arbuckle as the dashing romantic hero.
Keystone relied on another perennial crowd-pleasing formula from burlesque — that of the rich or overly dignified being taken down a peg or two, with custard pies aimed at gentlemen in evening dress and fashionable ladies with improbable hats.
Sennett understood the ability of moving pictures to magnify laughter through scale. If one stupid cop was funny, the logic ran, a dozen would he many times funnier. And so the Keystone Kops were born.
If numbers magnified comedy, speed intensified it. A car chase through the streets was funnier if the film was sped up to create abrupt, jerky motions, and if the Kop car crashed into a lamppost at a hundred miles an hour. This crazy effect was achieved by recording the action at only eight to twelve frames per second, then projecting it at sixteen to twenty.
Such innovations put Sennett improbably in the vanguard of a very serious movement in cinema art. The effect of mechanization upon the human soul would in years to come become a preoccupation of such lauded filmmakers as Fritz Lang (Metropolis, 1926) and Sennett’s former employee, Charlie Chaplin (Modern Times, 1936).
Yet from 1912 onwards, Keystone productions were already portraying the mad choreographed dance created by man and machine in the modern world. Sennett’s humans even moved like cogs or spokes spinning madly out of control. And like parts of a machine, Sennett’s humans could be shot, burned, or flung huge distances, but never hurt.
“Having found your hub idea, you build out the spokes,” said Sennett of his plot-building techniques in 1915. “Then introduce your complications that make up the funny wheel.”
The Canadian child of the industrial age who had narrowly escaped a career in the American Iron Works was bringing his own mechanized vision to his art.
If Sennett’s understanding of lowbrow comedy was a major factor in his success, so Pickford’s knowledge of pathos became a crucial tool through which she could win over her public.
As “Baby Gladys,” she had found out that a youthful combination of plucky spiritedness, innocence, and good looks was simply irresistible to a large audience. Add peril into the mixture, and the audience would feel not only enamoured of their heroine, they would feel protective of her too.
As well as “America’s Sweetheart,” Pickford was variously known as the “Cinderella of the Screen” and “the sweet young girl every man desires someday to have for himself.”
There are some striking parallels between Pickford’s Cinderella screen persona and the details of her own upbringing. A classic example is the early gothic Sparrows (1926), a film she also produced, in which Pickford is the oldest child rescuing younger children from a baby farm (orphanage).
Our heroine here is at once protector of the imperilled and hungry young children and at the same time in severe danger herself. The similarities between this and a childhood in which she had been forced into the cutthroat theatrical world to feed her younger siblings are obvious. And her ongoing real-life role of protector can be seen in her contracts, one of which (in 1917) stipulated that the studio must offer her brother Jack a lucrative contract.
Movies like Sparrows hit a chord around the world because people recognized the essential pathos of poverty and the universality of the dream of being rescued.
One aspect of Mary’s success with audiences was her seemingly perpetual youth. When Mary played the spirited young waif in Sparrows, she was actually thirty-three years old. Her growing impatience with playing fifteen-year-olds would present her with the greatest test of her career and would ultimately cause her downfall.
The first challenge to Mary’s image, however, came not on the screen but in her private life. On March 28, 1920, with a fanfare of publicity, Pickford married Douglas Fairbanks, the charismatic, athletic actor seen by audiences as Mary’s male counterpart in purity and innocence. Celebration turned to major embarrassment when the attorney general of California threatened to prosecute her for bigamy and perjury as there was suspicion Mary’s divorce from first husband Owen Moore had not been legal. Hollywood at this time was just beginning to experience its first wave of scandals, and a possible backlash threatened Mary’s career. In the event, she was exonerated. But it’s quite possible such a scare brought one question urgently into focus — was it time to shed the ”Little Mary” image?
With the jazz age roaring around her, Mary made several attempts to do just that. The first of these was a film, Rosita, directed by German import Ernst Lubitsch in 1923. Although a failure, Mary persevered. In 1929, she discarded her trademark blond curls and replaced them with the fashionable 1920s shingled hairstyle to play the title role in the film Coquette, her first talkie. Although she won an Academy Award, the audience felt cheated out of “the girl with the golden hair” and Mary’s popularity began to wane.
Pickford was by now entering her late thirties. Even if her public could not yet admit it, Little Mary’s days were numbered. Already the advent of sound had removed some of the pantomime quality from moving pictures. Naturalism was the order of the day, and it was becoming difficult to fool an audience with inappropriate casting.
Mary turned to Shakespeare in her last real attempt to carve out a new acting niche. But The Taming of the Shrew (1929), in which she starred opposite Fairbanks, was by all accounts something of a disaster, and Mary soon retired from acting.
Sound also proved to be the decisive blow to Sennett’s career. But the golden years of 1912—1915, in which he ran Keystone independently as a brisk comedy factory, were already long gone. After World War I, audiences had began to change, becoming more sophisticated in their tastes. The German cinema with its dark shadows and psychological themes was beginning to influence the American film. The public began to expect longer stories and more serious treatments. Sennett’s films became less vulgar and more polite, and the 1920s were very profitable for him. But he remained a fish out of water with the new middle-class style of comedy. The fragility of his product became more obvious when very few of his actors made a successful transition to talking pictures. To make matters worse, while Sennett moved upmarket, the downmarket burlesque approach was snatched by the emerging world of cartoons.
It’s easy to paint the inevitable decline of great careers in a tragic light. In fact, the reality is seldom so simple or so sad. Despite personal bankruptcy and the advent of sound, Sennett still managed to discover one more comic genius in W.C. Fields. And although he returned to Canada in the 1930s, he was often recalled to Hollywood to act in various advisory capacities until his death in 1960. Pickford also remained active in film, becoming the first vice president of United Artists in 1936.
But it is the intense excitement in that early film era that causes us to see sadness in whatever follows. And one measure of this dazzling mystique — and the inevitable disappointment that lies in its wake — is the true story of Mary Pickford buying up all her silent film originals in the 1930s solely to have them burned at her funeral. Luckily, for film archivists and the world in general, Pickford relented before her death in 1979.
This article originally appeared in the February-March 2004 issue of The Beaver.
by Paul Butler
“Rugged, rocky, cliffy, fretted with coves, bays, inlets, sprinkled with islands, sailboats, freighters, fishing smacks … There were half-remembered landmarks. Church steeples. The silver curve of railroad tracks. Dirt roads winding among wooden houses …”
It is 1944, and munitions instructor Sergeant Harold Russell lies in a hospital bed dreaming of North Sydney, Nova Scotia, where he was born. Just days after losing his hands in a freak accident, heavy drugs keep him in a state somewhere between sleep and delirium. Harold imagines himself floating down to touch the Nova Scotian ground, then feels himself being hoisted onto his father’s shoulders and taken to downtown Sydney where people are cheering and waving flags to celebrate the end of World War I. “Never again in your lifetime will you see a celebration like this, my boy,” Harold’s father tells him. “There will never be another war.”
Harold Russell’s life is at an all time low. No one could possibly predict that in just a few more years, he will achieve a unique distinction in one of the world’s most competitive and prestigious professions – a profession into which he had never sought entry. At the 1946 Academy Awards, Russell will become the only actor ever to win two Oscars for the same role.
As the war drew to a close, things began changing in the world of film. Public hunger shifted away from Errol Flynn–style heroics. People wanted to see movies that reflected the disruptions and adjustments they were experiencing in their own lives. Ex-servicemen were flooding back to their American, Canadian, and European hometowns to find that civilian life had challenges of its own.
The germ of the story that would propel Russell to international fame began taking shape as early as August 1944 when MGM mogul Samuel Goldwyn read an article in Time magazine about a group of injured marines trying to readjust to civilian life. Aware that this was an emerging topic in North America, and beyond, Goldwyn commissioned MacKinlay Kantor to write a novel that would provide the basis of a screenplay.
The resulting poem in blank verse, Glory for Me, included seaman Homer Wermels, who returns home from the war drooling and suffering from body spasms. Homer symbolized the shattering effect of war. Although Harold Russell would not know until much later, he would radically change the concept of this supporting character.
Harold John Russell was born in North Sydney, Nova Scotia, in 1914. After his father died in 1919, Harold’s family moved to Cambridge, Massachusetts, where his mother trained to be a nurse. Intending to found a hospital in Cape Breton, she planned to return to Canada with her three sons once qualified. In the end, however, the family remained in the United States.
There was little in Harold’s early life to suggest a future as a film star. In fact, the young man viewed himself as a nonentity. “As a kid in Nova Scotia I had failed to make friends,” he recalled. He had “only barely squeaked through in school.” Harold intended to become an engineer, but had failed to obtain the necessary college scholarship. Instead, he went to work in a grocery store, progressing slowly from delivery boy to meat cutter to store manager.
The same lack of confidence affected his relationships with the opposite sex. When Rita, the girl he was timidly courting, appeared unimpressed by her suitor, Harold enlisted the help of an uncle who had connections. Despite such interventions, Harold’s inferiority complex persisted until an unlikely turning point. When the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbour on December 7, 1941, Harold Russell immediately enlisted in the U.S. war effort.
While he had failed to realize his ambitions as a civilian, the forces soon picked Harold out for advancement. After mastering the art of parachuting and learning how to set a booby trap, Harold was asked to stay on at demolition school as an instructor. Working steadily with an increasing number of trainees, he was promoted to sergeant, but as months turned into years, a new anxiety developed. “Out of eighteen instructors [at demolition school],” he recounted, “eleven had been injured in the seven months I’d been teaching there.” The worst of these incidents involved him and another instructor who had gone up a tree to fix a charge. It exploded and blew off his fellow instructor’s hand. The experience was a bad omen. Harold resolved that if he were to be injured, it should at least be in battle rather than in a training exercise, so he sought a transfer.
Harold succeeded in getting transferred to an outfit in North Carolina that was preparing to go oversees, but there were intensive demolition exercises to get through first. It was during one of these practices that disaster struck.
There was no warning. Watched by his class as he was going through the same routine he had followed countless times before, Harold “crimped the cap and fuse, slid them in. Then – BOOM!!!”
The agonizing recovery and rehabilitation process brought many issues to the fore, the worst of which was Harold’s sudden belief that his success as a soldier had been the odd fluke that only wartime could produce. Lying in a hospital bed day after day, he began to feel that joining the army had merely provided “a glamorous alibi for running away from a job that offered little, a girl [Rita] I had failed to win.” Having vowed to himself before the accident that he would never return to his old job, it now seemed that even the options he had rejected were closed to him. At Walter Reed Hospital in Washington, D.C., Harold went through operations on his stumps to enable the fitting of prosthetic hooks. Ever eager for a challenge, he began to practice manipulating his new hands. He wanted to become as independent as possible.
Harold’s dexterity opened up an unexpected door. The army was in the process of commissioning an instructional film to inspire amputees to overcome their disabilities. Harold’s progress with his prosthetic hooks made him the perfect subject. A film crew captured him performing various, everyday tasks – squeezing toothpaste, playing Ping- Pong, dialing a rotary telephone. Diary of a Sergeant, shot both in the Walter Reed Hospital and at the old Paramount studios in Long Island, was released in March 1945. At the premiere, Harold reacted with pained embarrassment to the sight of himself on celluloid. “I wriggled and squirmed and blushed as I watched my shadow go lumbering across the screen,” he said, “And as for acting, I winced every time that oversized gargoyle tried to portray anything more complicated than staring into space.”
Although the film was narrated and he had no lines, Harold’s innocence and good-natured humility had a way of showing through. For the unwitting Harold, Diary of a Sergeant was to act as a calling card.
Meanwhile, in Hollywood, casting the Homer Wermels character – as written in MacKinlay Kantor’s poem Glory For Me – was proving a stumbling block both for Samuel Goldwyn and for William Wyler, the film’s director. Then things changed. One evening, Wyler saw a screening of Diary of a Sergeant. As the young director watched the fresh-faced Sergeant Russell cheerfully negotiate day-to-day tasks with his hooks, he was struck with an idea. He rushed to phone Goldwyn. The next morning, Goldwyn had a private viewing of the army film. When he saw Harold, he exclaimed, “Get me that man!”
Unbeknownst to Harold, who was busy attending business classes in Boston, his acting career had already taken off. A woman phoned him, claiming to represent Samuel Goldwyn, and offered Harold a role in a movie starring Fredric March and Myrna Loy. Naturally, the young veteran assumed it was a joke. The woman persisted, however, and soon a meeting with MGM was arranged in New York. Harold was offered $5,000 for the part and told to hurry his answer. Practical, yet a little naive, he ignored the concerns of his now-fiancée, Rita, about accepting too quickly. “The way I figured it then,” he later said, “Goldwyn was practically throwing his money away. I was no actor.”
Although the contract was doubled in renegotiations, Harold Russell received no residuals. Later, he regretted his cavalier attitude toward payment. In the short term, however, he was off to Hollywood, where his status as an innocent would soon reap unexpected rewards. The film – titled The Best Years of Our Lives and rewritten by playwright Robert E. Sherwood – was soon underway, and Harold enjoyed rubbing shoulders with famous co-stars and an odd assortment of film people, including the “old man” himself, Samuel Goldwyn.
But Wyler’s motto to actors, “If it feels right, do it,” was not meant for Harold. Often, he came across as too cheerful for such a troubled character. He had a problem conveying anger. In one scene, Harold’s character (renamed Homer Parrish), was supposed to react angrily to fascist comments made by a customer at a soda bar, throwing the loose-lipped customer through a glass counter. However, Harold liked Ray Teal, the actor playing the fascist, so he was unable to express the necessary rage.
Thinking about how he could rile the ever-placid Harold, Wyler took him aside and “confided” that, despite appearances, Teal really was a fascist, and there was literature in his pocket to prove it. The gullible young veteran believed Wyler, displaying newfound enthusiasm in his onscreen outburst.
The low-key authenticity of Harold’s performance was part of a deliberate plan. Wyler was looking for a subtle, naturalistic sensibility not typical of Hollywood films. Adding to the texture of naturalism, actresses Myrna Loy, Teresa Wright, and Cathy O’Donnell were asked to refrain from wearing makeup and to wear their costumes a few weeks in advance of shooting, so they would feel more comfortable in their roles.
The lives of three returning servicemen were depicted in a similarly plain and honest fashion. Homer (Harold Russell), from the navy; Al (Fredric March), from the army; and Fred (Dana Andrews), from the air force, return to their hometown together. Flying home on the same plane, they share war stories, admitting to one another their dread and uncertainty of going home. Using his hooks, Homer can light his own cigarettes and carry his bags but, as his two new comrades reflect, the navy could not teach him how to take his girl in his arms.
Later, in a touching scene that paralleled Harold’s relationship with Rita, Homer’s childhood sweetheart, Wilma (Cathy O’Donnell), makes a final attempt to get through to her recently disabled friend (and former fiancé). Bitter and afraid of rejection, Homer’s best defense is to reject first. Eventually he relents, allowing Wilma to help him unfasten his prosthetics and get into bed. Ironically, accepting her help is yet another effort to drive her away. Homer reasons that by assisting him, Wilma will discover for herself the unromantic truth of his disability.
When The Best Years of Our Lives was released in 1946, audiences in North America and Europe immediately identified with the disillusioned vets and also recognized the suffering of those who had been left behind, represented by such characters as Wilma. Many women on the home front confronted the horrors of war in a different way – by dealing with the psychological scars of their returning men.
Many scenes, even some not involving Homer, mirrored aspects of Harold’s own rehabilitation. Fred fears returning to the menial work he escaped from to become a flying ace in the air force. This dilemma Harold knew only too well. Without a great deal of luck, career opportunities and personal fulfillment were elusive for the returning vet.
The most striking parallel of all, however, is the film’s last scene in which Homer marries Wilma. Harold did indeed marry his childhood sweetheart, Rita, in Hollywood while The Best Years of Our Lives was still shooting. And, just as in the film, he had struggled to believe he was a suitable mate after his injury.
Although both critical and public response to The Best Years of Our Lives was highly favourable, the film was not without its detractors. Abraham Polonsky, writing in the Hollywood Quarterly, believed that the film too neatly resolved the characters’ displacement in society by its happy ending. But at the Oscars that year, The Best Years of Our Lives cleaned up, winning best director, best script, best music, best film editing, and best actor (Fredric March), eclipsing Frank Capra’s perennial Christmas favourite It’s a Wonderful Life, which was also nominated in many of the same categories.
Harold Russell won a special Oscar for “being an inspiration to all returning veterans.” Although also nominated for best actor in a supporting role, he was not expected to win. “I found out, months later,” he recalled, “that when I was nominated for supporting actor, they figured I didn’t have a chance; the other guys [Charles Coburn, William Demarest, Claude Rains, Clifton Webb] had too much background.”
When they did announce Harold’s name for the award, he was as unprepared as everyone else. “When they got to supporting actor, they practically threw me out on the stage.” While the modest Harold took the new level of attention cheerfully in stride, some professional actors, such as fellow nominee Clifton Webb, did not appreciate being upstaged by a novice. “On Razor’s Edge,” he later said, “I lost the supporting actor Oscar to that man with no hands. It caused a scandal.”
Following advice from Wyler, and his own common sense, Harold made little attempt to duplicate his initial Hollywood success. Instead, he continued his education at business school and set up a consulting firm, Harold Russell Associates, dealing with matters relating to people with disabilities. He also became an important player in veteran disability issues, serving as national commander of American Veterans and president of the World Veterans Federation. In 1964, he was appointed chairman of a government committee that helped bring about groundbreaking anti-discrimination laws, such as the 1973 Rehabilitation Act.
The taste for the entertainment industry never quite left Harold, however, and he made many cause-related appearances in nightclubs, sometimes playing piano duets with his hooks, a skill he showed off with Hoagy Carmichael in The Best Years of Our Lives. Before his death on January 29, 2002, Harold also rekindled his interest in film acting, appearing in Inside Moves in 1980 and Dogtown in 1997.
Harold Russell was at the centre of another “first” in Oscar history, one that again demonstrated that he was not quite in sync with Hollywood culture. Ever practical and honest, in 1992, he sold his best supporting actor Oscar to an anonymous bidder for $60,500 in order to pay his wife’s medical bills. The Academy was so incensed it has since brought in a measure that requires all Oscar recipients to sign an agreement that they will not sell their Oscars. Harold’s response to the controversy was typically straightforward. “I don’t know why anybody would be critical,” he said. “My wife’s health is much more important than sentimental reasons. The movie will be here, even if Oscar isn’t.”
This article appeared in the February-March 2007 issue of The Beaver.
by Jim Chliboyko
A flip of a coin decided the fate of young William Pratt. As he visited the family solicitor’s office to collect money a relative had left him, Pratt had already determined that he would buy a ticket out of Dulwich, England. The coin would choose his destination: heads, Canada; tails, Australia.
It was heads. He was off to Canada.
Leaving England for Canada might have seemed an odd choice for an aspiring actor in 1909 – leaving the land of Shakespeare to cut his teeth on the stage in the colonies. He may have wanted to escape the shadow of his family: Pratt was the youngest of nine children, most of them committed to England’s diplomatic corps, like their late father, who had worked extensively in India.
Billy Pratt boarded the Empress of Britain on May 7, in Liverpool, bound for Montreal. He had evidently set up a job for himself through the Canada Company, on a farm outside Hamilton, Ont., for a man named O’Reilly. But for Pratt, in travelling west, things quickly went south. O’Reilly had never heard of the man who arrived on his doorstep, but he took Pratt on anyway. “What a rough ride,” Pratt later told biographer Cynthia Lindsay. “O’Reilly would get me out of bed with a pitchfork at four in the morning to go catch horses in the fields and bring them in.”
Pratt eventually headed west, ending up in Banff. There wasn’t much work there for him, nor in Vancouver, where he relegated himself to pick and shovel work. On his first day with the labour crew he showed up without having had breakfast. He was completely broke.
Chance played a role in Pratt’s time in Vancouver. “That must be a Pratt!” shouted a man on the street one day. It was a family friend who then got young Pratt proper work in real estate (though the job didn’t last). Another time, in the grand old Hotel Vancouver, Pratt bumped into, of all people, his brother John, returning home from his China post by way of Canada. The effect of this encounter, as well as the money John loaned him, must have bolstered the brash young Englishman, for Pratt seemed to renew his quest to find theatrical work. But Pratt ended up working again with his hands, this time for the British Columbia Electric Company.
While working with a survey party in the bush about 110 kilometres from Vancouver, Pratt received a letter from an agent. The Kamloops-based Jean Russell Players (also known as the Ray Brandon Players) were looking for an experienced character actor. Pratt decided to come up with a more theatrical name and then sent off a reply. Pratt later told biographer Peter Underwood, “The company had a bad reputation and no one would join it; that’s why they sent for me.” And the new name? Boris came to him “out of the cold Canadian air.” And the exotic-sounding Karloff had some sort of tenuous connection to his mother’s side.
After his first stage role, as a banker three times the young actor’s age in a Ferenc Molnar play, The Devil, “Boris Karloff” was both christened and outed; Pratt was completely inexperienced. But a determined actor was hard to find. As biographer Lindsay elegantly tells it, “When the curtain went up on his performance, he was earning 30 dollars a week. When the curtain came down, he was getting 15.” But he stayed with the company – until the day Regina was ripped apart.
The Players were having a decent run in Regina in the depths of the stifling summer of 1912, in spite of heavy competition, and were enjoying a day off at Wascana Lake. It was a lucky decision, for that was the afternoon the Great Cyclone tore through the young town, destroying dozens of lives and wrecking the Players’ theatre.
Pratt/Karloff would tell the story of the tornado years later in the inaugural season of the CBC television show Front Page Challenge. The disaster claimed 28 lives, injured countless others and left about 2,500 people homeless. Pratt and his fellow actors were paid 25 cents an hour from a relief fund to set up soup stands and tents for Regina’s displaced citizens. It was also the end of the Jean Russell Players, who separated soon after.
Pratt’s nomadic existence continued. He got jobs where he could. Much of the labour was manual (a pattern that continued until he was almost 40). A railroad job led him to a train station, where he found an abandoned copy of Billboard. Inside was an ad for a position in Prince Albert with the Harry St. Clair Players, a job he would keep for a few years between excursions to the States whenever he saved enough money. The Players even ended up in Minot, North Dakota, for a year, playing in an opera house above a hardware store.
Pratt had greater luck in the States, working in Chicago for a while (which he hated). He ricocheted between gigs in touring companies, ending up in Hollywood in 1917, where he established a journeyman’s career, subsisting with minor film roles, initially as an “atmosphere player,” then branching out into a variety of dark, accented villains. His brooding, foreign- seeming looks ended up being useful for playing East Indians, Middle Easterners, even Chinese. Fourteen years after he arrived, director James Whale spotted the actor in a studio cafeteria and persuaded him to try out for Frankenstein. Pratt was 43.
A great chunk of Pratt’s career has disappeared into the ether – not just his Front Page Challenge performance, but his years in theatre, too. Frankenstein remains, however, and children still hear that marvelous voice every year in The Grinch Who Stole Christmas (which earned him a Grammy award in 1968 for Best Recording for Children). The voice of the narrator is the same one that echoed through theatres and opera houses in Kamloops, Prince Albert, Minot and points in-between.
Before Frankenstein, one of Pratt’s main continuing roles was that of an evil French-Canadian trapper. Conscious or not, it was a backhanded nod to Pratt’s formative Canadian experience and the true northern birthplace of “Boris Karloff.”
This article originally appeared in the October–November 2005 issue of The Beaver.
by Rose Zgodzinski
On a crisp morning in September 1971, I found myself rushing through Halifax. I was late for registration day at the Nova Scotia College of Art and Design (NSCAD) and was somewhat disoriented. Once inside, I asked the first breathing entity I could find for directions to the Anna Leonowens Gallery, where registration was in full swing.
“That’s Anna ‘Le-a-NOO-anz,’” the young man interrupted, correcting my mangled attempt to pronounce the name of the gallery. “She’s Anna, of Anna and the King of Siam,” he added.
His confusing reference immediately conjured up that grand fluffy film. Of course, I was familiar with Anna, or rather, Deborah Kerr’s fictionalized version of her in the 1956 film The King and I. But what was the heroine of a romantic musical comedy doing in my art school? Leonowens’ curious introduction took me decades to sort out.
The role with which Leonowens is always associated — the proper English governess who influenced an exotic royal court — is a part she scripted herself. As a young widow, Leonowens wrote to support herself and her two children. She wrote a series of magazine articles for the Boston-based Atlantic Monthly magazine in 1870, based on her nearly six-year posting as an English language teacher in Siam (Thailand). Leonowens understood that her vantage point as a modern woman in an ancient royal court was unique. Her articles, which were well received, expanded into two books of memoirs and a series of very popular touring lectures. Leonowens' version of her adventure in Siam had turned her into a celebrity.
The Canadian side to Leonowens’ story only came into focus for me many decades after I had left both Halifax and NSCAD. My curiosity was again piqued after I read about her in The First Hundred Years: A History of the Nova Scotia College of Art and Design, written by Donald Soucy and Harold Pearse.
In this account, Leonowens seemed accomplished and charismatic. I wanted to know more. When I went looking for Leonowens’ life in Canada, I found that it was rooted in her Siamese commission. While Leonowens brought her young son Louis with her to Siam, she sent her eight-year-old daughter Avis to boarding school in England, fearing the experience would not be appropriate for a young girl. Young Avis was so devastated by the family separation that, after they were reunited, mother and daughter vowed never to be separated again.
This promise would eventually bring Leonowens to Canada.
It began when Avis married a Scottish banker named Thomas Fyshe. After Fyshe accepted a job at the Bank of Nova Scotia in Halifax, Anna joined the newlyweds in Nova Scotia.
Anna Leonowens was forty-seven years old when she arrived in Halifax in 1878. At this point in her life, she was a well-received author and sought-after lecturer. Having attained a respected position in Halifax society, she enthusiastically threw herself into numerous community projects. She helped found the Victorian Order of Nurses, as well as a local chapter of the National Council of Women. Leonowens worked for reforms on school boards, at Rockhead Prison, in Halifax, and at immigration facilities, all the while continuing to write and lecture. She started schools, book clubs, and literature societies.
In 1887, to commemorate Queen Victoria’s golden jubilee year, Leonowens suggested founding an art school, which came into reality as the Victoria School of Art (later to morph into NSCAD). Women played a significant role in the art school’s inception; seven woman, including Leonowens, were on the board of directors during its early years. Indeed, one of the official objectives stated in the art school’s constitution was “to open up new and remunerative employment for women.”
This is where I come into the picture, because I feel like I am one of the young women that NSCAD mentioned in its constitution in 1887, even though I came on the scene eighty-five years later.
Throughout my design career, I have come to value my NSCAD incubation as essential to my work life. I can’t help but feel touched by Leonowens’ efforts to start the school for me, as it were. Heringenuity and motivation are inspiring, because she made her own way through a difficult life to become a respected teacher, writer, and activist. Thanks to her, I was able to develop a belief in my own abilities.
However, despite Leonowens’ efforts in Canada to try to better the lives of those around her, she is still mainly recognized for a five-year embellished adventure in an exotic land.
In 1968, the gallery at NSCAD was dedicated to Anna Leonowens as “a testament to a probing, creative spirit directed towards service.”
It’s not a bad start. But really, doesn’t she deserve a little more recognition for her efforts?
This article originally appeared in the December 2008–January 2009 issue of The Beaver.
by Jen Clark
Mary Pickford
America’s Sweetheart was actually a Canadian. Born Gladys Smith in Toronto on April 8, 1892, she first appeared onstage at age five. Her widowed mother, an actress, moved the family to New York in 1900. Pickford went on to appear in almost 250 films and won an Oscar for 1929’s Coquette. Known for her business savvy, she co-founded film company United Artists in 1919. Married three times, she insisted on retaining her Canadian citizenship. She died in Beverly Hills, California, in 1979.
Fay Wray
The “beauty that killed the beast” was born near Cardston, Alberta, on September 15, 1907. When she was a child, her father moved the large family to Arizona, then to California. In Los Angeles she began working in low-budget movies while still in her teens. Wray played the lead in the well-regarded 1928 silent film The Wedding March. She earned the nickname Queen of Scream for her role in the famous horror movie King Kong in 1933. She died in Manhattan in 2004.
Jack Warner
This big-time Hollywood producer was named Jack Eichelbaum when he was born August 2, 1892, in London, Ontario. He was the youngest of twelve children in a Jewish immigrant family from Poland. The Eichelbaums later settled in Ohio, where Jack’s father changed the family’s last name. Jack and his brothers Harry, Sam, and Albert started producing their own films in 1912. Together, they founded Warner Brothers in 1923. Warner died in Los Angeles in 1978.
Walter Pidgeon
This quintessentially tall, dark, and handsome actor was born September 23, 1897, in Saint John, New Brunswick. Walter Pidgeon married his high school sweetheart and followed her to Boston, where she was studying art. Tragically, Pidgeon’s wife died in childbirth a few years later. Pidgeon was discovered by Fred Astaire. Nominated twice for a best actor Oscar, he continued performing until he was eighty. Pidgeon died in Santa Monica, California, in 1984.
Jay Silverheels
The Lone Ranger’s “faithful Indian companion, Tonto” was born Harold Jay Smith, the son of a Mohawk chief, on May 26, 1912, on the Six Nations Reserve near Brantford, Ontario. An athletic young man, his uncle nicknamed him “Silverheels” for his running style. While competing in a lacrosse tournament in Hollywood, he found work as a stuntman and extra. That eventually led to his role as Tonto in The Lone Ranger in 1949. Silverheels died in Calabasas, California, in 1980.
by Paul Dalby
The train from Montreal rumbled to a halt in a billowing cloud of steam at the Grand Trunk Railroad’s station in Toronto on a cold, blustery, November day in 1858. Back in the train’s baggage car, conductor James Keeble took a key from his waistcoat pocket and unlocked the cupboard reserved for bonded goods. From the top shelf he removed a small box containing a pickling jar, sealed with wax.
Keeble knew the jar contained a human stomach, which had previously resided inside the body of Sarah King, a doctor’s wife who had died under very suspicious circumstances. But the railway conductor had no idea that this grisly package would make criminal history in Canada. All he remembered was the precise instructions he was given from Simon Davidson, the coroner in Brighton, 135 kilometres east of Toronto.
“Mr. Davidson told me not to let [the package] out of my custody until such time as I placed it in the hands of Professor Croft,” Keeble would testify later in court. True to his word, Keeble walked briskly along the plank sidewalks of the bustling city streets, carrying the package directly to the chemistry department at the University of Toronto, where he delivered it to Professor Henry Holmes Croft.
A short, wiry man with long, unruly hair and a Rasputin beard, Croft looked a bit the mad professor — which in some ways he was. Henry Croft’s talents as a chemist were already well established before he turned his attention to simplifying and improving the methods for detecting poisons. Just one year earlier, in 1857, Croft had gained notoriety when he succeeded in making oil safe to use in household lamps by deodorizing the high sulphur content of oil drawn from a well near Sarnia, Ontario.
But even the brilliant chemist could not have predicted that the contents of that pickling jar would take his name into the history books as Canada’s first forensic detective. Author John King wrote in his 1914 article, “McCaul, Croft, Forneri: Personalities of Early University Days,” that “Croft in his time saved some innocent men from the gallows, and it is just as certain he was instrumental in bringing to justice others of whom society was well rid of.”
Professor Henry Croft, born March 6, 1820, was a man shaped by the mercurial nineteenth century, his life touched by famous scientist Michael Faraday, Napoleon Bonaparte, Charles Dickens, the Fenians, and Wyatt Earp. Croft’s foray into the uncharted waters of forensic science was, for him, a natural choice. He was a maverick all his life.
As a young boy growing up in London, England, Croft had built and blown up his own chemistry lab several times before he was sent for a conventional education at an academy called Tavistock House. (After Croft graduated, Charles Dickens purchased the house, which is where he wrote Bleak House, Hard Times and A Tale of Two Cities.) The teenage Croft showed little interest in following his father, William Croft, into the British civil service. An exasperated Croft senior sought the advice of his close friend Michael Faraday, who had already attained fame as the inventor of the electric motor. Croft considered his son a “wayward potterer in acids and stinks,” but Faraday knew talent when he saw it.
“Your son certainly has a wonderful aptitude for chemistry,” he told the concerned father. “Send him to Germany by all means and send him there at once.” So, in 1838, Henry Holmes Croft was shipped off to the University of Berlin to study under the noted professor Eilhard Mitscherlich, a former friend of Napoleon Bonaparte. Under Mitscherlich’s influence, the eighteen-year-old Croft became fascinated not only with chemistry, but also with botany, zoology, and mineralogy. His proclivity for broadening his mind did not seem to extend to the tedious business of sitting exams, and Croft left the university without bothering to take his Ph.D. — even though he had headed a class that produced many famous scientists.
Before returning to England, Croft received one solid job offer in Germany. As a talented pianist, he often per formed recitals for the king of Hanover, but he declined the king’s offer of a full-time job as his court musician.
Once back in England, Croft was quickly flagged by powerful people such as Faraday as “one to watch,” so it came as no surprise when the new governor general of Canada, Sir Charles Bagot, approached him with a plum job offer. And, six months later, Croft travelled to Canada to become the first professor of chemistry and experimental philosophy at the University of King’s College (later renamed the University of Toronto). Croft had just celebrated his twenty-third birthday.
His induction ceremony at the new college on June 8, 1843, struck a note of pure theatre. In front of the entire student body, Henry Croft, in his usual brilliant style, was demonstrating the ignition point of potassium in contact with water. A fragment of burning metal exploded through the air and set fire to the gown of the bishop of Toronto, Dr. John Strachan, who was also the college president. The fire was safely extinguished, which is more than can be said for the animosity that ignited between the two men. Later, Henry Croft became the champion of the movement to remove King’s College from the church’s control and turn it into a non-sectarian university. Six years after that, when government legislation made the transition official, Bishop Strachan was ousted and Croft was elected vice-chancellor of the new University of Toronto — but only alter he was given an honorary degree.
In four decades at the University of Toronto, Henry Holmes Croft achieved iconic status and attracted a level of hero worship from his students. One of Croft’s students, Hodgson Ellis, who succeeded him as professor of chemistry at the University of Toronto, wrote in a 1901 tribute: “He inspired in those students who were privileged to work with him not only respect for the master and enthusiasm for the work, but also and chiefly, love for the man. He was full of dry humor, thinking strongly and speaking fearlessly, but brimming over with kindness.”
Croft was recognized as one of the new breed of scientists eager to throw out the old scientific methods and try new tests and approaches. One such test he employed could detect the most elusive poison of that period, arsenic. Also known as the “inheritance powder,” arsenic had been used for centuries by impatient relatives eager to dispose of an aging patriarch. Like many poisons, arsenic could mimic common maladies, tricking physicians into believing a victim had died of natural causes. Symptoms of constant vomiting, diarrhea, headaches, even convulsions, were routinely ascribed to gastric flu.
In the 1850s, toxicology was a crude discipline, not far removed from black magic, and doing very little to shed light on so many unexplained deaths. Napoleon’s poisoning by arsenic would not be uncovered by science until 170 years after his death. The accepted test for arsenic, devised by European toxicologist Dr. Hermann Boerhaave, involved placing substances suspected of containing the poison on red-hot coals and “sniffing” out any strange odours. The test was so prone to failure that few judges and lawyers would prosecute a poisoning case. Forensic evidence was not trusted, much less accepted, in the court of law.
Over the next thirty years, Professor Henry Croft would challenge that skepticism through his relentless pursuit of scientific integrity, changing the landscape of the criminal justice system. Croft became the most sought-after forensic detective in Canada, serving as the expert witness at dozens of murder trials. He undoubtedly paved the way for specialized forensic science laboratories such as the first North American lab, founded in Montreal.
In 1858, Croft was a strong proponent of the work of brilliant English chemist James Marsh, who had developed the Marsh test for arsenic while working as assistant to Michael Faraday at the Royal Military Academy in Greenwich, London. As an eighteen-year-old “boy genius,” Croft had met Marsh on his many visits to Faraday’s labs. Later, in Canada, Croft was clearly the right man at the right time to adopt the Marsh test, a test that could be used to detect minute amounts of arsenic in foods or in the human stomach. The Marsh test spelled the end of the age of arsenic poisoners.
In the test, a sample was placed in a flask with arsenic-free zinc and sulfuric acid. Arsine gas (also hydrogen) formed and was led through a drying tube to a glass tube in which it was heated. The arsenic was deposited as a “mirror” just beyond the heated area and on any cold surface held to the burning gas emanating from the jet.
This new science enabled Henry Croft to unravel the mysterious death of twenty-five-year-old Sarah King, a robust and healthy young woman from Brighton, who was in early pregnancy and suddenly fell into chronic ill-health. While her death was suspicious, scientists at Queen’s University in Kingston refused to examine her stomach for signs of poisoning, claiming they were too busy and turning the gruesome jar away when it arrived at their lab. Henry Croft was the last hope for solving her death.
According to her husband, Dr. William King, Sarah had become ill after falling from her carriage. Later, when she complained of stomach cramps, Dr. King treated her for cholera morbus (acute gastroenteritis) with “small doses of a white powder.” Mrs. King wretched violently after each dose and her condition worsened.
As dawn broke on November 4, 1858, Sarah King slipped into a coma and died. Her seemingly distraught husband moved quickly to have her buried on the family’s land. Mrs. King’s parents were openly suspicious about her death. In a small town such as Brighton, gossip travels faster than a pandemic, and they had already heard rumours that Dr. King had been having an affair with a beautiful twenty-year-old woman named Melinda Vandervoort. Regrettably, it was the young doctor’s wife who introduced the two. After their first meeting, Melinda waited only a few days before sending Dr. King a photograph of herself and a steamy letter that read: “My heart flutters at the thought of you. Poor, little helpless me, you have an alarming influence over my girlish innocence.”
A smitten Dr. King promptly wrote back, asking his “sweet little lump of good nature” if she could save herself from the marriage altar for just one year. These incriminating love letters were not found until long after Sarah King’s death, so initially, her parents had little solid proof of any wrongdoing. Yet they pressed for an inquest. The dead woman’s body was exhumed from its grave and taken to a nearby schoolhouse where two local doctors, using an old door as an operating table, removed her stomach and prepared it for its long rail journey.
In Toronto, Professor Croft worked with his trademark diligence and efficiency inside his custom-built laboratory, a rotunda with a high, vented conical roof copied from England’s famous Glastonbury Abbey. Its design allowed chemical vapours and the odour from over-ripe specimens to escape. “The stomach was emptied into a glass of water,” Croft said later of his meticulous testing. “The liquid was allowed to settle, the upper part was poured off and a sediment left. This sediment was found to contain arsenic. I next examined the coats of the stomach and found more arsenic in them,” Croft reported. “The quantity I found in the stomach was eleven grains.” Croft knew that this amount of arsenic was five times the amount needed to kill someone. These early findings fuelled speculation that Dr. King had poisoned his wife with arsenic.
The doctor always had supplies of arsenic on hand for his homeopathic treatments, but he later insisted that he had only given his wife minute doses as a treatment for her cholera morbus.Professor Croft was completely focused on solid scientific evidence, not conjecture, so after finding the arsenic in Mrs. King’s stomach, he asked Brighton coroner Simon Davidson to send along her liver and kidneys. Croft wanted to rule out any chance that the stomach might have absorbed arsenic naturally when it was displayed earlier to a coroner’s jury.
For a second time, Mrs. King’s body was exhumed and local doctors removed the organs, shipping them in yet another glass jar aboard a train to Toronto. Croft’s second tests showed only moderate traces of arsenic in Mrs. King’s liver, where there should have been a considerable residue if arsenic poisoning was the true cause of death.
However, Dr. William King did not wait around to be cleared by Croft’s findings; he fled Brighton on horseback across the U.S. border to meet up with his girlfriend, Melinda Vandervoort. His swift departure was grounds for an arrest warrant to be issued. Dr. King was cornered by lawmen in New York state and then brought back to jail in nearby Cobourg, Ontario. Dr. King’s trial commenced on April 4, 1859, and his defence lawyer, John H. Cameron, brought forward several witnesses to support the claim that Sarah King was not poisoned by arsenic.
The most dramatic moment of the trial came when Professor Henry Croft took the stand. He shocked the court with his testimony that arsenic was not the cause of death, citing that he had found very little arsenic in the liver. “Arsenic cannot be put into the liver after death, it must have been taken in during life, that is the reason I wrote for the liver,” Croft testified at the trial. “I did not determine the quantity of arsenic found in the liver. But it was very little, not sufficient to cause death.”
It was typical of the low credence accorded to science in the mid-nineteenth century that the jury completely ignored Croft’s testimony. After deliberating for nineteen hours, they found Dr. King guilty of poisoning his wife with arsenic, but recommended mercy. The trial judge saw no reason for such maudlin sentiment and promptly sentenced Dr. William King to hang.
Just before he walked to the gallows on June 9, 1859, Dr. King finally confessed to his wife’s murder. In an open letter dictated to his jailer and published by the Globe newspaper, he revealed that he had, in fact, used an injection of morphine, not arsenic, to dispatch her.
The King trial marked the first time forensic evidence was introduced into a Canadian court of law. As it turned out, Henry Croft was proved correct in his evidence by a most unexpected source. It was the last time his word was ever doubted by a court of law. The doctor had received the right verdict — but for the wrong reasons. In the end, it made little difference to the tall, handsome offender as he met his maker in front of a crowd of ten thousand spectators. The executioner from Toronto, wearing a black mask, placed the noose around his neck and jerked open the trap door beneath his feet.
Professor Hodgson Ellis said of Henry Croft: “In this branch of his profession [forensic chemistry], he was unsurpassed. His clear intelligence, his wide knowledge, his careful attention to details and his absolute devotion to truth were shown equally in the laboratory and the witness box.”
In the years after the King trial, Henry Croft became a familiar figure around Toronto, puffing away on his ever-present Meerschaum pipe. He was known to take his students on long botany walks in the countryside around Toronto, gathering up wildflower roots for his garden along the way. But Croft also sent those same students on long marches into battle.
Faced with the threat of war from the United States, Croft organized the University Rifle Corps and took the rank of captain. The students’ militia received its baptism of fire in a battle with Fenian sympathizers crossing the border at Niagara on June 2, 1866. Three students died, many were wounded, and Croft, ordered by the government to stay behind in Toronto for his own safety, was devastated by these heavy losses.
Henry Croft’s own world came crashing down in 1879, when he and his wife, Mary, lost three of their seven children to illness in quick succession. Croft’s health was so shattered by this tragic turn of events that he had little strength left for teaching. After a distinguished career in academia, he suffered a complete breakdown and was forced to take early retirement from the university.
Rather than retiring to his home country of England, Croft chose to move his family to a warm, dry climate for their health. He chose the wild frontier country near San Diego, Texas, where bandit raids across the Mexican border were a common occurrence and his neighbour was the legendary gun-fighter and lawman Wyatt Earp.
After only four years on his Las Herminitas Ranch, Henry Holmes Croft died of natural causes. His obituary in the Texas newspapers described him in spartan prose as simply “an English chemist.” Henry Croft left behind very little in the way of written documents about his scientific exploits. Today, in Toronto, his old rotunda laboratory still stands, now known as Croft Chapter House. There are no beakers or test tubes inside, no “acids and stinks,” just tables and chairs used for meetings.
Yet Henry Holmes Croft’s legacy is more enduring than bricks and mortar — his groundbreaking work in forensic science as Canada’s first lab detective has made him an enduring hero in the world of chemistry. It surely qualifies him as the grandfather of television’s C.S.I. heroes, who walk in his footsteps more than a century later.
An award-winning filmmaker and writer, Paul Dalby produced the “History-lands” series for History Television. He first heard about the William King trial while filming his documentary, Fighting Words, a biography of newspaper baron Joseph E. Atkinson. Some old-fashioned detective work and the help of three great local librarians led him to Henry Holmes Croft, Canada’s first forensic detective.
Stalking CSI
1775
Swedish chemist Carl Wilhelm Scheele discovers a method of detecting large doses of arsenic in a murder victim’s corpse.
1823
Thesis on nine patterns found in fingerprints published by University of Breslau professor John Evangelist Purkinji.
1868
Creation of the first science laboratory dedicated to fighting crime, the Institut de médecine légale de Paris.
1878
Dr. William Hodgeson Ellis testifies at a rape murder case using bloodstain pattern analysis.
1882
French criminologist Alphonse Bertillon starts using photographs and body measurements to identify criminals.
1884
A Study in Scarlet, the first Sherlock Holmes mystery by Author Conan Doyle.
1890
Alphonse Bertillon discovers that each individual fingerprint has unique characteristics. Fingerprinting quickly gains recognition.
1892
Fingerprints first used to prove guilt when Argentine police officer Juan Vucetich proves guilt of murderer Francisca Roja.
by Nelle Oosterom
Canadian author Stephen R. Bown has written an engaging book about one of the lesser-known figures from the great age of Arctic exploration. White Eskimo: Knud Rasmussen’s Fearless Journey Into the Heart of the Arctic is a biography of the Danish explorer and anthropologist who travelled to the northern reaches of Greenland, the Canadian Arctic, and Alaska to learn about remote Inuit communities that had had little or no contact with white culture. Canada’s History senior editor Nelle Oosterom spoke with Bown about the book.
Who was Knud Rasmussen?
Basically, everything we know about premodern Inuit intellectual life is a result of this one individual.
Knud Rasmussen was born in 1879 in the town of Illulisat, Greenland, which was formerly known as Jacobshaven. He was raised in Greenland in a part-Inuit, part- Danish family [he was one eighth Inuit on his mother’s side] and he saw change occurring in Greenland from his earliest years. He anticipated that this change would accelerate with the development of airplanes, and faster ships, and better maps. There was more and more contact between Inuit and white people who otherwise would have been extremely remote from each other.
Because Rasmussen was fluent in the language and culture of the Inuit — at the time they were called the Eskimo — and because he was also an excellent hunter and a dogsled driver, he had complete cultural fluency that enabled him to gain access to the homes of these extremely remote and nomadic people in a way no outsider ever could have done. Because of his incredible social culture and charisma, he was trusted and respected.
Over months of living with isolated bands and travelling with them, he was able to earn their trust and convince them to share their most intimate beliefs and customs with him. He recorded all their poetry, philosophy, legends, songs, religious beliefs, personal stories of tragedy, mystery, and adventure — and he did this just on the cusp of change.
He essentially gave us a record of an intellectual culture that could otherwise have completely disappeared at that time. He wasn’t just a collector, he was also a poet with a keen intuition and insight into human nature. His own life was a string of adventures. He traversed the Greenland ice sheet multiple times; he travelled all the way from Hudson Bay to Siberia by dogsled, a journey that took years and was about twenty thousand miles [thirty-two thousand kilometres] in duration. His whole life was one grand epic adventure — but his contribution to global culture because of his collection and translation of the intellectual culture of Inuit peoples from diverse communities across the polar world is essentially priceless.
What was Rasmussen’s primary motivation for going into the Arctic?
That’s the heart of the question. I think, really, he was on a quest to understand himself better through a quest to understand the people from the mysterious side of his lineage — that is, his Inuit lineage, which was not very well understood in the early twentieth century.
To Rasmussen, the heart of the Arctic was the inner life of the people who lived in the far northern reaches. … He believed that the soul of any culture was not in its architecture, or in the size of its cities or technology, but in its philosophy, its songs, its legends, its beliefs, its intellectual culture.
From growing up in Inuit culture, Rasmussen knew it to be as rich and as insightful and wise as any culture in the world. To an outside observer, this would have been very difficult to perceive.
How was he different from most Arctic explorers?
Most Arctic explorers are coming from somewhere else, questing after some essentially meaningless but symbolic geographical objective, like being the first to go to the North Pole, or the first to sail the Northwest Passage. … But Rasmussen was actually very different because he already had one leg in the cultural world of the people who lived in the Arctic.
His objective was also very different. He wasn’t going after those symbolic conquests. His goal was essentially to travel and to meet every known Inuit band that then existed in the world. ... He showed that the people living in Alaska, and in Arctic Canada, and in south and north Greenland were all basically the same culture. No one knew that it was the same culture at that time. He was able to speak the same language wherever he went. And he was on his own personal quest to satisfy his curiosity about his heritage.
How is his work viewed today?
Some ethnographers and linguists might quibble a little bit about some of his claims, but essentially the enormous body of work that he collected during his life in the Arctic constitutes the foundation for everything that’s known about the premodern societies of Inuit people. If he hadn’t done that in that moment in time, the knowledge probably would have been lost, because it was an oral culture without written records.
by Heather Wright
Dr. Wilfrid Derome focused on nothing else in his cramped Montreal laboratory except the work in front of him. On the table were two Bayard pistols — a Browning and a Mauser — and the .25-calibre bullets that detective Georges Farah-Lajoie had fired from them. Beside them were the bullets Derome had removed from the skull of Raoul Delorme, whose body had been found on a freezing January morning in 1922 near a municipal equipment shed. Patiently, Derome rolled each bullet on carbon paper and then rolled the carbon-covered bullets onto a blank page. The striations left on the bullets from the pistols' barrels left distinct patterns in the stripes on the paper. He labelled each bullet's inky track and noted from which gun it had been fired. He photographed the bullets' trails and enlarged the images for closer examination.
Derome found the match he had been expecting. He and detective Farah-Lajoie agreed that this evidence, combined with evidence they had previously gathered, was sufficient to bring a conviction against the accused. Their next step was to convince the courts.
This would be no ordinary murder trial, for in 1922 Quebec, it was a particularly politically charged case. The accused was a priest, Reverend Adélard Delorme, charged with murdering his own half-brother. Called as an expert witness, Dr. Wilfrid Derorme was preparing ballistics evidence that would be the first such evidence ever presented at a North American trial.
When it comes to television's portrayal of the aftermath of heinous crimes, it seems that viewers want to know all the gory details. Popular television programs such as CSI, Forensic Files, and Bones, reflect today’s intense interest in the world of forensic science. These programs owe a great debt to Canada, as the first North American forensics laboratory was founded in Montreal in 1914. It served as the model for many such laboratories in the United States, including that of the FBI. The Montreal lab was the result of one man's belief that medical experts and scientists should play an essential role in the service of justice. That man was Dr. Wilfrid Derome.
In the early 1900s, Derome could look out his window in Montreal’s Notre-Dame Hospital Laboratoire de pathologie et d’histologie and see across the street to the courthouse. As the director of the lab, he had made the short walk between these two buildings many times when he was called as an expert witness in criminal cases. Derome enjoyed this work; it appealed to his natural precision and curiosity and to his desire to see justice served.
But Derome was also a perfectionist. He knew that he needed more training and, in 1908, his request to the administrators of Notre-Dame Hospital for further studies in Paris was granted. They were influenced by his former professor, Dr. Georges Villeneuve, who supported the study of forensics and the necessity for doctors to have the kind of expertise required to support the justice system. Derome studied at the University of Paris — one of only two scientific institutions in the world that specialized in solving crimes through the use of science and medicine. Derome studied with the world's experts in forensic medicine and criminology, including Victor Balthazard and Alphonse Bertillon. Edmund Locard, another famous French doctor of forensic medicine, created the first school at Lyon specializing in forensic science. Derome followed Locard's work throughout his career.
Derome returned to Montreal two years later with his diploma in legal medicine and the expertise he needed in such fields as ballistics, criminal psychology, and fingerprint analysis. He also came back with a dream and the determination to see it fulfilled, believing that the law would be served best if scientists dedicated to the study and analysis of crime-related material were able to work together in one place, sharing knowledge and resources. They needed equipment and modern techniques to analyze evidence and to make accurate statements in court. With the support of the legal and medical community, Derome lobbied the Quebec government for just such an institution.
In his award-winning book, published in 2003, Wilfrid Derome, expert en homicides, Jacques Cote describes a conversation in July 1911 between Derome and Sir Lomer Gouin, attorney general and premier of Quebec. Gouin told Derome that he had taken his request for a research institution very seriously. Derome reminded the premier that in the great cities of Europe, such labs had proven to be very useful, reiterating the point that even London, the home of Sherlock Holmes, did not have such a lab. He must have been very convincing. The premier complimented Derome on his ability to put forward a case and asked if he would consider entering politics. To this, Derome replied that he preferred the company of his cadavers: “Ils ne me reclament rien.” (They never complain.) Derome’s droll sense of humour was well known by his students, family, co-workers, and his colleagues.
In early 1914, Sir Lomer Gouin announced the establishment of the Laboratoire de recherches médico-légales and made Dr. Derome the director. The location of the lab was inauspicious, as it was situated above the city morgue at 179 Craig Street East, a building that also housed the landlord. The terms of the lease dictated that Derome’s employees never use the main entrance, as it would disturb the clients of the landlord’s funeral parlour.
In September 1915, Derome began his mission to regularize the gathering of specimens and evidence by the province’s coroners in cases of sudden death. In a series of memos, he listed the specimens that needed to be collected for examining different crimes, such as rape or poisoning, and what should be sent to the lab. As much as Derome wanted the lab to be recognized as a central resource for police, coroners, and justice officials in the province, the trust and collaboration that was necessary to make this happen took time to develop.
For instance, after Derome had given expert evidence regarding bloodstains on a suspect’s clothing — a man accused of brutally murdering a young woman — the man was acquitted. The defence attorney argued that the local doctor had not found evidence of blood, questioning why Derome, a government-paid expert, had found blood — implying that the expert was biased to the prosecution’s case. He also argued that scientific methods continually change, so the investigative tools used by Derome could be outdated in the future, which meant they were fallible. Derome was furious, but the case was a lesson in what he had yet to overcome. He determined to make the new lab a trusted link in the service of justice.
He did so by building up his forensics team. In 1920, Derome employed a newly graduated chemist and pharmacologist, Franchère Pépin. Derome added a chemistry and toxicology unit to the lab so Pépin would be able to work on several projects, including identifying and tabulating quantities of alcohol in the blood. This new branch of the lab was another first in North American forensic lab development.
In June 1920, Derome petitioned to add another key member to his forensics team — a photographer. He wrote directly to Sir Lomer Gouin and argued the need for crime scene photographs to show the jury the condition of the corpse, such as its relative position to its surroundings, along with other pieces of evidence used in court. Unfortunately, the particular photographer Derome proposed for the job was not a member of the Quebec Liberal party and was not approved.
Then in 1922, Derome added Dr. Rosario Fontaine to his community of experts. Fontaine, who had studied with forensics specialist Edmund Locard in Lyon, had followed Derome’s work for years and, while a student, spoke to Derome about a career in forensic medicine. Derome, impressed with Fontaine’s skill and progress since that time, welcomed him to the lab as an assistant director. Fontaine brought expertise in document analysis, along with other skills to broaden the scope of the laboratory’s work.
With his team in place, Derome’s forensic work made headlines in a murder trial that was reported across Canada and in the United States. At the first of four trials of priest Adélard Delorme for the murder of his half-brother, the defence declared that Delorme should not be tried due to reasons of insanity. After much deliberation, the jury declared the priest “mentally incapable of being tried for murder.” However, Delorme’s doctor stated that his patient had not shown “any evident signs of imbecility, insanity, or madness since the first day of his internment” at his hospital. In 1923, the lieutenant governor declared Delorme to be sane and able to stand trail.
It was at the second and third trials that Dr. Wilfrid Derome presented his ballistics evidence. He constructed large models, presenting them to the jury to demonstrate how projectiles fire and are gouged by the barrel in a unique way. He also brought Raoul Delorme’s skull to show the precise entry points of the bullets and where he had extracted the slugs. Like a grisly show-and-tell exercise, the jury inspected and passed around the skull. In spite of overwhelming evidence of the bullets from the priest’s gun, blood stains, a family quilt used to wrap the victim’s head, opportunity, and motive (Raoul had willed money to Adélard, who had large gambling debts), the juries at the second and third trials failed to deliver a verdict. Finally, on October 31, 1924, Delorme was found innocent. After spending 989 days in custody, he was freed.
By 1923, the original lab was showing the wear of nearly ten years of continual work. Offices were too small, the autopsy room had no space for students, and rooms were unhygienic. Autopsies were being conducted on stretchers because the tables were broken. Derome wanted a separate building, designed with the highest attention to technical and hygiene standards, allowing space for a museum of artifacts for educational demonstrations. In December, Derome received approval. His new quarters on rue St. Vincent were much larger, but not as modern as he had hoped for. The lab occupied this building until 1968.
Derome’s work was in the spotlight again after the violent robbery of the Hochelaga Bank on April 1, 1924. He faced the overwhelming task of linking bullets from several guns with over thirty distinguishing characteristics. He used forensic technology to connect knitted facemasks to their wearers. His expert testimony created a complete account of the robbery, with definitive evidence to convict the seven accused. Six of the accused received the death sentence. (The seventh criminal testified against the others in return for his freedom, but was murdered several weeks later.) In a macabre gesture, hangman Arthur Ellis donated a special item to Derome’s laboratory — the rope he had used to mete out punishment for their crimes. The rope can be seen today, twisted to spell “Morel” (the name of the first man hanged), in the Museum of Civilization in Quebec City, along with the rest of the collection from the lab’s archives.
Documenting his forensic work was just as important as serving as an expert witness in court. In 1928, Derome wrote a twenty-eight-page booklet, Le Lieu du crime, summarizing the directives he had given to Quebec police forces over the years. The booklet outlined how police should treat a crime scene, stipulating that the first job of the police is to neither touch nor move anything. Their second job is to send for experts without delay. Derome reiterated the importance of crime scene photographs and following Alphonse Bertillon’s methods of “photographie métrique,” measuring and recording exact locations of objects at the crime scene.
Next, in collaboration with Fontaine, Derome published a book on firearms and ballistics, Expertise en armes à feu, which was the first major work published by Derome after his Précis de médecine légale (Digest of Forensic Medicine) in 1920. Expertise en armes à feu found an eager audience and praise on two continents. A.S. Herzog, editor of the prestigious Medico-Legal Journal published in New York, said that the photographs and diagrams spoke clearly to the reader without translation. Calvin Goddard, who made his reputation as ballistician of the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre, praised the book and said that it was the first work to present a satisfactory and complete picture of the most recent work in this field. It was around this time that J. Edgar Hoover visited Derome’s lab; he returned to the United States determined to establish a similar institution as part of his FBI crime-fighting team. He visited and consulted with Derome again before the FBI lab opened in 1932.
In the world of forensic medicine, Dr. Wilfrid Derome was in huge demand. He received job offers from chiefs of police in Detroit, New Orleans, St. Louis, and Los Angeles. After the Herzog article, a team from the New York state crime department visited Derome’s lab to study the equipment and his methods, returning to report to the governor of New York, Franklin D. Roosevelt. But what of Derome’s reputation in Canada? Here, too, he continued to be in great demand. In February 1930, Derome was called as an expert witness in a murder trial in Toronto, and also at another murder trial of two Ontarians that resulted in the death sentence for two brothers. A month later, he conducted a ballistics analysis in Hamilton, and in November, he was sent to New Brunswick for another trial.
Also in 1930, the chief coroner of Ontario arranged to send Dr. Edgar Frankish to consult with Derome at the Montreal laboratory. Frankish operated a private lab in Toronto, and the attorney general wanted to make him director of a newly planned public lab. With Derome’s mentoring, Frankish learned what was required to equip and run a professional lab. The Ontario government lab opened in 1930 — the second in Canada.
Dr. Wilfrid Derome could look back at a career of accomplishment and praise, but sadly, he could not look forward very far. Diagnosed with cancer, he painstakingly put his affairs in order. In July 1931, Derome wrote to Premier Louis-Alexandre Taschereau asking him to approve sending the young Dr. Jean-Marie Roussel to Paris to study, just as he once had. (Roussel would become director after his immediate replacement, Rosario Fontaine.) Derome also made careful provisions to protect the livelihoods of his wife and two teenaged children. He died on November 24, 1931, at the age of fifty-four.
Fontaine’s obituary for Derome in The Canadian Medical Association Journal in January 1932 summarizes not only Derome’s accomplishments, but also the respect he achieved in the medical and legal communities: “His life of labour, equable and devoid of ambition, the great love which he bore for his pupils, combined to make him an amiable and striking figure in the eyes of those who, like us, had the advantage of his acquaintance ... the record of time will be needed to appreciate [the] real value of this great and splendid figure who justly received the deferential regard of scientific men throughout the world.”
Today, the building in Montreal that houses the current forensic laboratories bears the name l'édifice Wilfrid-Derome and his words: “Refrain from assertions you cannot prove.” The declaration forms the cornerstone of the work that continues there today, contributing to Wilfrid Derome’s legacy as Canada’s father of forensics.
Heather Wright is a freelance writer and educator living in Kitchener, Ontario. Her book Extreme Beliefs: The Rise of Cults and New Religions was published in 2007 by Altitude Publishing.
Et Cetera
The Cassock and the Crown by Jean Monet. McGill-Queen’s University Press, Montreal, 1996.
Principles and Practice of Forensic Science: The Profession of Forensic Science by Keith Inman and Norah Rudin. CRC Press, Florida, 2000.
Visit the website of the Canadian Society of Forensic Science at www.csfs.ca/history/histindex.htm
The Beaver: “A Monstrous Plot,” by Andre Pelchat, June/July 2006. Thanks to forensic science, Albert Guay was found guilty of an airplane bombing in Quebec in 1949.
Stalking CSI
1908
Canada sanctions the use of fingerprints as a means of identification.
1910
Creation of the world’s second forensic science laboratory in Lyon, France, headed by Edmond Locard.
1911
First set of fingerprints identified by the RCMP Fingerprint Bureau headed by Edward Foster, the “Father of Canadian Fingerprinting.”
1914
Sir Lomer Gouin, attorney general and premier of Quebec, creates the first forensic lab in North America. It opens in Montreal.
1920
Dr. Wilfrid Derome publishes his textbook Précis de médecine légale.
1922
The results of a blood alcohol test are admitted into evidence at a trial for the first time.
1922–24
Delorme affair; Reverend Delorme is accused of murdering his half-brother in Montreal, Quebec.
1924
Through forensic analysis, Dr. Wilfrid Derome links knitted facemasks and bullets to perpetrators of Montreal’s Hochelaga Bank robbery.
1930
Canada’s second forensic science laboratory established in Toronto, Ontario.
1931
Dr. Wilfrid Derome dies.
1932
After his earlier consultations with Dr. Wilfrid Derome, J. Edgar Hoover opens the FBI forensic lab.
1937
RCMP scientific laboratory established in Regina, Saskatchewan. RCMP forensic labs spread across Canada.
1950
During the Guay trial, involving the explosion of a plane in Quebec, forensic analysis of debris is admitted into evidence for the first time.
1978
Two separate units within the Laboratoire de recherches médico légales are created: the Laboratoire de police scientifique and the Laboratoire de médicine légale.
1984
DNA profiling, the first DNA “fingerprinting” technique, discovered by Dr. Alec Jeffries of Leicester University, England.
1996
Deposit of the collection of the Laboratoire de sciences judiciaires et médicine légalein the Musée de la Civilisation, Québec.
Behind the scene of the crime
In 1914, Sir Lomer Gouin, attorney general and premier of Quebec, followed Dr. Wilfrid Derome’s advice to establish a forensic medicine laboratory in Montreal. The Laboratoire de recherches médico-légales the first forensic laboratory in North America, was located at 179 Craig Street East. It predated Chicago’s laboratory, which opened in 1929, as well as the FBI’s facility, which opened in 1932 (and modelled itself after the Montreal lab).
The objectives of the Montreal laboratory were clear — to facilitate police investigations and support the justice system. Ten years after it was founded, the laboratory moved to St. Vincent Street, where it stayed until 1968. At the following Parthenais Street location, it remained associated with Dr. Wilfrid Derome, who directed it until his death in 1931. Then in 1978, the institution was divided into two separate administrative units: the Laboratoire de police scientifique (forensic science laboratory) directed by Bernard Péclet and the Laboratoire de médecine légale (forensic medicine laboratory) directed by Dr. Jean-Paul Valcourt.
As a world-renowned organization, the two units continue to make advancements in forensic research. In recent years, the field of forensic science has evolved, becoming more refined and diversified. Today, there are more than two hundred such laboratories in North America, partly due to Montreal’s pioneering efforts. To preserve this fascinating history, Quebec City’s Musée de la civilisation has been entrusted with the Montreal lab’s early collection.
This article originally appeared in the February-March 2007 issue of Canada’s History.
The Crusader
Louise McKinney became an Alberta MLA in 1917, one of the first two women in Canada to be elected to a legislature. (The other was Roberta MacAdams, a nursing sister in the First World War, who was elected by Alberta military voters serving overseas.) Born Louise Crummy in 1868, she grew up in Leeds County, Ontario, and attended teachers training college in Ottawa. After living for a time in North Dakota, she married ex-Ontarian James McKinney and set-tled at Claresholm, Alberta. She was elected president of the combined Alberta and Saskatchewan Women’s Christian Temperance Union in 1908, and four years later, when two separate provincial organizations were set up, she continued as president of the Alberta branch, a position she held until her death in 1931.
In addition to campaigning against the liquor evil, McKinney assailed the “white slave traffic,” as prostitution was then known. She worried about the allegedly degrading influence of non-Anglo-Saxon immigrants, even questioning at one point whether they should be allowed to vote. Conversely, she believed that Anglo-Saxon women had a solemn duty to take part in politics in order to ensure for the nation “a higher standard of character and purer habits of life.”
Although McKinney served only one term in the Alberta legislature, she returned to the spotlight in 1927 as one of the Famous Five who launched a court case to determine the legal status of women. On October 18, 1929, the British Privy Council, then the highest court of appeal, declared that women were indeed “persons” under the law, a landmark in the evolution of women’s rights in Canada.
The Activist
When John Tootoosis was twenty-five years old, he paid a visit to an elderly aunt. After they had talked for a while, she left the room and returned with a cloth bundle. Unwrapping it, she took out Chief Poundmaker’s treaty medal, the whereabouts of which had been a mystery for a long time. She had saved it until she found someone she considered worthy to receive it.
Poundmaker helped negotiate Treaty 6 in 1876 and played a states-manlike role during the 1885 Rebellion, sparing the Canadian militia major casualties at the Battle of Cutknife Hill. Tootoosis, his grandnephew, was born on July 18, 1899. It soon became evident that he shared many of the qualities of his famous ancestor. When the local Indian agent tried to lease five sections of Poundmaker Reserve to a white farmer, twenty-one-year-old Tootoosis went to see a lawyer. He was told that if the land were fenced, the lease could be blocked. Tootoosis went back to the reserve, organized a work party, and put up the fence.
He became active in the League of Indians, an organization that had been founded in 1919 to protect native rights and treaties. Travelling throughout the West, he held countless meetings and workshops to build up the organization. It was slow work. Funds were scarce, and Indian Affairs officials threatened to charge him with trespassing when he entered reserves other than his own. He was elected secretary and organizer for the prairie region in 1932 and president of the League of Indians of Western Canada in 1934. After the Second World War, he headed the Union of Saskatchewan Indians, which has since evolved into the Feder-ation of Saskatchewan Indian Nations. He died in 1989, having succeeded in his mission of carrying forward Poundmaker’s quest into the twentieth century.
The Theorist
Henry Wise Wood was born in Missouri in 1860, the son of a slaveholder who fought on the Confederate side in the Civil War. Dissatisfied with managing his father’s farm and wanting land of his own, he moved to Alberta in 1905. He took up wheat farming near Carstairs, not far from Calgary, and immersed himself in the work of farm organizations.
A member of the Campbellite Church, also known as the Disciples of Christ, Wood developed a theory of history based on the interplay of two opposing laws: what he called “the false law of competition” and “the true law of cooperation.” Farmers, he believed, embodied the spirit of cooperation, evident, for example, in the formation of the wheat pool. Their cause was bound to succeed since, as Wood expressed it, “the Supreme Power that flung the numberless hosts of worlds out into infinite space ... has this work in hand and will not let it fail.”
The premiership of Alberta was Wood’s for the asking, but he declined the office because he feared his American background would be held against him. He need not have worried. When he died in 1941, he was widely regarded as “the uncrowned king of Alberta” and “the Canadian Abraham Lincoln.”
The Public Servant
Allan Blakeney was born in 1925 in Bridge-water, Nova Scotia, where his father, a Tory of British Empire Loyalist stock, operated a wholesale grocery store. He enrolled at Dalhousie University law school, graduating at the top of his class, and won a Rhodes scholarship to Oxford. While still a university student, he joined the CCF party, a radical gesture for an up-and-coming lawyer in conservative Nova Scotia. Completing his university education in 1949, he took a job as the secretary and legal advisor to the Saskatchewan Government Finance Office, which was the holding company for the province’s Crown corporations. As part of a talented group of senior public servants that included Al Johnson and Tommy Shoyama (later, respectively, president of the CBC and federal deputy minister of finance), Blakeney adjusted readily to life in Saskatchewan. His experience with Crown corporations confirmed his view that there was “no mystique in private management.” He thought that public sector companies could operate as efficiently as private ones and, at least in some cases, with more socially desirable results.
After a stint as head of the Saskatchewan Securities Commission, he entered private law practice as a springboard into politics. Elected MLA for Regina in 1960, he vaulted directly into the cabinet as minister of education and, one year later, minister of finance. As leader of the Saskatchewan NDP, he scored a massive election victory over the incumbent Liberals in 1971. He continued as premier until 1982 when he suffered an equally decisive defeat at the hands of the Conservatives. Blakeney retired from politics in 1987, paving the way for his successor Roy Romanow.
The Writer
Though born and raised in Saskatchewan, W.O. Mitchell spent most of his adult life in Alberta, and both provinces claim him as one of their own. He drew heavily on his Weyburn boyhood to write Who Has Seen the Wind, with its classic opening sentence: “Here was the least common denominator of nature, the skeleton requirements simply, of land and sky — Saskatchewan prairie.” He also incorporated into the story characters and situations that he encountered as a teacher in small-town Alberta in the early 1940s.
W.O. Mitchell’s fiction, while rooted in the landscape of Saskatchewan and Alberta, speaks to universal themes. Living on the prairies means that it is possible to walk two blocks from the last house on the street and enter an eternal, incomprehensible immensity, a symbol for Mitchell of the mystery of existence. Brian O’Connal, the central character in Who Has Seen the Wind, runs away from his uncle’s farm, where he is staying while his parents are away, and spends the night sleeping in a haystack: “As the wind mounted in intensity so too the feeling of defencelessness rose in him. It was as though he listened to the drearing wind and in the spread darkness of the prairie night was being drained of his very self.” That night, as Brian later learns, his father dies on a hospital operating table. W.O. Mitchell, in the guise of telling a simple story about a boy growing up in a small town, invested the prairies with metaphysical significance.
The Feminist
Marjorie Cooper, née Lovering, was born in Winnipeg in 1902. Her father had been a Methodist missionary in British Columbia and her mother a prominent temperance worker. she taught in one-room country schools until she married Ed Cooper, also a schoolteacher. Marriage in the 1920s often meant the end of paid work for women, and Cooper settled down to a life centred on looking after her husband and two daughters. She became active in community organizations, especially the YWCA and the Regina Council of Women. In 1945 the Saskatchewan government appointed her to the Labor Relations Board, which was responsible for enforcing the Trade Union Act.
Cooper in 1952 sought the CCF nomination in the three-member Regina constituency — a bold move. From 1938 to 1964, only 3.1 percent of all Saskatchewan CCF candidates were women. She won the seat and took her place as the only female member of the legislature. Reelected three times, she retired in 1967, never having experienced defeat at the polls. Defining herself primarily as a wife and mother, she saw feminism as an extension of maternalism. One of her main goals as a legislator was to make the world a safer and happier place for children. But she also had a steely side. When the Regina Leader-Post asked to take a picture of her baking a cake, she declined, preferring to be photographed at work in her office. However, she did not object when at the beginning of each new sitting of the legislature, her male colleagues placed a fresh bouquet of flowers on her desk.
The Politician
Peter Lougheed was the grandson of Sir James Lougheed, a prominent Conservative lawyer who arrived in Calgary in 1882 and at age thirty-five was appointed the youngest member of the Canadian Senate. In a speech delivered in 1889, Sir James predicted that the natural resources of Alberta would make it one day “the dominant portion of the Dominion.” One hundred years later, his grandson was locked in a battle with Ottawa for control of those resources.
Despite his illustrious heritage, Peter Lougheed was not born with a silver spoon in his mouth. Most of the family fortune was lost in the 1930s Depression, and his father sought consolation in alcohol. Lougheed studied law at the University of Alberta and, though a mere 160 pounds, played football for the Edmonton Eskimos. After earning a master’s degree in business administra-tion at Harvard, he accepted a position as secretary and legal advisor to the Calgary-based Mannix holding company. Owner Fred Mannix was the archetypal, freewheeling entrepreneur involved in a variety of business ventures including construction, ranching, coal mining, oil, and gas. Lougheed rose up the ladder to become vice president and director, learning from the inside how a successful private-sector corporation operates.
He left Mannix in 1961, set up his own law firm, and entered politics. His biggest gamble was accepting in 1965 the leadership of the moribund provincial Progressive Conservatives, a party that had no seats, no money, and no organization. Six years later he ended the thirty-six-year-old Social Credit dynasty, capturing forty-nine of seventy-five seats in the legislature. He won overwhelming victories again in 1975, 1979, and 1982 before retiring as premier in 1985.
The Socialist
Born in 1904 in Falkirk, Scotland, Tommy Douglas arrived in Winnipeg with his parents and sister in 1911. Although his father’s income supported a respectable working-class standard of living, there was no money for luxuries or unexpected emergencies. When Douglas developed osteomyelitis in one leg, the doctors said they would have to amputate. By chance, an orthopedic specialist came through the hospital ward and agreed to perform surgery to save the leg as a “teaching project for his students.” The incident left a deep impression on the future founder of medicare.
Douglas apprenticed as a printer, and by age sixteen had a union card and operated a linotype machine. He was active in church groups, joined the Boy Scouts, and won the Manitoba Lightweight Boxing Championship in 1922. He chose a career as a Baptist minister, but his social gospel beliefs soon propelled him into politics. He was elected in 1935 as the CCF member of Parliament for Weyburn and reelected in 1940. In 1942 he took over the leadership of the Saskatchewan CCF and led the party to victory in 1944. Undefeated in five elections, he resigned as premier in 1961 to become national leader of the NDP, a post he held for ten years. Although the Saskatchewan magic did not quite transfer to the national scene, Douglas was known for his strong convictions, including a principled stand against the War Measures Act in 1970. He died in 1986, his status as a Canadian icon assured.
The Preacher
Born in 1878, William Aberhart grew up on a farm in Perth County, Ontario. He attended teachers college and earned a B.A. degree taking correspondence courses from Queen’s University. A stimulating, if authoritarian, teacher, he assigned each of his students a three-digit number by which he addressed them, and stamped their assignments with a rubber stamp that read “Checked by Wm. Aberhart.” In 1910 Aberhart, his wife Jessie, and daughters Ola and Khona moved to Calgary, a city of 50,000, where cowboys still rode into town for the cattle market and “the smell of horse manure permeated the air.” He established himself as a respected citizen — by day the highly efficient principal of Crescent Heights High School and by night and on weekends a lay preacher, Bible school instructor, and youth group leader. He got by with as little as four hours of sleep per night and was even rumoured to start his Buick in second gear, rather than first, in order to save time.
Aberhart was uninterested in politics until the 1930s, when he embraced an obscure monetary panacea called social credit. Against all odds, he took the province by storm and won the 1935 election. As premier, he lived with his wife in a two-room suite at Edmonton’s Hotel Macdonald where he held cabinet meetings. His wife sat in the corner knitting and occasionally interjecting, “Now, now William,” when his temper got the better of him. Although the federal government vetoed his social credit legislation, Aberhart was re-elected in 1940 and died in office in 1943, largely as a result of “overwork, lack of sleep and inordinate stress.
British North America was officially neutral during the U.S. Civil War but some of its subjects were not.
This uncomfortable fact was exposed when the Chesapeake, a Union ship, was captured by Confederates who then steamed the ship into Canadian waters.
The ship was eventually retaken after a cat-and-mouse chase involving Union gunships.
But the 1863 incident revealed there were plenty of sympathizers in New Brunswick and Nova Scotia who were willing to help out the Confederate cause.
And the affair came close to dragging Britain — and therefore Canada — into the American conflict.
See this video from the Museum of the Confederacy in Virginia to learn more about why the southern Confederacy had allies in Britain and its colonies.
A full story about the capture of the Chesapeake appeared in the April-May 2016 issue of Canada’s History . Subscribe now!
By Brian Brennan
Canada’s frontier West was never as wild as the American West.
But the region still attracted people who lived beyond the boundaries of convention and the confines of the law.
One of them was Bill Miner.
In 1904, this soft-spoken American would stage what is considered Canada’s first train robbery.
It happened at a railway junction sixty-five kilometres east of Vancouver. Miner and his two accomplices got away with $6,000 in gold dust and $1,000 in cash.
Dubbed “the gentleman bandit” because of his polite demeanour during holdups, Miner was credited with inventing the phrase, “Hands up!”
He had spent more than thirty-five years in American prisons for stagecoach robberies before moving north to B.C. when he was about sixty years old.
Since the CPR was so unpopular, Miner became a folk hero to some and managed to live quietly on a farm near Princeton, B.C., for two years after the 1904 train robbery.
In 1906 he and the gang struck the CPR again, but bungled that robbery attempt and were captured by the Mounties.
This NFB Canada Vignette tells the story of his arrest.
Sent to the New Westminster Penitentiary, Miner somehow managed to escape custody and flee to the U.S. in 1907.
Prison authorities were initially accused of aiding his escape, which created a political kerfuffle that lasted for years.
An award-winning Canadian film, The Grey Fox, was loosely based on his career north of the border.
A story about more of the outlaws of Canada’s Old West appears in the April-May 2016 issue of Canada’s History magazine. Subscribe now!
by Vic Parsons
Though sometimes judged a mediocre officer, Inspector Francis J. Dickens was typical of many early Mountie recruits. Thrown into unstable situations with few resources, little direction, and lots of cultural baggage, these ordinary men nevertheless rose to the challenges that faced them.
When Louis Riel led the rebellion in Canada’s West in the spring of 1885, the inhabitants of Battleford were panic-stricken. Parts of their village had been looted and burned. Defeat of the North-West Mounted Police and volunteers by the Metis at Duck Lake and word of murders at Frog Lake prompted 500 local settlers to cram into the comparative safety of the police stockade.
Up the North Saskatchewan River another 160 kilometres, the Hudson’s Bay Company post of Fort Pitt was an obvious target for attack. Dickens commanded the 24-man police detachment there. He begged Inspector William Morris, his colleague at Battleford, for assistance.
Fort Pitt was no military installation. It was open and exposed, vulnerable to fire, and the closest water supply was the river 365 metres away. Later assessments suggested 200 well-armed troops would have been needed to defend Pitt against warriors under Cree war chief Wandering Spirit, who appeared on the nearby hills in mid-April. Police and civilians together-men, women, and children-totalled fewer than 70.
Outnumbered and surrounded, Dickens could expect no help from Morris, who feared weakening his own defences. Morris suggested the police and civilians abandon Pitt and make their way to Battleford. However, Dickens dreaded the consequences of being caught in the open.
When scouts were dispatched from Battleford on April 18, they returned with devastating news. Pitt had been taken and burned. A slaughter was feared. But on April 21, the escaped police were spotted upstream.
When Dickens and his men arrived at Battleford the next day, the welcome was one reserved for conquering heroes. A band played martial music and a feast was prepared as the exhausted police landed their battered scow after a perilous six-day voyage fending off threatening ice floes and raging river waters.
For Dickens, the trip was to be the final field service in a 12-year career with the police. Never physically strong, Dickens’s health would be ruined by the ordeal.
Canadian propagandists of the day turned retreat into victory. Charles Pelham Mulvaney, in The North West Rebellion of 1885 portrayed Dickens as “one of the coolest and most intrepid soldiers” in the West, calmly puffing on his pipe as he sniped at Cree marauders. “No more heroic fight or successful defence in the face of overwhelming odds illumines the pages of modern history,” Mulvaney proclaimed.
More sobering judgments later chastised Dickens’s abandonment of the fort as “humiliating,” even though defending the indefensible post would surely have cost scores of lives, both native and white.
Dickens personally exemplified many of the problems of the NWMP at that time. He had been hired through political pull, knew virtually nothing of Canada, was too fond of a tip of the bottle, and was of questionable health and capacity. Despite these shortcomings, he was placed in positions of greater responsibility because more capable officers had left for brighter opportunities rather than endure the poor pay, inadequate supplies, and intolerable working and living conditions that faced the first Mounties.
Former policemen found other occupations, from ranching to running bars, to be more rewarding. They had been frustrated by the repeated failure of Ottawa bureaucrats to address the need for more troops and supplies. But while others gave up, Dickens stayed.
So how did a son of Charles Dickens wind up in the Canadian West?
Frank, as he was commonly known, was born in early 1844. Charles first saw the youngster as the brightest of his 10 children, and Frank was most like his lather in “face, gesture and manner.” As the boy grew older, however, Charles despaired of his son’s competence.
Life in the Dickens household was not easy. There were happy times, but Charles was often harshly critical of the children. The author was especially mystified by Frank’s severe stammering, describing the boy as “an afflicted spirit.” Trying to correct the problem, he and the lad would read literary passages aloud, the father admonishing his son to recite slowly and distinctly.
Frank wanted to be a doctor, but concluded his stammer would not allow him to succeed. From boarding school, he wrote his father to ask that he be given 15 pounds sterling, a gun, and horse, all that he needed to become a gentleman farmer in the colonies.
Charles’ reply was scathing: “I perceived that the first consequence of the fifteen pounds was that he would be robbed of it — of the horse, that it would throw him — and of the rifle, that it would blow his head off,” he wrote to a friend.
Instead, Charles hired Frank at his magazine, All the Year Round. “If I am not mistaken, he has a natural literary taste and capacity, and may do well with a chance so congenial to his mind,” Charles enthused. But Frank was a flop in the office, and when he also failed the British Foreign Office exams, Charles negotiated a post in the Bengal Mounted Police. In December 1863, Frank left for India, not returning until 1871, after his father’s death.
Frank’s misadventures continued. Back in England, he overstayed his leave and lost his officer’s commission. His inheritance was squandered on poor investments and dissipated living. One of the few items he kept was his father’s gold watch, left to him because of Charles’s concern over the son’s lack of punctuality.
A political favour rescued Frank from his disgrace. Lord Dufferin, the new governor general in Canada, was a family friend and great admirer of Charles. The Canadian government was setting up a police force to patrol newly acquired western lands. A word in the appropriate ear, perhaps?
Connections were often the quickest route to officers’ postings in the early force. Edmund Dalrymple Clark, nephew to Sir John A. Macdonald, would become paymaster. William Herchmer, later a commissioner, was the son of a close friend of Sir John’s in Kingston, Ontario.
Dickens, taken on as a sub-inspector late in 1874, soon fell afoul of his superiors. He was late getting to the West, and then brazenly claimed extra expenses incurred in his scramble to catch up. When a stern letter arrived from the justice minister’s office, he tersely brushed it off. The incident left bureaucrats spluttering.
A constant complaint in the Force was that the regulation saddles were uncomfortable and inadequate, while clothing was unsuitable for the extreme climate. Some griped; Dickens acted. He ordered saddles and coats from London for himself and two colleagues. When the gear arrived, customs imposed duty. Dickens challenged the tax, arguing that the equipment was being used on government service. The lengthy fight was settled in his favour, just after Dickens had to undergo his first assessment as an officer.
In a third incident, Dickens was caught red-handed, attempting to have brandy mailed to him at the Swan River headquarters in Manitoba, by Commissioner George French. This violated French’s strict rules. Dickens was not alone in his desire for forbidden waters. A mandate of the Force was to stop the liquor trade, but the police, no saints, were as likely to imbibe as those they policed. Confiscated alcohol inexplicably disappeared. Constables and officers repeatedly tasted contraband wares to prove to their satisfaction that the fluids they seized were indeed whisky.
Early on, then, Dickens may have established himself as a troublemaker. Certainly, he suffered in that first assessment by Major-General Edward Selby Smyth in 1875. Smyth was not impressed overall by the Force’s officers; there were too many “decayed gentlemen.” Turning to Dickens, Smyth described him as “a very poor officer of no promise. Physically weak in constitution, his habits not affording good example.” Later, Commissioner A.G. Irvine called Dickens lazy, with no interest in his work. “I am of opinion that his brain is slightly effected [sic].” Only his final evaluation in 1885 was remotely positive when it noted that he was “much more steady in his habits.” Even that was a kiss of death: the next line pointed out that he was “very deaf.” Dickens’ fate was sealed.
If Dickens’s personal inadequacies were so obvious, why was he placed in posts of increasing responsibility? The answer is that, for politicians, once the Force had gone West it was out of sight, out of mind. Meagre pay and neglect resulted in shortages of men. Even poorly regarded officers were needed on field duty. So Dickens was sent to lead detachments in two sensitive areas. The first was at Blackfoot Crossing.
The winter of 1881-82 was perhaps the most tense period in relations between the Blackfoot and Canadian authorities. With the disappearance of the buffalo, starvation had reduced the proud warriors and hunters to begging. The atmosphere was poisoned between Indians and government agents, who did little to alleviate the evident suffering. When an angry minor chief, Bull Elk, fired shots in the direction of government contractors, Dickens arrested him. Furious, armed warriors prevented him from taking the prisoner to Fort Macleod for trial. Having little choice, Dickens agreed to place the offender in the custody of paramount Blackfoot chief Crowfoot until a magistrate arrived.
When his superior, Superintendent Leif Crozier, learned of the incident, he saddled up, rode to the crossing, built fortifications, and rearrested Bull Elk. His bold but provocative action was a legend-creating moment for the Mounties. But it also broke the deal between Dickens and Crowfoot. Dickens has been blamed for the worsening relations between the two sides. But in retrospect, Dickens’s face-saving, commonsense deal with Crowfoot had restored temporary peace and might have been a better path than the bellicose course chosen by Crozier.
In mid-1883, Dickens was reassigned to Fort Pitt, where the government wanted to settle Big Bear’s Crees, the last major holdouts from the reserve system. Here he met Tom Quinn, a rangy Minnesotan and the local Indian agent. Quinn had married a Cree woman with family ties to Big Bear. But at a time when Ottawa was ordering cutbacks, Quinn was a hardliner when it came to distributing government rations. By the fall of 1884, relations were hostile.
During these disputes the Cree leaders regarded Dickens as a sympathetic soul. “We like you. Your heart is good,” Big Bear told Dickens, contrasting him with Quinn. For his part, Dickens noted in dispatches that as long as the Cree were given rations he didn’t anticipate trouble.
But quarrels between Quinn and his clients over food broke out anew at Frog Lake in March 1885. After the first skirmish with the Métis, Dickens suggested that Quinn and the other whites come to Pitt where they could be protected. Quinn resolved to stay put, but told the six police at Frog Lake to go to the fort. Quinn believed Cree anger was directed at the police, a fatal misjudgment. Within days Quinn and eight others would be dead, with the agent the first to fall.
The Cree then moved on Fort Pitt, where Dickens initially refused to surrender. In a letter which repeated friendly references to Dickens, Big Bear told the police they would be allowed to leave without bloodshed. The civilians, mostly Hudson’s Bay Company employees under factor William McLean, opted to place themselves in Big Bear’s hands. With that, Dickens saw no further point in a bloody defence of the fort and retreated downriver to Battleford.
How does Dickens compare with his colleagues? One author has noted the police were a disparate — if not a desperate — lot, including “broken down gentlemen, Canadian bucolics and desperadoes, old soldiers, cowboys, sailors, and hell-rake adventurers.”
One Mountie who left the Force to become an Indian agent was fired for falsifying scales. Others who ran a pool hall were the subject of investigations by their erstwhile colleagues. The territory’s lieutenant governor complained about some “making rather free” with native women. In 1883, 25 men deserted and many more clamoured to buy their way out of service. Eleven more deserted from Fort Macleod in one month of 1884. Whatever his other failings, Dickens never stood accused of immoral behaviour, and existing letters show he cared about his men. He loyally stuck to his post. After the ordeal at Pitt he requested his first leave in 11 years.
By that time, Dickens’ spirit was crushed and his health irreparably damaged. Eventually he was invalided out. Then followed a battle for a retiring allowance. Influence came into play here, too, with a political friend asking Sir Charles Tupper, then high commissioner in London, to put pressure on Prime Minister Macdonald for a settlement.
While awaiting his pension, Dickens met an American doctor who convinced him that he could mount a profitable lecture tour in the United States. As he sat down to supper in Moline, Illinois, before his first talk in June 1886, he suffered a heart attack and died. He was 42. About 40 years after Frank’s death, his last surviving brother was sent the service medal earned in the North-West Rebellion. That and his sword can be seen today at the RCMP museum in Regina. In 1949, a lake in the La Ronge area of Saskatchewan was named after him.
Dickens may be seen as typical of those early NWMP officers, newcomers to the West, who were often out of their depth, understaffed and underequipped, and ignorant of the native culture. They were ordinary men with human failings who were expected to accomplish extraordinary deeds. Today we might wonder how they functioned as well as they did despite government bungling and their own shortcomings.
Vic Parsons is a freelance journalist and author with an interest in Canadian history who has been looking into the life of Francis J. Dickens. He lives in Victoria.
This article originally appeared in the June-July 1998 issue of The Beaver (now Canada's History).
by Shane Peacock
If someone were to tell you that Tyrone Power, Alan Ladd, and Randolph Scott all played Canadians on the silver screen, your first question, being a good Canadian, might be... why? Well, because actors who could play noble, daring, and dashing individuals were needed. But that answer wouldn’t satisfy. Only when you were informed that these icons wore the Stetson of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police would this make any sense. Despite various high-profile Mountie stumblings in recent years, and revisionist history that has fingered their forebears as fallible human beings with the prejudices of their time, the heroic image of our mounted men lives on. We believe in it to this day, even when we’re being very modern and trying not to, by making fun of it.
In the 1999 series finale of the international hit television show Due South Constable Benton Fraser commandeers a Lake Superior ship after discovering that dastardly deeds are being perpetrated within its confines; deeds that are about to cause a mutiny. When he boldly confronts the villain in front of a simmering crew, the accused expresses his innocence and turns various charges back on Fraser. Confusion reigns. Then one man turns toward the constable and asks, “How do we know you’re telling the truth?” The ship’s captain, played by veteran Shakespearean actor Douglas Campbell, answers. “Look at him!” he shouts in dulcet tones as he casts a glance up toward the man in scarlet, “He’s a Mountie!”
It’s a joke that makes sense not just at home but pretty well around the world, and not only because Mounties are easy fodder for satire in a somewhat cynical age. Constable Benton Fraser — ridiculously handsome, honourable and effective — is simultaneously believable as a hero. Canadians are nearly genetically unable to celebrate such figures. We have somehow reached a century-and-a-half years old almost bereft of folk heroes, and we are capable of interrogating the image of almost any of our high achievers into shards of broken clay. But we have one hero whom we either cannot or will not fully disrespect. We may laugh at Dave Broadfoot harpooning the image on Air Farce or remember how hilarious brainless Dudley Do-Right was, but bring a full-dress Mountie into a room in 1998 and even the most cynical of our number feels at least a tiny rush of pride. It’s very un-Canadian. This begs a two-part question: Why has the Mountie become almost the ultimate hero in our eternally hero-less land? And how in the world did he get up on that pedestal?
The North-West Mounted Police came into existence with little fanfare in 1873 when Sir John A. Macdonald (nonheroic heavy drinker), responding to problems in the West with Yankee whisky traders, natives, and precious settlers, created a force of mounted men to put things straight. A terse ad in a Montreal paper early the next year required nothing like heroism or square jaws from its respondents, though it did hint at what was to come. “The candidate must have good antecedents,” it proclaimed, “and be a good horseman.”
Keith Walden, whose Visions of Order is perhaps the seminal book about the image of the Mounties, wrote that “Some scholars have pointed to a particular poem or newspaper story as the starting point of the Mounties’ reputation, but beyond this, the process by which their image was formulated and dispersed is largely unknowable.” He also theorizes that “if the police were viewed as being heroic and pure, it was because many people, not just those who wore red coats, wanted to see them that way. The efforts of the Force only coincided with a wide predisposition within Canadian, American and British society.” Walden seems correct, but like most historians he is always trying to put things into historical context. It could be argued that there are such obvious reasons the Force became renowned, even before the “large scale adulation ... in the last decade of the nineteenth century,” that the process is almost irrelevant, and the predisposition he eloquently spoke of is an eternal one, not connected to any time period.
“In early June 1874,” David Cruise and Alison Griffiths wrote in their book The Great Adventure, “a letter arrived at the Montreal offices of the Canadian Illustrated News. Addressed to the manager, the letter, penned by Colonel French, invited a reporter/artist to accompany the Mounted Police expedition, which would travel through some of the wildest terrain known to mankind to the foot of the Rocky Mountains.” It was an invitation that was hard to resist, both from the point of view of the magazine, and the 21-year-old illustrator, Henri Julien, who was soon excitedly on his way. That historic trip, from Manitoba to Fort Whoop-up in southern Alberta, was not entirely the noble venture Victorian history recorded, but the drawings that Julien sent out to the nation beginning on June 27, with a full page depicting the commissioner, the surgeon, and a gathering of six upright, smartly uniformed individuals, had to have captured the imaginations of many readers. Illustrations continued into October, once on the front page, another time in a two-page spread. Mounties were shown on horseback in gorgeous prairie backdrops, apparently noble adventurers in the huge, wide-open frontier of a growing nation. (Readers likely didn’t think about the fact that this nation belonged to someone else.) Not all reports from within the Force were positive: “The Manitoba mounted police are a disgusted lot,” read one. “They complain that they were shamefully sold. The old story-hard work and small pay.” But the images were seductive, the settings made for heroes.
In 1877 Sitting Bull came north, and in 1885 the Mounties were involved in the North-West Rebellion. To this day, despite some qualifications (Walden speaks of Sitting Bull’s political need to be peaceful and project near subservience), their calm interaction with the legendary chief is praised, especially when contrasted with American troubles; their actions during the Rebellion, however, are not universally admired. By the end of the century the Mounties had experienced more than two decades of relatively peaceful policing in the West (though part of their mandate was to pressure natives onto reservations) and entered a new period of glory in the Yukon. Their legend began to grow, both at home and abroad. With such a background, flawed in reality or not, it isn’t surprising.
Though the first books and novels about the Mounties appeared in the 1880s and ‘90s, the source of one of their greatest myths came even earlier. On April 12, 1877 the Fort Benton (Montana) Record printed an admiring report about “the vigilance of Major Irving and the energy of Captain Windsor of the NW Mounted Police” in hunting down and prosecuting evil whisky traders. “The MPs are worse than bloodhounds when they scent the track of a smuggler, and they fetch their man every time.”
The image of the Mountie who always got his man began appearing sporadically in the 1880s, in such things as Trooper and Redskin in the Far Northwest, the memoirs of John G. Donkin, a former member from Great Britain. Then it entered the world of novels, and began exploding into stardom.
Though they can be found in many countries, most novels originated in Great Britain, the United States, and Canada. British authors were most prolific at first. It wasn’t that Canadians and Americans weren’t producing this genre in those early years (for example, Toronto journalist Edmund Collins wrote Annette, the Métis Spy in 1886) but Brits like Roger Pocock, who wrote Tales of the Western Life in 1888, and John Mackie, who published The Devil’s Playground in 1894, seemed to set the pace. They would be followed by Ridgwell Cullum and his six Mountie novels, the first appearing in 1903, and Harold Bindloss whose Winston of the Prairies and Delilah of the Snows (both 1907) are often cited as among the most typical of Mountie-glorifying novels.
The British, as Walden has pointed out, saw the Mounties as bold individuals who reflected Anglo greatness, agents of order on the exciting, outlying frontiers of the Empire. Imperialistic books, like those written by Rudyard Kipling, became very popular shortly after the Force was formed, another reason the Mounties were revered so quickly in the old country. The fact that they wore the red coats of the Empire and reputedly deported themselves like frontier British gentlemen also couldn't have hurt.
But the Mounties were made for Americans. Obsessed by their own western frontier and enamoured of the deeds of their cowboys, they found in Mountie stories a sort of upscale cowboy on a frontier that, unlike their own, was still mostly untamed. “Part cowboy with his horse and his hat,” commented Walden, “part detective in his efforts to solve mysterious crimes, ... part loner who reaffirmed the virtues of individual courage and initiative, ... he was a perfect dime-novel hybrid.” The Mountie began slowly in American fiction, appearing in bit parts in Jack London’s A Daughter of the Snows (1902), but then becoming very popular in the work of James Oliver Curwood (Steele of the Royal Mounted 1911) and James B. Hendryx (Snowdrift 1922). Americans tended to turn Mounties into their sort of hero, paying little attention to realistic Canadian settings or attitudes, often placing their stories in the North the scene, in their minds, of the last frontier.
Though Canadians began writing stories about their heroic mounted men early on (Ralph Con nor, one of the most popular novelists in our history, wrote several, including Corporal Cameron of the Mounties in 1912), we warmed to our task in a typically Canadian way, becoming truly excited once others, including Americans no less, began finding them fascinating. Though the likes of Pauline Johnson and Robert Service had mentioned them, it was when boys’ books about Mounties, like those by Samuel Alexander White and William Amy Lacey, began to proliferate that they really seized the public imagination Canadians saw Mounties as frontiersmen, but also as policemen sent to bring civilization and order to their frontier. Our authors also tended to situate their heroes in the midst of actual historical events, a favourite being the Riel Rebellion. Their Mounties weren’t emotional cowboys, but policemen driven by duty.
Walden points out that, despite the differences in these three views, there were many ways in which they were similar. All depicted the Mountie as a romantic character concerned with bringing justice to a young and essentially lawless land.
Mountie novels became less popular as the first half of the twentieth century wore on and by the end of the 1950s had almost disappeared, though books like the Dale of the Mounties series, written by Canadian author Joe Holliday, continued into the ‘60s. By the ‘70s almost no one wrote fiction in which Mounties appeared, except Canadians. With others having cast aside the now untenable, dated image and moved on to other, more modern adventure heroes, it was left to us to deconstruct them in novels that often portrayed them in more minor roles and in less flattering light. Witness James McNamee’s Them Damn Canadians Hanged Louis Riel and Rudy Wiebe’s The Temptations of Big Bear.
Nonfiction books followed similar lines, with early ones like T. Morris Longstreth’s The Silent Force (1927) portraying them as inimitable, taciturn heroes while more contemporary works like Michael Dawson’s hot-off-the-press The Mountie From Dime Novel to Disney (1998) presented a much more fallible and relentlessly image-conscious institution. Radio leapt onto the Mountie bandwagon from its early days, and soon two prominent national programs were airing in the United States. Renfrew of the Mounted, based on the stories of Laurie York Erskine, began in 1936. It told of the noble Douglas Renfrew confronting desperadoes in the far north. He was on CBS at first and lasted for four seasons. By then Sergeant Preston of the Yukon (originally Challenge of the Yukon) was winding its way up from local radio toward a starring national 30-minute spot with ABC. Created by the same people who gave America The Lone Ranger, it was a big-time show that lasted until 1955. Its opening was this shy and retiring little pitch:
(Gunshot, ricochet)
ANNOUNCER: Now, as gunshots echo across the windswept, snowcovered reaches of the wild Northwest, Quaker Puffed Wheat...
(Gunshot, ricochet)
ANNOUNCER: the breakfast cereal shot from guns ...
(Two gunshots)
ANNOUNCER: presents, The Challenge of the Yukon!
YUKON KING: (Bark)
ANNOUNCER (overwind): It’s Yukon King, swiftest and strongest lead dog in the Northwest, blazing the trail for Sergeant Preston of the North-West Mounted Police, in his relentless pursuit of lawbreakers!
PRESTON: On King! On, you huskies!
Preston even made it to television, with trusty Yukon King still by his side. Starring the pencil-thin-mustached Richard Simmons (no, not that Richard Simmons), the program lasted from 1955 to 1958 on CBS. National U.S. television would not see another Mountie until Benton Fraser in the 1990s. At home they occasionally popped up on the tube, in such roles as Gordon Pinsent’s tough-but-fair Sergeant Brian Scott on The Forest Rangers in the 1960s.
But it was in the movies, in Hollywood’s movies, that the Mounties really hit their stride, rendered so matchlessly mythic that we still cannot knock them off that pedestal. As Pierre Berton asserted in Hollywood’s Canada,it was actually a strange, Americanized Mountie who towered above us on the screen.
Writing in 1975, Berton pointed out that Hollywood had made 256 movies about the Mounties, almost half of all the films they had generated about Canada up until that time. Beginning in the earliest days of the silent screen, with such titles as The Darling of the Mounties in 1912 to John Ford’s North of Hudson Bay with Tom Mix in 1923, Americans put some of their biggest box-office people into scarlet and gold. Mix was a cowboy hero, and it was assumed that he could move seamlessly into a Mountie movie. In 1928 the first Rose Marie was made, with Joan Crawford; eight years later the second and most celebrated was released, with Nelson Eddy and Jeanette MacDonald in starring roles and James Stewart supporting. Other prominent films were Renfrew of the Royal Mounted in 1937, Susannah of the Mounties in 1939 with Shirley Temple and Randolph Scott, Cecil B. DeMille’s North West Mounted Police in 1940 with Gary Cooper, Gene Autry and the Mounties in 1951, and Saskatchewan in 1954 with Alan Ladd. By the ‘60s, Hollywood had begun to lose interest.
Almost every one of these films was witheringly bad. And not just in terms of their dramatic qualities. Hollywood got everything wrong about the Mounties, or almost everything. The uniforms were often wrong, the chevrons upside down, the men were called Trooper or Private instead of Constable; they were pictured riding off to nab their villains while singing at the top of their lungs or graced by a backdrop of Rocky Mountains... in Saskatchewan. And, much to the disgust of the RCMP, they were often portrayed as a force that loved gunplay and often opposed an enemy distinctly French Canadian (Cecil B. DeMille’s grotesque of Louis Riel was something to behold). And melodramatic formulas were constantly repeated. For example, Berton found more than 30 incidences of a Mountie being forced by duty to bring in someone associated with his sweetheart, all the way from her father, her brother, “the man his sweetheart really loves,” the poor sweetheart herself, to even her twin brother. This was part of a common theme that dealt with the Mounties’ supposedly eternal though achingly difficult commitment to choosing duty over love. It isn’t surprising that the RCMP often tried to disassociate itself from Hollywood. But the use of such themes as duty over love touches upon something that American filmmakers invariably did for (or to) our Mounties. It solidified their reputation as heroes unlike anything had done before. That image of matinee idols dressed in scarlet has stayed with us.
Since the death of the Mountie movie, the Force’s image has been brought down to earth, and sometimes even lower. A character by the name of Dudley Do-Right began appearing on The Bullwinkle Show during that cartoon’s 1959 to 1973 stint on American television. Dudley was a square-jawed Mountie of unerring stupidity and self-righteous moral fibre, who spent his time ineptly pursuing the nefarious Snidely Whiplash and annoying his sweetheart Nell, the daughter of his boss Inspector Fenwick. The beautiful Nell loved someone else ... Dudley’s horse. Dudley’s existence reflected not only the modem age’s desire to deconstruct heroes, but how ridiculously high on the pedestal Mounties had ascended. They were an irresistible target.
From about 1960 forward it became difficult to depict a Mountie without at least a little satire, or gritty realism. From Broadfoot’s unheroic Renfrew and his dog, Cuddles, to clueless Mounties Ed Codner and Ed Cochrane (“We’re the special Eds!”) on CBC’s This Hour Has 22 Minutes, we enjoy poking fun at them. On North of 60, the RCMP officers shed the scarlet, the manliness, and the heroism.
It seems obvious we can no longer look upon the Mounties as perfect beings. They are the daily police force in all of our provinces but two (Ontario and Quebec), ordinary-looking cops who give you speeding tickets or bother you in some other way. In Quebec, they tend to be seen as very Anglo police anyway, and historically their role in the Riel situation and pursuit of French-Canadian villains in the movies does little to help their image there. Add to this the whole nation’s awakening to their less-than-perfect record in the opening of the West and recent revelations about wrongdoing in Quebec, bungling in the Airbus scandal, and the fact that they are today that perpetually questioned, undemocratic institution — a secret service — and you have a Mountie thrown from his horse, as it were.
It also seems that a favourite preoccupation of writers in this postmodernist age has become the examination of a perceived duality in the Mounties: their image versus their reality. It’s becoming nearly as talked about as the old heroism. Walden does this as well as anyone, theorizing that the Mounties appeared at a perfect time. Just as society was undergoing a change to a more complicated, urban, and secularized state, they came along representing the comforting, older way of individualism and firmly held beliefs. He also discusses concepts of heroes and myths and explains how the Mounties fit into those roles. Their apparent character, sense of duty, social responsibility, good breeding, well-roundedness, and birth in the wide-open, unspoiled space of the West all fit them to their mythic role.
Dawson, in his book, agrees with much of what Walden says, but takes a slightly more critical stance, stressing the phoniness of their image and putting a great deal of focus on how the RCMP reworked it into a politically correct one during their 1973 centennial year, retaining bravery and decency but incorporating a fabricated concept of historical Mounties as non-imperialistic, friends of natives, nonracist and nonsexist. He argues that this paved the way for the 1995 purchase of the marketing rights to their image by the Disney Corporation. This monster-sized, so-called “family-oriented” company would likely not have wanted to be associated with the questionable image that grew after midcentury, but this cleaned-up one, Dawson says, is more attractive. He discusses how the RCMP now uses their old uniform to promote their image worldwide and concludes by arguing that today the Mountie image is barely more than a marketing tool. “Unhindered by the Force’s past role in many of the most controversial events in Canada’s history, the Mountie is now consumed with the same lack of historical contemplation that greets a cup of coffee or a bag of potato chips.” He feels that Canadians need to “interrogate” the myth of the Mountie more, and that doing so would be the sign of a “healthy” nation.
But something about that analysis seems off the mark. Canadians are expert at tearing apart any prospective hero who dares to pop his/her head above the snow. The Mounties have survived this. We still feel some pride in them, but not because of blind acceptance. Only the most naive of us would assume that they have done no wrong and that they do not try to project to us the best possible image of themselves, even a somewhat fabricated, corporate one. Most of us understand, for example, that their role as the police force of earlier governments made them party to pushing natives onto reservations; but we also know that our western and gold-rush history was indeed less bloody than that of our neighbour’s, who used an army to deal with the same situations and apparent “enemies.” The Mounties, however flawed, deserve some credit for that.
More important, most of us see the image for what it is: a reflection of a reality, not reality itself. Setting aside the cops and the secret service we have to deal with today, we still admire the historical image of the Mounties and see in their relative sense of decency and their relatively bloodless approach something that was, and is, distinctly Canadian. We see something to strive toward. Perhaps even something noble in us, dare we say. Myths, understood as myths, are not necessarily, or completely, bad.
Whatever Disney may or may not do to the Mounties, sanitize them, or Americanize them (as if that’s something new), or make them just another corporate symbol, it is doubtful that they can ever affect the essence of what a man dressed in scarlet and gold and a Stetson means to a Canadian. When a ship captain on Due South, responds to questions about who is the most believable man onboard by turning an upward glance and exclaiming, “Look at him! He’s a Mountie!” we laugh at ourselves, but we feel good about it too.
Shane Peacock is a Toronto-based freelance writer.
This article originally appeared in June-July 1998 issue of The Beaver magazine.
Redcoats — from the bargain bin?
Bill Mackay, curator of the RCMP Museum in Regina, reveals an interesting fact about the Mounties’ famous scarlet tunic. Official word has always been that the governor general, Lord Dufferin, wanted the police to wear the imperial red of the Empire; this way the NWMP would be easily distinguishable from the U.S. Cavalry, who wore a more traditional police blue. But Mackay thinks there may be more to the story: “I ran across a little document. It just so happened that Osborne Smith, the district commander of the province of Manitoba, had 700-plus unwanted red Norfolk jackets. ... What a great opportunity to dump them off to the new boys on the block and to meet the needs of a governor general who wanted red uniforms.” And they probably got a deal.
To this day, RCMP headquarters receives letters from children in Great Britain and elsewhere saying they want to come to Canada and become red-jacketed Mounties. Others write to complain that they visited Canada and didn’t see a single Mountie, not knowing that the famous red uniforms haven’t been worn in action since the 1930s.
by Philip Jensen
The pirates boarded the Beryl G near Sidney Island, twenty kilometres north of Victoria. They wanted the cargo she carried, and had the attitude and weapons to take it. When the fractious captain resisted, they shot him and clubbed his teenaged son on the head, killing them both. Then they hooked the bodies to a line and towed them into deeper water near Halibut Island in Georgia Strait. There, little more than a kilometre from where they died, Captain William Gillis and his son William were tied to the Beryl G's anchor and dropped into the ocean. It was September 16, 1924. The people of America had endured prohibition for more than four years.
Captain Gillis and his son were rumrunners. They were also legitimate businessmen — as long as the established export duty of twenty dollars a case was paid to the Canadian government. But the very nature of their business put them at risk. And now they were dead, victims of a crime inspired by greed and facilitated by the conflicting laws of friendly neighbouring countries.
They were also victims of geography. On the West Coast an invisible line sweeps around the bottom of Vancouver Island, drawing the international boundary at approximately forty-eight degrees north latitude. Proceeding easterly, the line splits Juan de Fuca Strait almost midway between Canada and the United States. Clearing the tip of the island, it veers into Georgia Strait, tracing a jagged course north to the forty-ninth parallel, where it makes a beeline to the east. In this part of the ocean, the boundary is never more than a few kilometres from the shore of either country. And in the dead of night or in autumn fog, a boat is more likely to stray across the line than not.
With no crew to keep her safe, the Beryl G spent the night at the mercy of wind and tide. Chris Waters, lighthouse keeper of Turn Point Light on the American side, spotted the derelict vessel at dawn. Seeing that she was in danger of being pounded to pieces on the rocky shore, he enlisted help from the local postmaster and they towed the boat to safety. Only then did they board her. And only then did they realize that something dreadful had happened on the Beryl G.
Below deck was smeared with blood, and the disorder there was much more than the result of bad housekeeping. The American Coast Guard towed her to Friday Harbor on nearby San Juan Island and considered the alternatives. Their knowledge of the winds and currents of the last twenty-four hours suggested that the boat had drifted over from the Canadian side. And the Beryl G was a Canadian vessel, so the crew must have been Canadian as well. Clearly, this was a job for the Canadian police.
Inspector Forbes Cruickshank was a tough cop. In his mid fifties, he still had the size and rough manner that could intimidate those on the wrong side of the law. Cruickshank had begun his police career in Scotland, and found the work suited him well. But the New World called, and he soon emigrated to Canada, where he enlisted with the North-West Mounted Police. After years of exemplary service with the famous force, he moved again, this time to the BC Provincial Police. By the time Beryl G was found adrift, he was the inspector in charge of the Vancouver detachment of the provincial police’s criminal investigation division.
As it happened, Cruickshank needed to get away from Vancouver for a time. The city was in an uproar over the Janet Smith case, involving a nursemaid in high-toned Shaughnessy Heights who had apparently died from a gunshot wound to the head. Local Point Grey police had badly bungled the investigation, and when the coroner announced a finding of accidental death, public attention was galvanized overnight. Speculation knew no bounds: two high-society men had killed the pretty young woman in a fight for her attention, or she’d died of a drug overdose, or she’d been raped and murdered. That it was the Chinese houseboy who had found and reported the body, further muddied the waters in the racist climate of that day.
Responding to the pressure, Alexander Malcolm Manson, attorney general in B.C.’s Liberal government, ordered the provincial police to reopen the case. Because the evidence that once existed was compromised, Cruickshank, with Manson’s tacit approval, hired a private detective to kidnap the houseboy and attempt to extract a confession. But this failed, and the press got wind of it. A second inquest determined that a person or persons unknown had willfully murdered Smith. Sensing a cover-up, the press and the public demanded satisfaction. The resulting scandal wrecked several careers, including that of Manson, who was refused a cabinet post when the Liberals returned to power in 1933. But good fortune was on Cruikshank’s side. Thanks to the tragedy of the Beryl G, he was removed to a safe distance, well away from the spectre of humiliation and disgrace.
The file on Forbes Cruickshank’s desk included a report from the initial inspection of the Beryl G. It spoke of large amounts of blood in the cabin - bloody marks suggesting that bodies had been dragged up the companionway - and a missing anchor. There were bullet holes and empty cartridges, but no guns. The only other clues were a camera containing a film with one exposed frame and a bloodstained seaman’s cap. Police had processed the film and included the photo in the file. Taken from the deck of the Beryl G, the photo showed the stern of a boat bearing the American registration number M 493. The inspector’s first task was to locate M 493. But with no official status in the United States, he had to work undercover.
Cruickshank crossed into the United States on a grey and misty morning in late September, an anonymous middle-aged man with a brush moustache and a military bearing. After many days of walking the Seattle docks, he found nothing and learned nothing. Then he remembered the locks connecting Lake Union with Puget Sound. The lockkeeper agreed to let him search the records, and there it was: M 493 was a fast eighteen-metre boat, belonging to one Peter Marinoff, a.k.a Legitimate Pete. Marinoff was one of the biggest rumrunners in Tacoma, Washington, and he was willing to talk. Liquor pirates had interfered with his business long enough.
Marinoff confirmed that Gillis had gone to Rum Row on the west coast of Vancouver Island. There, in international waters, after dark on September 15, Gillis had met the supply ship Comet and transferred 350 cases of liquor to the Beryl G. Soon after that, one of Marinoff’s men met Gillis in a cove on the east side of Sidney Island, taking 110 cases aboard M 493. When he returned for a second load the next day, Gillis was gone. That was all Marinoff’s man knew, until the Beryl G was found adrift near Turn Point Light. Marinoff finished with a suggestion: the inspector might benefit from talking to a man called Al Clausen.
Clausen operated a service station in Seattle, but he had a more lucrative and interesting sideline. He owned a fast boat that was available for charter with no questions asked. Reluctant to talk at first, he soon responded to the inspector’s questioning. Clausen recalled taking three customers into Canada on two occasions in late September. Their names were Charlie Morris, Harry (Si) Sowash, and Owen (Cannonball) Baker. On one trip, they stopped at several places in the Gulf Islands, picking up cached liquor at each location. On Pender Island, a farmer named Thorston Paulson gave them some old sacks and a bit of green paint, so they repackaged all the bottles in the sacks, marked each one with a green letter C (for Clausen), and submerged them in shallow water for later pickup. On the second trip, Baker confessed to Clausen that he’d taken the liquor from Gillis and his son.
So far Cruickshank had associated the Beryl G with rum-running, found the owner of the boat in the photo, and had the names of three suspects. But there was still the bloody cap. It took a lot of walking and a lot more patience, but he finally found the right store in Seattle. The clerk recalled that the customer had bragged about running booze out of Canada, and said he needed the cap as a kind of disguise. When Cruickshank showed him photographs of the suspected men, the clerk immediately recognized Owen Baker. As it happened, Baker was easily found; he was in jail, awaiting trial for bootlegging liquor to a doctor in Anacortes, a Washington seaside town. Even better, the liquor had been delivered in an old sack marked with a green letter C.
Meanwhile, back in Canada, Provincial Police sergeant Bob Owens heard some gossip about a boat called the Denman II. Owned by Paul Stromkins, the vessel had recently undergone extensive work on its superstructure. The work hadn't been necessary. All it accomplished was to change the way the boat looked. Before he could follow up on this lead, Owens visited Thorston Paulson on Pender Island. Willing to talk, Paulson identified Clausen, Sowash, and Baker from photos the sergeant showed him. They were the men he’d supplied with the sacks and paint. He didn’t know their names, but he did know the person in a fourth photo. It was Paul Stromkins, his old friend from Manitoba.
Stromkins denied either knowing Paulson or having any connection with the Beryl G hijacking. But when the police arranged an “accidental” meeting between the two men in the Victoria police station, Stromkins, unnerved by the encounter, couldn’t hide that he knew Paulson. Unable to stop talking, he made a statement that downplayed his involvement, while fully implicating Morris, Sowash, and Baker.
Charlie Morris was picked up in Seattle, and his extradition hearing was set for early in 1925. The other two had disappeared, and a reward of $2,000 for information leading to capture was posted. Owen Baker turned up in New York City, where he was working on a dredger as George Nolan. The New Orleans police collared Harry Sowash in a routine early morning sweep of the city streets. He was somehow able to convince them that he was a respectable citizen out for an early walk, and they let him go. But another officer, who saw Sowash leave, recognized him from the wanted poster, and the search was on. They picked him up later that same morning, trying to hitch a ride on a ship outbound for South America.
Morris was still in Seattle resisting extradition when Stromkins, Baker, and Sowash came to trial in June 1925. Stromkins, who had agreed to testify for the Crown, was freed, although he quietly indicated that he would prefer to remain in custody. (A wise choice, as he probably wouldn’t have survived for long on the streets.) In court, he testified that Baker, Sowash, and Morris had boarded the Beryl G, where she waited at Sidney Island on the night of the murders. Morris wore the fancy seaman’s cap and a brass-buttoned jacket, pretending to be a revenue agent. When Gillis resisted, Baker shot and killed him. One of them (though it was never determined who) shot the boy, but he was only wounded so they clubbed him to death at the top of the companionway. Then they dragged the bodies to the deck, handcuffed them together, and tied them to the anchor with rope. Most of their clothing was removed, and they were slit open to help them sink.
The trial lasted a week, but the jury needed only a few minutes to find Baker and Sowash guilty. Morris lost his fight against extradition and arrived in Canada on the same day his friends’ death sentences were pronounced. His defense consisted solely of a claim that he’d been drinking all day before the hijacking and fell asleep as the Denman II left Victoria. Since he never woke up again until they were coming into Anacortes, he had no knowledge of the murders. The jury found Morris guilty anyway, and recommended mercy. The judge, who wasn’t inclined to be merciful, responded with a sentence of death by hanging.
On January 14, 1926, the gallows were ready at Vancouver’s Okalla Prison. As the prisoners were brought in, Owen Baker noticed Inspector Cruickshank standing among the witnesses. “Hello there, Cruickshank,” he said. “Goodbye, old boy.” Harry Sowash also spoke. “Goodbye there,” he said. “Goodbye, boys,” Cruickshank answered. Baker’s final words, now muffled by the black hood over his head, were addressed to Arthur Ellis, the public hangman in B.C. for many years. “Step on her, kid. Make it quick.”
Inspector Cruickshank had brought the criminals to justice, or at least most of them. After the trail, Morris’s sentence was commuted to life in prison. Paul Stromkins, the only other living person who knew the whole truth about that terrible night, was free in exchange for his testimony. Still, the outcome was more than satisfactory for Cruickshank. It was a badly needed triumph after his dismal failure on the Janet Smith case, which remains unsolved to this day.
The mortal remains of Captain Gillis and his son were never found. Anything left of their bones must still be shackled to the anchor of the Beryl G, where it lies on the seabed near little Halibut Island. As for the Beryl G herself, she was sold and renamed the Manzetta. Early in 1929, she ran aground on a reef in Porlier Pass near Valdez Island in Georgia Strait. Nothing remained that was worth salvaging, and her life was done.
Philip Jensen is a Victoria writer who frequently sails the waters where the events in this story took place.
This article originally appeared in the August-September 2005 issue of The Beaver (now Canada's History).
Et Cetera
Pass the Bottle: Rum Tales of the West Coast by Eric Newsome. Orca Book Publishers, Victoria, B.C., 1995.
The Case of the Beryl G by Eric Newsome. Orca Book Publishers, Victoria, B.C., 1989.
by Bonnie Reilly Schmidt
Donna Burns was twenty-one years old when she arrived at her first Royal Canadian Mounted Police posting in Port Alberni, British Columbia, in March 1975. She was at the detachment for less than two weeks when she responded to a call about a young woman being pushed through a plate glass window at a local business. Burns approached the suspect at a fish and chips shop, where she asked if she could talk to him outside. He refused twice. When she asked him a third time, she touched him lightly on the shoulder, and, as she describes it, he went "berserk."
The suspect jumped up suddenly, threw her over the diner's counter, and proceeded to strangle her. Thinking that the man was trying to kill her, Burns' instincts, heightened by her recent training at the RCMP's academy, took over. She reached up behind the man and yanked his long blond hair so hard that he let her go.
She does not recall how she managed to get him into the back of the police cruiser but does remember that she was unable to get handcuffs on him. She also remembered that none of the patrons in the diner helped her while she was being choked; instead, they watched to see how she was going to handle the situation.
Back at the detachment, it took a number of male officers to get the suspect into a cell. The man, who was well-known to police, was charged with assaulting a police officer and eventually sentenced to two years in prison. Burns recalled the judge commenting, "How dare you assault a member of the RCMP, let alone a female member!"
Stories like this cannot be found in official histories of the RCMP In fact, little is known about the history of women in Canada's iconic police force. As a former police officer myself, I was aware of the valuable history waiting to be told and I conducted interviews with former officers about their experiences as part of research for my Ph.D. dissertation. Burns' story is representative of many of these personal accounts. Her story provides a revealing glimpse into how the presence of women challenged popular conceptions of policing as a male preserve. More broadly, the stories of female Mounties reflect the many ways attitudes toward women were being redefined in Canadian society at the end of the twentieth century.
Most early versions of RCMP history focused on Prime Minister John A. Macdonald, who first envisioned a mounted paramilitary police force to patrol the newly acquired western territories. The force, originally named the NorthWest Mounted Police, was formed in 1873. By the end of the nineteenth century, historians and journalists alike were crediting the NWMP with aiding in the peaceful settlement of the West, with keeping the peace between First Nations peoples and white settlers, and with dismantling the illegal American whisky trade. Commanding officers such as Sam Steele figured prominently in their often highly romanticized stories.
It was not until the early decades of the twentieth century that women began to appear in biographies and popular histories about the force. These accounts were usually written by the wives of RCMP officers. They were also known as the "unpaid Mountie" or the "second man."
As these names suggest, Mountie wives functioned as unpaid support staff and kept many small and remote detachments running smoothly, saving the police force significant sums of money However, their work was not officially acknowledged and usually went unnoticed by historians.
The role of women in the force took a dramatic turn in the 1970s. At the beginning of the decade, the Royal Commission on the Status of Women in Canada recommended that "enlistment in the RCMP be open to women."
It would take the force another four years and several studies to act. But in May 1974, the RCMP finally announced that it was recruiting women for the first time in its 101-year history.
When the recruitment announcements started appearing in newspapers, Donna Burns was one of the 292 women who applied. For Burns, there was nothing unusual about a woman in policing. She was raised in Calgary, where women were already employed as officers with the Calgary Police Service. Burns was also disillusioned with her dead-end occupation as a bank teller. The last straw came when the bank hired men with no banking experience as management trainees. She saw that her opportunities for advancement were very limited.
On September 16, 1974, the RCMP accepted Burns and thirty-one other women from across Canada. All were sworn in simultaneously cross the country through coordinated times — a gesture meant to transfer the pressure of being the “first” onto a group of women rather than an individual.
The event was a media sensation. In Toronto, the CBC recorded the ceremony live at the RCMP’s headquarters. Bob Johnstone reported for radio listeners that “the force that always gets its man now has women.”
In Calgary Burns and two other women had to perform the signing three times for photographers waiting to capture the moment. Many of the new female recruits found themselves on newspaper front pages the next day.
One week later, the women began six months of recruit training at the RCMP's academy in Regina. Steeped in history and paramilitary tradition, the academy had changed its training methods very little since its establishment in 1885. It was modelled after the Royal Irish Constabulary's Depot of Instruction. The RIC was the British Empire's largest professional police force and was the inspiration for many colonial policing bodies. Like its counterpart in Dublin, the Regina academy was named Depot.
Commanding officers and instructors at Depot initially wondered if women could meet the academy's strenuous physical requirements, so they modified a few of the training objectives. For instance, male recruits were expected to lift 125 pounds in weights by the time they graduated, while women were limited to thirty-five pounds. Otherwise, the women were expected to meet the same training objectives as male recruits in firearms, self-defence, swimming, drill, and academic studies.
Since it had no experience training women, the RCMP turned to a female officer from the Canadian military for help. Major Doris Toole, who had previously been in charge of female recruit training at Canadian Forces Base Cornwallis, Nova Scotia, was seconded to act as a liaison between the women and the police force, to monitor their training classes, and to provide advice regarding their uniform and kit.
Toole's presence was reassuring to Burns, who arrived at Depot feeling somewhat scared and naive. It was obvious to her that the male instructors "didn't know how to treat us, and we weren't sure what was being expected of us.”
The secondment of Toole was the first and only time the RCMP relied on an outside advisor to assist in training, making her an important figure in RCMP history.
Meanwhile, the intense media attention continued. Reporters received unprecedented access to female recruits during training. The women were interviewed and photographed while jogging, lifting weights, swimming, marching, and learning how to fire revolvers. Even the twenty minutes allotted for their meals turned into a photo op.
The only place the media was not allowed was the dormitory. But even this was circumvented when radio stations started calling the dormitory pay phone and asking for interviews. Most of the women just wanted to fit in with the male recruits, but this was hard to do while under the glare of the media spotlight.
After six months, thirty of the original thirty-two women successfully completed their training. Their graduation ceremony on March 3, 1975, was a memorable event. RCMP commissioner Maurice Nadon and federal Solicitor General Warren Allmand delivered speeches. Five police fathers, including Burns' dad, Staff Sergeant Robert Burns of the Calgary Police Service, presented their daughters with their RCMP identification badges during the ceremony. Allmand later confessed to being "choked up" at witnessing history being made.
One week later, Burns arrived in Port Alberni, a mill town on Vancouver Island, where she quickly became a novelty. "You'd stop the police car at an intersection and people would be walking by and they'd be pointing,” she recalled. A story about her appeared in the local newspaper soon after her arrival, as did an account of her single-handed arrest of the dangerous man in the fish and chips shop.
Everyone in town knew where she lived, including a group of young men engaged in criminal activity who tried to intimidate her. They sat outside her apartment late at night, put sugar in the gas tank of her car, and followed her around while she was on patrol. But she was not easily rattled.
For the most part, Burns remembers her time in Port Alberni as "absolutely fantastic.” She describes her male peers as gentlemen who supported her. Initially, some male officers struggled with whether to protect her as a woman or treat her like a partner. It took some time for Burns to convince them that they should let her do what she was trained to do and for them to understand that women handled situations differently than men.
Rather than using physical force, many female police officers negotiated their way through difficult circumstances. Burns acknowledged that this approach did not always work, as her encounter with the man in the fish and chips shop demonstrated. But she quickly learned that if she took ten minutes longer to resolve a situation through discussion, the outcome was usually more positive.
One of her more rewarding experiences took place during her first summer in Port Alberni, when she assisted male officers investigating the rape of two female tourists. Despite her inexperience, they asked her to be involved when they realized that Burns’s presence brought a degree of comfort to the traumatized women.
In July 1975, Ronald Morse, a young constable also stationed in Port Alberni, asked Burns to marry him — and a new chapter in RCMP history began. The issue of marriage had been a recurring problem for the police force since 1873. RCMP regulations stipulated that junior police officers were prohibited from marrying for their first five years of service. After five years, permission to marry required approval from a commanding officer along with proof of a sufficient sum of money in a savings account to support a wife.
Many secret weddings took place during the course of a century, but violators were immediately dismissed when caught. RCMP officers usually chose to resign to get married, something Burns' father had done in 1950 before joining the Calgary Police Service. Following the hiring of women in 1974, however, the RCMP abolished this policy and permitted married men to join the police force for the first time in its history.
But that was as far as the changes went. By the end of 1975, the RCMP still did not have a policy in place regarding marriage between two Mounties. Commanding officers were shocked at the engagement of Burns to Morse and were unsure of what to do. Orders prohibiting officers from living outside the community where they policed, coupled with resistance to the idea of a married couple working at the same detachment, created an immediate problem for upper management.
Nevertheless, Burns and Morse proceeded with their wedding plans and were married in November 1975. The groom wore his red serge uniform; the bride wore a white dress and changed her name. She was now Donna Morse. The first married Mounties were transferred to the greater Vancouver area, where they worked in neighbouring municipalities.
The RCMP was also unprepared for pregnant Mounties.
There were minimal guidelines stipulating that female officers were to be reassigned to office duties at the onset of pregnancy. They were also entitled to six months of maternity leave, the amount given to all female employees working for the federal government in the 1970s. The force held the pregnant officer's position for her until she returned to duty. Since these vacancies resulted in an increased workload for other officers, particularly in small detachments, they became a source of contention.
The issue of how to dress a pregnant Mountie went unresolved for decades. Early designs for an operational maternity uniform did not allow for the wearing of a service revolver. A shoulder holster would have solved the problem, but the RCMP refused to alter its policy prohibiting uniformed officers from wearing them. It was not until 1996 that the police force hired a professional clothing designer who developed a maternity uniform equipped with a side entry for a service revolver.
But these advances came too late for Morse. When she became pregnant with her first child in1980, she chose to hide her pregnancy for five months and remained operational. It was not until she was unable to do up the trousers of her uniform that she informed her supervisor that she was pregnant. Morse, unsure of her rights, was uncertain how her pregnancy would affect her career. It was important to her to continue to pull her own weight as a police officer.
In hindsight, she would do things differently. Some of the incidents she dealt with, such as entering a burning house and attending serious traffic accidents, she now views as far too risky for an unborn child. Nevertheless, Morse counted herself fortunate to have been stationed in larger urban detachments that accommodated each of her pregnancies. She returned to full operational police duties after the birth of each of her three children.
Despite the presence of women, RCMP culture was slow to change. Federal employment equity laws and official RCMP policy did not stop female officers from being targets of harassment. Morse's first encounter with sexual harassment took place when a senior male RCMP officer who accompanied her on a trip made a number of unwanted sexual advances towards her. She says that when they returned from the trip, he intimidated her into keeping quiet about what had happened. She confided only in her husband. Her experience was not unusual. Many female officers resigned as a result of being harassed on the job. These resignations contributed to high attrition rates for female Mounties.
By its nature, police work takes a psychological and emotional toll on officers, whether they are men or women. As new understandings about post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) emerge, historians are revising their approach to historical events. Recent studies on shell shock in the First World War, for example, have increased our understanding of soldiers' responses to the horrors of war. Similarly, incidents of PTSD among RCMP officers increase our understanding of the history of policing in Canada.
During the 1970s, emotional responses were often associated with femininity and were considered a sign of weakness. Mounties were supposed to remain professional, which was usually interpreted to mean masculine, rational, and dispassionate in the face of trauma.
As a result, many female Mounties struggled with the emotional aftermath of traumatic events. In November 1982, while on patrol, Morse responded to a call about a serious traffic accident — a drunk driver had hit a vehicle head-on. As she approached a crumpled vehicle in a nearby ditch, two male bystanders tried to prevent her from going further. She shook them off, moved closer, and then realized that the mangled car was a police cruiser — and her partner was inside the wreckage.
Despite the horrific circumstances, Morse calmly took control of the accident scene until help arrived. Afterwards, she and all the other members at the detachment struggled to cope with the near death of their seriously injured co-worker, who remained in hospital for weeks. Morse recalled that “in those years you didn't talk” about emotional stress, and the RCMP did not provide trauma counselling.
Three weeks later, Morse was driving her police cruiser when she began to lose her eyesight and muscle control. She pulled over to the side of the road and radioed in to the detachment for help. At the hospital, doctors diagnosed her condition as possibly multiple sclerosis or an epileptic seizure. Morse completely lost her eyesight and the use of her muscles. She also lost her driver's licence and was placed on medical leave.
It was a number of weeks before her eyesight returned. She eventually regained the use of her muscles, and she returned to active duty, two months after the accident, on December 31, albeit while still under her doctor's care.
Today we understand her condition as PTSD, a response to the emotional trauma of the motor vehicle accident. The misdiagnosis had an impact on her personal life. Morse delayed having a second child based on her doctor's advice that a pregnancy could trigger a return of the symptoms. The horrific traffic accident, and the ensuing trauma it produced, remains a powerful memory for Morse.
She retired from the RCMP in 1995 after twenty-one years of service. Her husband Ronald retired in 1994; her children are now young adults. Today, Morse works as a director of corporate security for a branch of the provincial government in British Columbia.
Few would argue against the idea that women have made significant contributions to the history of the RCMP. Since 1974, women have distinguished themselves as members of the force. Some have received recognition for their bravery and courage. Others have been gravely injured while serving their communities. Four women have lost their lives in the line of duty.
Today, most Canadians assume that women are capable of doing police work. A female Mountie is not an unusual sight — they've come a long way since 1974. Indeed, the personal histories of female RCMP officers like Donna Morse illustrate just how far women have journeyed.
This article originally appeared in the August-September 2011 issue of Canada’s History.
History of women in Canadian police work
Early 1800s
Rose Fortune, a Black Loyalist born into slavery, becomes the first woman in Canada known to have taken on police duties. The successful entrepreneur imposes and enforces curfews at the wharf at Annapolis Royal, Nova Scotia.
1887
A Mrs. Whiddon becomes Toronto’s first police matron. Her duties are limited to searching arrested women and attending to them as they waited for their court appearances.
1912
Lurancy Harris and Minnie Miller of Vancouver and Annie Jackson of Edmonton are the first women to be hired as police officers. Harris and Miller patrol dance halls, beer parlours, parks, and any “areas of amusement” where women might get into trouble. Jackson’s duties involve women engaged in prostitution.
1933
Women become an integral part of the Toronto police morality bureau. They are involved in undercover investigations.
1974
In Toronto, women officers are assigned to patrols with men. For the first time, the women officers
1975
Thirty-two women take up duties as the RCMP’s first female officers.
1994
Lenna Bradburn becomes Canada’s first female chief of police, serving as head of the municipal police service in Guelph, Ontario.
1998
Gwen Boniface becomes the first woman commissioner of the Ontario Provincial Police.
2006
Beverley Busson is appointed, on an interim basis, as the RCMP’s first female commissioner.
Today
About eighteen per cent of all police officers in Canada are women.
by David W. Phillips
Fifty years ago, on 3 February 1947 at 7:20 A.M. Yukon time, weather observer Gordon Toole hurried the 30 metres from the warm, log barracks at Snag Airport, Yukon, to the weather instrument compound next to the runway. For eight straight days the temperature had been below -58°F, but on this morning it felt colder. Toole could plainly hear the dogs barking at the Indian village, six kilometres to the north, and his exhaled breath made a tinkling sound as it fell to the ground in a white powder. His six husky dogs were really feeling the cold. On this morning, they were asleep on top of their kennels, curled up with their noses tucked right up under their tails to gamer every calorie of heat.
By the time he arrived at the white louvered shelter housing the thermometers, he could feel the cold seeping through his parka. He unlatched the door of the instrument shelter, and shone the flashlight inside, but was careful not to lean forward and breathe on the thermometers. From the corner of his eye, he saw something that he had never seen before. The tiny sliding scale inside the glass thermometer column had fallen into the bulb at the end, well below the -80°F point - the last mark on the thermometer.
Toole rushed back to the barracks where he coaxed his colleague, Wilf Blezard, to return to the instrument compound. Pointing a set of dividers on one end of the tiny bit of alcohol left in the column, Toole estimated the temperature to be about -83°F. As he dutifully scratched a mark on the outside of the thermometer sheath adjacent to the end of the alcohol, he thought about what head office had advised three days earlier. If the alcohol level ever fell below -80°F, they should mark a corresponding point on the thermometer sheath with a pen. Typical advice from Toronto, Toole thought. Ink does not flow at that temperature. Instead he made the historic mark using a fine, sharp file.
To complete the job, the observers noted that the weather was a repeat of the last two months — clear, dry and calm. Snow on the ground amounted to 38 centimetres, but was evaporating at three centimetres a day. The visibility at eye-level was 30 kilometres; however, on this day, ground visibility was greatly reduced. At about arm’s length, an eerie, dull-grey shroud of patchy ice or frost fog hung above the dogs and heated buildings.
Back inside the Snag weather office, the Department of Transport radio operator transmitted the weather observation to Whitehorse and Toronto. Within the hour, the Director of the Canadian Weather Service congratulated Snag on becoming North America’s “cold pole”. He also asked Toole to send the thermometer back to be re-calibrated. The two observers shared the news with the rest of the camp, before packing the thermometer for air shipment to Toronto to have the readings confirmed.
But it was so cold that almost a week passed before it would be warm enough for an airplane to land at Snag. Once in Toronto, the thermometer was put through several laboratory tests before technicians concluded that it had been reading about 1.6°F in error. Three months later, the weather service accepted a value of -81.4°F as the corrected temperature — still the lowest official temperature ever recorded in North America. It is a record that still stands today — 50 years later.
At Snag that day, all 16 men did not need confirmation in Toronto. They could feel how cold it was. But still they were excited by the news. Blezard, now retired and living in Grande Prairie, Alberta, recalls: “We had to put a little lock on the door to the instrument screen because everybody was rushing out and looking at the thermometers. Even the slightest bit of body heat would cause the alcohol to jump.” Fifty years is a long time ago, so perhaps it is not surprising that Toole’s memories of the day are different. “Staff interest,” he said, “was pretty limited. There was no euphoria, prolonged celebrating or serious discussion on how to commemorate the moment.” Perhaps no one understood the historic significance or maybe it was just that the cold showed no sign of abating. But that was to change. To start, by 2 p.m., the day’s high reached a relatively balmy -54°F. Before the day was over, media from around the world had besieged the “frozen chosen” for exclusive interviews on the historic cold. Writers from the Milwaukee Journal and Vancouver Sun phoned for front-page stories to learn what -80 °F felt like. The Globe and Mail reported the following headline: “Snag snug as mercury [sic] sags to a record -82.6°”. The thermometers did not use mercury because it freezes at -39°F. They were alcohol thermometers and the newspaper knew it. Later in the story: “the only reason the men didn’t celebrate was that all the alcohol at the station was in the thermometer and that was nearly frozen.”
Telegrams of congratulations arrived from many countries. Several messages referred to the world’s new cold pole. But some expressed skepticism. For British meteorologists, who used to measure coldness in degrees of frost (below 32°F), upwards of 115 degrees of frost was just too much to comprehend.
On 8 February, a plane arrived at Snag with American military and media who wanted to learn what it was like living and working in such cold conditions. The men at Snag, however, were more interested in the visitors’ cargo of meat, beer and whisky than in becoming celebrities.
Why is the lowest temperature record one of the best-remembered Canadian weather records? First, it was for that typically Canadian feature: cold. Second, it was the record for the western world. And finally, the short, odd name, “Snag”, made this legend of frigidity live on.
Snag was named during the Klondike gold rush. Because boatmen could not read the silty waters of nearby stretches of the White River and its tributaries, boats had to be poled upstream. On occasion, they would be “snagged” and punctured by sharp pointed tree trunks submerged below the milky waters, hence the name.
The Snag weather station operated from 1943 to 1966. It was located at the Snag Airport, east of the Alaska-Yukon boundary, and 25 kilometres north of the Alaska Highway at Mile 1178. The airport was at co-ordinates 62°23'N and 140°23'W, with an elevation of 646 metres. Set in a broad bowl-shaped, north-south valley of the White River, a tributary of the Yukon River, the now-abandoned airport was surrounded by unglaciated uplands of moderate relief. The vegetation was mostly scrub and poplar trees of about three to six metres tall. The magnificent St. Elias mountains lay 50 kilometres to the south. The village of Snag was six kilometres to the north of the airport, near the point where the Snag Creek flowed into the White River. The village’s population of eight or ten Native people and fur traders was smaller than the staff at the airport.
Of the sixteen staff members at Snag airport, four single men in their early twenties were there to observe the weather. Toole was the officer-in-charge of the weather station. Meteorological staff earned about $1,320 annually, with an extra $20 monthly isolation allowance, which covered the room rate in the barracks. The daily food charge was 50 cents.
The other airport employees were radio operators, also employed by the Department of Transport, and airport maintenance and operations personnel, employed by the Royal Canadian Air Force, whose main job was to keep the runway open. Incidentally, in winter this meant compacting the snow, not ploughing or blowing the strip bare.
Snag was part of the Northwest Staging Route — one of several emergency landing strips or observing stations through Northwest Canada to connect Alaska and Yukon with Central Canada and the United States. They were set up in 1942 and 1943 to provide basic weather services for the RCAF, the United States Army Air Force, and for civilian aviation companies providing military transport. Most pilots flying the northwest route had to fly with visual contact with the ground, called visual flight rules (VFR); otherwise, they might get lost. If weather socked in the main airports, the pilots used alternate airports like Snag and Smith River.
The continental climate in this part of Yukon resembles that of eastern Siberia. Yearly precipitation averages 339 millimetres, with nearly two-thirds of that falling between May and September. The average yearly snowfall totals 155 centimetres. Winds are light with, in winter, a large percentage of calms. Temperatures are more variable with prolonged cold winters and warm summers. The January average daytime high is -13.2°F and the average night-time low -32.1°F; while comparable July averages are high 69.6°F and low 44.6°F.
The winter of 1946-47 had been exceptionally cold in the Canadian Northwest. At Snag, temperatures dipped below -58°F on six days in December, and on eleven days in January. From 27 January to 5 February, temperatures remained below -67°F. On 30 January, the temperature fell to -76°F, giving Yukon its coldest day ever, and Canada, its lowest in 38 years. On 2 February, the temperature fell to -80°F, which was a new all-time Canadian record cold. But it was to last only a day: the very next day, the corrected temperature was -81.4°F — a new record low for all of North America.
The cold was not confined to Snag. Temperatures reached their lowest point between 1 and 3 February throughout the Yukon. Among the coldest sites were Aishihik Airport, -70.1°F; Dawson City, -72.9°F; Haines Junction, -63.0°F; Kluane Lake, -56.0°F; Teslin, -52.1°F; Watson Lake, -67.0°F; and Whitehorse, -59.1°F.
There may have been more. On 3 February, the thermometer at Fort Selkirk, a very small community on the Yukon River, 180 kilometres east-northeast of Snag, recorded -85°F, (corrected for instrument error). This reading, however, was not considered official because the thermometer was exposed on the outside wall of a building and not housed in the standard instrument shelter. That same day at Mayo — a station about 300 kilometres northeast of Snag — the temperature apparently reached -80°F. “Apparently” because at midnight on 15 February, the station burned down, destroying the weather instruments and observation records. However, photographic evidence exists which shows Mayo’s temperature reading on that day, about -80°F, which is just marginally above the Snag low. Long-time resident and local booster, Jean Gordon, claims that while Snag may have a lower temperature extreme, Mayo, with its two schools, hotels and population of 500 people, can boast being the coldest “decent-sized” community in North America and, as a road sign entering Mayo claims, the town with the largest temperature range: a huge 177 degrees, from a maximum of 97°F to a minimum of-80°F.
How did such cold happen? As in most Arctic cold spells, weather conditions in 1946-47 were favourable for a steep temperature inversion. Inversions, a frequent feature of arctic winters, are exceptions to the general rule that temperature decreases with increasing altitude. Inversions can be produced by gravitational drainage of cold air or by radiation. In elevated terrain, the heavy, dense air sinks and slides down the mountain slopes, often pushing any warmer air aloft. The ground also grows colder by radiating heat to the cloud-free sky. In doing so, the ground readily cools the air immediately above it, especially when the skies are clear, there is unlimited visibility, and the winds are calm or light. A layer of air closest to the ground may be as much as 20° to 40° colder than the air at 1,000 metres.
In 1946-47, a strong westerly circulation across North America confined cold arctic air over Alaska and northwestern Canada for much of the winter. During this time, the cold dome of heavy, dense air over the Yukon intensified. With a continuous supply of cold air from northeastern Siberia, the cold dome over the Yukon grew in extent and severity, creating all the record lows. But a dramatic change was to occur later in February: the westerlies relaxed, the cold air spilled through to eastern North America, resulting in severe cold as far south as Florida, and brought maritime air from the Pacific to the southern Yukon where the cold broke for a few days. At Snag, the mercury even rose to a more civilized plus 45°F.
How did -81.4°F feel? Most Canadians never experience temperatures lower than -50°F. Blezard and Toole repeatedly said there was a considerable difference between -50°F and -80°F.
The following anecdotes, pieced together from station correspondence with the regional office in Edmonton that winter, as well as from recent interviews with the two observers, give us a glimpse of what life was like for the frozen 16 at Snag during the winter of 1946-47. Says Blezard:
"At 80°F below, the talking of the Indians and barking of dogs in the village could be plainly heard at the Airport four miles away. An aircraft that flew over Snag that day at 10,000 feet was first heard when over 20 miles away; and later, when overhead, still at 10,000 feet, the engine roar was deafening. It woke everyone who was sleeping at the time; because they thought the airplane was landing at the airport."
Anyone who has ever skated outside or gone for long walks in the dead of winter knows that sound carries far and clear the colder it gets. That is because, ordinarily, sound spreads obliquely upward over our heads and is therefore not heard very far away. But, in very cold, stable air, the inversion bends the sound waves back toward the earth where they tend to hug the ground. Further, audibility is improved by the absence of turbulence or wind. In the end, conversations usually heard 30 metres away can be heard more than a kilometre away if the air is clear.
There are even more extraordinary sounds: for instance, when outside, staff at Snag could not only see, but hear, their moist breath solidify to ice in a hissing or faint swishing sound. From his home in Watson Lake, Yukon, Toole recalled the experience:
“It was unique to see a vapour trail several hundred yards long pursuing one as he moved about outside. Becoming lost was of no concern. As an observer walked along the runway, each breath remained as a tiny, motionless mist behind him at head level. These patches of human breath fog remained in the still air for three to four minutes, before fading away. One observer even found such a trail still marking his path when he returned along the same path 15 minutes later.”
There were other cold-weather experiences mentioned by the observers at Snag. For days, a small fog or steam patch would appear over the sled dogs, at a height of 15 to 20 feet. It would disappear only in the warm part of the day when the temperature warmed up to 60 below. A piece of thin ice, when broken, sounded exactly like breaking glass; and a chunk of ice was so cold that, when brought into a warm room, it took five full minutes before there was any trace of moisture, even when held in the hand.
Blezard recalls antics around the camp during the cold spell:
“We threw a dish of water high into the air, just to see what would happen. Before it hit the ground, it made a hissing noise, froze and fell as tiny round pellets of ice the size of wheat kernels. Spit also froze before hitting the ground. Ice became so hard the axe rebounded from it. At such temperatures, metal snapped like ice; wood became petrified, and rubber was just like cement. The dog’s leather harness couldn’t bend or it would break.”
Toole added a few of his memories of sounds and nature during the cold snap:
“Ice in the White River about a mile east of the airport, cracked and boomed loudly, like gun fire. During the bitter cold, you would go days without seeing any wildlife, apart from ravens, rabbits, mice, snowbirds and ptarmigans. Cold air generated intense radio static much like the crackling during a thunderstorm.”
Life in the cold had its complications. Surprisingly, heating the log buildings was less of a problem that one might expect. In a memo to his superior, Dr. Tom How, officer-in-charge of the Edmonton forecast office, Toole wrote about the hardships that winter:
“With constant stoking of the furnace the temperature of the barracks remained quite comfortable. The only uncomfortably cool room in the barracks was the common room, this was due to a large hole, 8 feet by 4 feet, being in the ceiling. The hole was caused by the freezing and bursting of one of the water pipes on December 2nd. Despite promises by the RCAF at Whitehorse that a carpenter was coming up on the first available aircraft to fix the ceiling, the temporary patch, put on by two of the radio personnel and myself, remains.”
Toole wrote further:
”No provisions have been made for supplying the barracks with water for drinking or washing purposes. This, as you can see, has made it almost impossible for personnel to wash more than once a day and has terminated showers or baths. ... After seconds outdoors, nose hairs freeze rigidly and your eyes tear. Facial hair and glasses become thickly crusted with frozen breath ... you had to be careful not to inhale too deeply for fear of freezing or scalding one’s lungs. The only other discomfort caused by the cold were numerous cases of beginning frostbite, particularly the familiar ‘ping’ as the tip of one’s nose froze. One only had to remain outside for 3 or 4 minutes with face exposed before cheeks, nose and ears were frozen.”
During the extreme cold, outdoor chores had to be postponed. The weather staff felt fortunate that observing duties kept them outside only for two minutes every hour. On the other hand, the enlisted men were outside for relatively long bouts, hauling wood to keep the barracks, the garage and powerhouse warm. They had to take extra precautions to prevent throat and lung burn from over-exertion in the frigid air. Says Blezard, “It was easy to freeze your nose at -70°F without even knowing it was cold. At -30°F you feel it coming”.
Beating the “cold blues” was another challenge. Toole busied himself during the cold spell by checking his trap lines; others played cards, boxed, listened to classical music, read and talked. And the talk was about the wretched cold.
In the midst of the cold spell, there was no re-supply by RCAF planes from Whitehorse for several weeks. Blezard recalled: “All we ate was fish and bacon and eggs... there was very little meat ... we lived mostly on beans for the last five days.”
Starting machinery was also a chore. And, getting an engine started was no guarantee it could continue to run. At that temperature, the oil and the transmission fluid coagulated into something approaching a solid. Also, truck tires could splay open when they hit ruts. But the weather instruments, apart from the thermometers, all seemed to work in the cold.
How does the Snag record stand compared with the rest of the world? Being the North American record, it beats every official temperature reading in Canada and in the United States. The Snag record beat the previous lowest Canadian temperature of -77.9°F, recorded on 11 January 1911 at Fort Vermilion, Alberta (still Western Canada’s lowest official temperature, though), as well as the lowest temperature ever recorded in the United States. That was -79.8°F recorded on 23 January 1971 at Prospect Creek, Alaska, a camp along the Alaskan pipeline in the Endicott Mountains. For comparison, the table on page 33 shows official record low temperatures for the Canadian provinces and territories. Interestingly, in the Arctic Islands, the lowest temperature ever reported was -69.2°F at Lake Hazen, a special International Geophysical Year observing station, on 4 January 1958.
Unofficially, however, temperatures lower than -81°F have been reported. On 7 January 1982, two temporary sites near Fort Nelson, in northeastern British Columbia, reported temperatures of-96°F and -92°F, in connection with a permafrost study; while the temperature at Fort Nelson airport weather station was -43.6°F. The extreme temperatures were attributed to intense cold air in mountain valleys during a long, cold, clear night.
Will Snag remain North America’s cold spot? Only time will tell. But one thing is for certain, weather observers will no longer have to mark thermometer sheaths when temperatures fall below -80°F. Now, all official alcohol thermometers in Canada have markings to -94°F, a thermometer redesign due to the coldest day in Canadian history.
David W. Phillips is Senior Climatologist, Environment Canada, Downsview, Ontario. He has written several publications on the climate of Canada and frequently appears as a commentator on Canadian radio and television. This article first appeared in the February-March 1997 issue of The Beaver magazine.
by Peter McGuigan
Rear Admiral Edward Griffiths must have been amazed. His flagship, Akbar, left the tropical warmth of Bermuda about June 1, 1816, to sail to Halifax, the major British naval station in North America. As he left the Gulf Stream, a cold rain fell and a thick fog appeared, which was not that unusual. But the next day, Friday, June 7, as Akbar approached Nova Scotia, the temperature fell sharply — and were those snow flurries in the biting wind? Apparently so. Saturday, as the cold ship struggled into Halifax, there was “no improvement in the weather.” At least she received the salute from George’s Island.
The same day. Lady Katherine, the wife of Nova Scotia’s lieutenant governor. Sir John Sherbrooke, witnessed Akbar‘s arrival from Government House. She reported in her June 7 diary entry that as she walked in the garden with a friend, “It was almost as cold as winter.” Also, there had been “a snow.” The weather June 8 was no better, but at least there did not seem to be any more of the white stuff. On Sunday, when the Sherbrookes attended St. Paul’s Anglican Church, the weather was “rather more favourable,” and by the end of June summer had arrived.
The Acadian Recorder of June 8 commented on this exceptional weather: “Nothing can be more unpromising than our prospects; perhaps there never was a season so backward, such a succession of unfavourable weather, so scanty a shew of vegetation on the beginning of June.” There was also intelligence from the United States telling of “deplorable accounts of suffering from want of rain-in many parts the Wheat has perished and the ground has been again ploughed and sown with other seeds.”_ The June 10 edition of the Montreal Gazette stated that “the season has been retarded to a later period than remembered by the oldest inhabitant.” It continued, “We had a little snow on Saturday, yesterday was more mild and the sun had the influence in the beginning of May, but it was very cold during the night. Serious apprehensions are to be formed of our ensuing crop.”
In the meantime, Sir John Sherbrooke had been promoted to governor-in-chief of British North America. The Sherbrookes left Halifax on June 28 aboard HMS Niger for Quebec City. Their voyage started with some difficulty due to little wind, but by July 2 they were sailing past Torbay in eastern Nova Scotia. Lady Sherbrooke reported that the morning was “very cold.” However, the next day as they passed northwestern Prince Edward Island, there was a fine sailing breeze.
Then, on July 6, the weather began to deteriorate. That day featured “a very hard rain,” followed by “a very windy evening.” The next day, as the ship crept past Ile du Bic in the lower Saint Lawrence River, “the wind became extremely cold and small flakes of snow were mixed with the rain.” The situation was similar the next day, so Lady Sherbrooke spent the day in her cabin. Finally, on July 12, when the party reached Quebec City, the weather started to improve. She reported their second day “very hot.”
Lady Sherbrooke had experienced the first two cold waves. The first had deposited snow as far south as the northern border of Massachusetts and the second caused a near frost as far south as Virginia. Drought also affected the country at least as far west as the Selkirk settlement in the Red River Valley, where the inhabitants were threatened with starvation. Similar cold gripped Europe, reducing the grape crop and severely damaging the wheat.
Lady Sherbrooke discontinued her diary from August 24 to September 19 when she was touring Upper Canada with her husband. In the meantime, there were two more cold waves, August 21 and August 30. One of her last entries noted that August 21 was “a very cold morning,” but did not mention snow. However, neither wave seems to have affected southern Quebec or Nova Scotia much, although in New England they were severe for the corn.
These better local conditions are borne out by the Acadian Recorder of September 14, which reported, “Oats of this year’s growth made their appearance in our market this morning. They were raised by Mr. Dawson on a farm near the North-West Arm; and are of excellent quality.”
However, further north the damage had been done. On July 15, 1816, the Montreal Gazette printed the proclamation of Major-General John Wilson, acting administrator of Lower Canada. It forbade “exportation of Wheat, Flour, Biscuit, Beans, Peas, Barley, and Grain until the 1oth day of September next ensuing.” In November, Prince Edward Island did the same, prohibiting “the exportation of grain and all sorts of provisions for a space of three months.” Nova Scotia and New Brunswick followed suit, and six hundred would-be immigrants were turned away from St. John’s, Newfoundland, due to lack of food in the town.
All summer the editor of the Gazette worried about the food shortage in Quebec. On July 22, he stated that the recently announced importation of grain, flour, etc., from the United States would “together with the approaching harvest soon relieve the country from the scarcity of bread.” Then, on November 4, after exaggerating the prospects of the European harvest, he wrote, “Such abundance abroad will leave most of the grain in our states, except what may find its way to Canada.” He doesn’t seem to have been aware of the shortage in Connecticut announced in the August 26 Gazette.
The situation continued to deteriorate. On November 11, the Gazette reported distress in the interior of Quebec and, three weeks later, the crop failure in the “Old Country.” In Quebec, “several parishes on the interior are so far in want as to create the most serious alarms. In need of almost immediate assistance, we find a part of the Bay St. Paul, Les Éboulements, St. André, Caconab and Rimouskie [sic].” Help seems to have arrived by 1817 when the chief problem appeared to be high prices for grains.
Later the search for causes began. In a 1963 article, the Halifax Chronicle Herald referred to talk during the episode of the sun cooling, and fear of no more summer, and God punishing people for deserting their farms for lucrative seaport jobs during the War of 1812.
More realistic was the report of Sir Thomas Stamford Raffles. On April 5, 1815, with Napoleon loose again in a very tense Europe, Raffles was in Batavia (Jakarta), Dutch East Indies. He had just driven out the Corsican’s appointee when volcanic ash began to fall. Further east the sky became so dark as to be a realization of Milton’s “darkness visible.” The authorities sent a ship to investigate and learned that the great volcano Tambora was in full and terrifying eruption. Twelve thousand died. Raffles reported to the Natural History Society in Batavia that September, but the eruption apparently was seen as an isolated, although sensational, incident.
Another volcanic explosion in the Dutch East Indies sixty-seven years later became much better known. In 1883 Krakatoa blew up, its dust causing spectacular sunsets around the world. It was the first such case closely studied, and comparisons began to be made to Tambora. Scientists determined that the explosion of Tambora was ten times Krakatoa’s — in fact, the most powerful volcanic eruption in ten thousand years.
If Krakatoa caused a 15 to 20 percent drop in sunlight, could Tambora not have caused a much greater cooling? Apparently so. Then, in 1920, W.J. Humphries of the U.S. Weather Bureau published Physics of the Air. He looked at both sunspot and temperature records and concluded that “It appears that the dust in our atmosphere, and not the condition of the sun, is an important, if not the controlling factor in determining the great change in insolation at the surface of the Earth.”
Since then much more data have become available, including that from Mount Agung’s eruption in 1963. Located near Tambora, this burst was followed by a drop of about 0.2°c in global temperatures, with recovery taking several years. In northern regions the decrease was 0.6°c. With Tambora estimated to have created four times as much dust, the northern regions should have dropped about 2.4°c. for up to two years, which is close to nineteenth-century records kept at New Haven, Connecticut and Geneva, Switzerland. Although there are a few other explanations, such as a random combination of meteorological events, the tremendous explosion of Tambora is the most likely source of a year of misery, fear, and near-starvation in the Northern Hemisphere. Given that the 1780-1820 period was already cool, a reduction in sunlight could have been enough to cause the year without a summer.
Meanwhile, on the Prairies
For the beleaguered Red River colonists, who were having trouble becoming self-sufficient in a landscape harsh and alien to them, the summer of 1816 turned into the nadir of their New World experience. On June 19, simmering tensions between the Hudson’s Bay Company and the North West Company exploded in a battle at Seven Oaks, which saw twenty-one men die and shattered the confidence of the Scottish settlers, who were caught in the hatred between the rival fur-trade companies and were targets of Métis animosity. Now the weather would not cooperate. Since their arrival near the forks of the Red and Assiniboine rivers in 1812, they had had trouble making the most of the region’s fertility. The 1812 harvest, for instance, was so poor that they were forced to journey 100 kilometres south to the better-supplied post at Pembina under the friendly guidance of Peguis, chief of the Ojibway. In 1813, they again wintered in Pembina.
In 1816, Peguis came to their rescue once more. This time he took the struggling settlers to his village at Netley Creek, sixty kilometres north of present-day Winnipeg. They were not to know what global conditions were making their sojourn so fraught, but in 1819 HBC trader and Red River surveyor Peter Fidler observed:
Within these last 3 years the climate seems to be greatly changed the summers being so backward with very little rain & even snow in Winter much less than usual and the ground parched tip that all kinds of grass is very thin & short & most all the small creeks that flowed with plentiful streams all summer have entirely dried up after the snow melted away in the spring. ... Wheat, Barley, & potatoes have been cultivated here a few years back to a considerable extent last summer a considerable quantity was sown & planted of the kinds above mentioned but owing to the very dryness of the season not even a single stalk was reaped or potatoes taken up and here before when showery summers the wheat would produce above 40 Barley 45 and the potatoes 50 fold. Even all the smaller Kinds of vegetables failed from the same cause but the first week in Augt last clouds of Grasshoppers came & destroyed what little barley especially had escaped the drought.
The world the Selkirk settlers knew was a cooler one than our own. They were living in the Little Ice Age, the interval between the 1450 and 1850 when global temperatures were between 1.0 and 2.0°c cooler than they are now. Within that, the settlers were living in what some climatologists say was a cooling trend between 1809 and 1820. And in the middle of that came the 1815 eruption of Tambora. For settlers living on the edge of existence on the central North American plains, its effects were very nearly the last straw.
Peter McGuigan is a Halifax writer. This article originally appeared in the June/July 2003 issue of The Beaver.
et cetera
Volcano Weather: The Story of 1816, The Year Without a Summer by Henry Stommel and Elizabeth Stommel. Seven Seas Press, Newport, Rhode Island, 1983.
A web history of the year without summer in eastern Canada and the U.S. may be found on The Weather Doctor website.
by Martin J. Bailey
On July 15, 1872. John Macoun, a forty-one-year-old Irish-born botanist, was travelling to Lake Superior from Toronto by boat intending to study the plants of the Great Lakes region. By chance, he met Sandford Fleming, chief engineer of a proposed new railway from Montreal to the Pacific coast, who invited him to join his surveying party, which was travelling west across the North-West Territories and through British Columbia. Macoun — who, though self-taught, had become chair of the natural history department of Albert College, Belleville — would act as the party's botanist. The accidental meeting proved providential. Between 1872 and 1881, Macoun would take part in five surveys of western Canada under Fleming's aegis. His analysis of the prairie landscape and his enthusiasm for its potential would help shape the course of the railway and in doing so determine the shape of the country.
Through the summer of 1872, Macoun travelled from Bed River northwest to the Peace River district, noting plant life, soil conditions, and climate. At Oak Point on the east shore of Lake Manitoba, he saw in one day over four hundred different plant it species, a number and variety greater than that of Ontario and the Maritimes where the soil, he concluded, was similar. He travelled to Fort Ellice near the confluence of the Assiniboine and Qu'Appelle Rivers, just east of the present-day Manitoba-Saskatchewan border, over wet and muddy ground. It was “a perfect garden with rich soil and great numbers of autumn flowers,” he wrote. Then he proceeded through the Qu'Appelle Valley to the Touchwood Hills, about a hundred kilometres north of present-day' Regina. “Still we fell that there was no sign of want of fertility. All the land was good.”
Macoun travelled through an area two earlier surveyor-explorers, John Palliser and Henry Youle Hind. had termed the “fertile belt,” the outer rim of a triangle the base of which stretched along the forty-ninth parallel from Red River in the east to the Alberta foothills in the west and the apex of which was the Battle River watershed in northwestern Saskatchewan. A mix of trees and open spaces — sometimes called transitional parkland — the area bordering the outer rim was deemed suitable for agriculture. The inner body of the triangle, which was treeless grassland, was, according to Palliser and Hind, semi-arid — an extension of the Great American Desert to the south, and thus a barrier to cultivation and settlement. But Macoun, when his first prairie sojourn ended in September 1872, questioned his predecessors' conclusions. Was the fertile belt a narrow band or did it encompass all land between the North and South Saskatchewan, and possibly more?
It was not an academic question. By the 1870s, vital economic and political interests depended on the nature of Canada’s North-West Territories, which then encompassed all of what would become Saskatchewan and Alberta and most of the territory later assigned to Manitoba. It was a condition of British Columbia's entry into Confederation in 1871 that a transcontinental railway be started within two years and completed within ten. Settlement of the West, too, was part of governmental nation-building strategies of the day, and settlement would naturally follow a rail line wherever it was built. What route, then, would those rails take through this still largely unknown territory? For government and business, and for the settlers who would follow, the answer had enormous consequences. Fortunes could be lost and political careers ruined if the country was different than what it was expected to be.
Fifteen years before Macoun, John Palliser led the first scientific expedition into the interior of British North America. The Irish-born sportsman and gentleman explorer, who had become enamoured of the prairies after a nearly year-long hunting expedition in the Missouri country between 1847 and 1848, proposed a journey along the unsurveyed American border to the Royal Geographic Society. The society, however, expanded the proposal to include astronomy, zoology, botany, geology, paleontology, climatology, and geography, with funding from the British government, which needed information to decide the future of Hudson's Bay Company territories.
In May 1857, Palliser left England accompanied by such experts as botanist Eugène Bourgeau, geologist and naturalist James Hector, and mathematician and astronomer John Sullivan. Travelling through the U.S., the expedition arrived at the edge of the Great Plains, a vast sea of grass, in July. Within a month they had reached the Pembina River on what is today the Manitoba—North Dakota border. Most of the grass had been eaten by grasshoppers. By September, having pressed on through the southeast corner of present-day Saskatchewan to the Qu’Appelle Valley, they reached the Regina Plains. They saw a vast emptiness as far as the eye could see. Continuing northwest to the high banks of the South Saskatchewan River near the present-day town of Outlook, they continued to note dry and empty land. After overwintering at Fort Carlton, situated in parkland among grasses and aspen, they headed west over prairie stripped bare by fires and grazing buffalo. The summer of 1858 was spent exploring the prairie edge at the Rocky Mountains. Starting from Fort Edmonton, Palliser spent 1859 travelling the western portion of the territory that came to be named for him — Palliser's Triangle, the grasslands south of the parkland region. Good pasture and fresh water they could only find in the Hand Hills east of the Red Deer River, where Drumheller is today, before ending their odyssey in July in the oasis of the Cypress Hills.
After three years observing the climate and natural vegetation of midcontinental British North America, Palliser concluded that the grasslands were unfit for cultivation or settlement. In this he was supported by Henry Youle Hind, a professor of chemistry at Toronto's Trinity College, who in 1857 and 1858 similarly travelled the North-West Territories on a scientific expedition on behalf of the Canadian government (although Hind was more optimistic about the agricultural possibilities of the parkland region). Palliser's view became the prevailing orthodoxy.
John Macoun made four more expeditions in the West, collecting plant and animal species widely and meticulously. With each trip he became more convinced that Palliser’s and Hind’s conclusions about the grasslands were pessimistic, and said so with great enthusiasm. However, he didn't visit the southern prairie until his third trip, in 1879, when he was assigned by the Conservative government (returned to power in 1878 after a five-year hiatus) to explore the district south of the Carlton trail between Winnipeg and Edmonton and north of the fifty-first parallel. Among his instructions was one to leave the Carlton Trail at the 102nd meridian and bear northwest for Long Lake (Last Mountain Lake), north of present-day Regina. The marker was where Palliser stated the “desert” began: the 300-kilometre distance to Long Lake was roughly parallel to one of the sides of Palliser's Triangle. Macoun was impressed with what he saw. “A most wonderful country full of flowers and copse-wood and small streams,” he wrote. At Long Lake he gathered cartloads of Lycoperdon — puffball mushrooms that thrive after heavy rains or during damp years. He ambled on, zigzagging through the grasslands of the western interior for the rest of the summer. After five months in the field he concluded that between the forty-ninth and fifty-seventh parallels at least 150 million acres of land could be put to the plough or used for raising livestock.
The next year he returned for a fourth expedition, this time taking in areas south of the Qu’Appelle and South Saskatchewan Rivers. All did not go well at first. From Moose Mountain to the Missouri Couteau to the Cypress Hills — approximately the breadth of modern Saskatchewan — he crossed dry, parched land. It was only when he found a homesteader growing an abundant crop of wheat and potatoes by the present-day Saskatchewan-Alberta border did he recover his usual optimism. In the same field were cacti and sagebrush. This 1880 expedition confirmed for him what he had concluded from his field work a year earlier: it was a matter of surface cover, not the climate, that gave the impression that the vast treeless prairie was unsuited to agriculture. In sum, he wrote: “We have ... a dry, clear, cold winter, a dry spring with bright sunshine; a warm summer with an abundance of rain. ... A dry serene autumn ... an atmosphere like this, with a soil of abounding fertility extending to a region on almost boundless extent.”
In 1857 John Palliser looked over the Canadian plains and saw a desert. Through the 1870s John Macoun looked over the same landscape and saw Eden. What accounts for the difference in perception? The answer in large part lies with the type of weather each encountered. Macoun was lucky to be able to observe the prairies when it was experiencing the wettest decade in the nineteenth century. Palliser studied the landscape under normal-to-dry conditions. (And both extrapolated from too small a sample over too short a time.) Unknown to Macoun, continental North America in the late 1870s was experiencing particularly strong effects of El Nino, the warming of the cool Humboldt ocean current off the western coast of South America that occurs every four to twelve years. Milder, wetter weather on the prairies was the net result.
The Humboldt current was named for Alexander von Humboldt, a nineteenth-century Prussian nobleman and naturalist with a passionate interest in scientific exploration and with the money to finance it. Best known for his 1802 work on the oceanic current that bears his name, he also proposed the principle of continentality, which states that the interiors of continents have more extreme climates due to a lack of moderating influence from the ocean. Von Humboldt, a famous intellect of his day, was the first to consider nature in a geographic perspective. In his monumental 1845 work on physical geography, Cosmos, he outlined the relationship between climate and terrain and the range and distribution of plant and animal life. Macoun was a careful reader of Cosmos and it influenced his methods in the field. For instance, finding plant species thriving around Edmonton and along the Peace River that matched those growing in Ontario farming districts supported his conviction that the Canadian plains were well-suited to “the civilizing influence of the plough.”
Macoun's optimistic assessment of the prairies' potential for agriculture and settlement, which virtually contradicted Palliser and Hind, dovetailed with Ottawa's own hopes for regional expansion. His findings became less the subject of dispassionate scientific debate and more the fodder of partisan politics. Some were skeptical: Alexander Mackenzie, Liberal prime minister from 1873 to 1878, judged Macoun's estimates overgenerous, and when he passed into Opposition was berated by Macoun from the visitors’ gallery of the House of Commons for attacking the government on the question of prairie soil. But the new Conservative government found in Macoun the ideal man to provide the agricultural rationale for its western strategy. To attract a private builder for the Pacific railway, the government planned to offer a large western land grant, which confirmation of fertile land would serve. On the basis of Macoun’s 1879 field studies, the government officially endorsed the Yellowhead route through the parklands of the northern prairies for the railway, which had been Sandford Fleming's recommendation through both Liberal and Conservative administrations. Macoun’s 1880 expedition banished any lingering doubts about the value of the prairie region. When the government passed into law the railway land grant in February 1881, after reaching an agreement with a private syndicate to build the Canadian Pacific Railway, the fertile belt (25 million acres of which the CPR received) was described as “land lying between parallels 49 and 57 degrees north latitude,” which incorporated all of the land Palliser had dismissed as arid.
In the spring of 1881, however, the syndicate abruptly decided to reroute the main line through the southern grasslands, the route we know today. Shortening the route was one of the reasons given. Another was eliminating competition from American-based railways who might send feeder lines into the southern prairie and siphon off business if the route ran too far north. But the impediment — that the land the rail line would pass through was almost desert — had vanished with Macoun's reports.
And thus was the mould and pattern of western Canada determined. If the route had followed Fleming's direction through the parkland region, places like Regina and Calgary would be negligible in size and importance, and hundreds of towns and villages that formed around the focus of the railway station would not exist. Settlement would have begun farther north and western Canada’s larger cities would have developed there.
In the summers of 1998, 1999, and 2000, plants, birds, and butterflies that had never been seen before in the dry south of Saskatchewan were identified and collected — big bluestem grass, usually found in Manitoba where there is more rain; morel mushrooms, a gourmet favourite, found normally in forests and the damp month of May; regal fritillary, an endangered butterfly of wet meadows and moist plains; and dickcissels, a prairie grass bird not seen in numbers for more than sixty years. An El Niño cycle that began in 1997 brought more rain to southern Saskatchewan than normal. If John Macoun had ventured into the area in those years, he would likely have come to conclusions similar to the ones he recorded in his reports to Ottawa in the 1870s.
If he had ventured into southern Saskatchewan in the 1930s, however, he might have agreed with Palliser that the grasslands were an extension of the Great American Desert. Even in the 1880s, the CPR tacitly discredited Macoun’s enthusiastic claims about the extent of arable land on the prairies by refusing to accept a significant portion of the land set aside for it in the seventy-seven-kilometre-wide swath along the railway route, and instead opting for substitute acreage in the Fertile Belt, the original corridor for the rails. In 1883, the dry cycle returned and lasted for a decade. Farms were abandoned and immigration declined. Ottawa, wondering about the future of the West, sent forth Macoun, now Dominion botanist with the Geological Survey' of Canada, one more time. As luck would have it, he arrived just as a wet cycle returned. Through the nineties and well into the turn of the twentieth century, the prairies would fill with immigrants, and the area would turn into the breadbasket of the world. Farming techniques imported from Ontario and Europe would be modified to accommodate prairie soil and climate. New plants would be introduced that could withstand the rigours of dry land. But then would come the dustbowl of the Great Depression.
Palliser’s and Macoun's observations about the climate and the land remain controversial. What will be the ultimate fate of the northern plains of North America? Climate change may play a role. So, too, may politics and economics — and sometimes they are even more fickle than the weather.
Martin J. Bailey is a self-taught naturalist living in Weyburn, Saskatchewan. This article originally appeared in the October/November 2001 issue of The Beaver.
et cetera
The Palliser Expedition: The Dramatic Story of Western Canadian Exploration 1857-1860 by Irene M. Spry. Fifth House Publishers, Calgary, 1995.
The Field Naturalist: John Macoun, The Geological Survey, and Natural Science by W.A. Waiser. University of Toronto Press, Toronto, 1989.
by Joe Martin
People have been doing business in Canada for a long time. Even before contact with Europeans, Aboriginal nations had vast trading networks stretching across North America.
Then the Europeans arrived. Driven by visions of wealth, they fished off the Grand Banks, they traded for furs with First Nations, and they explored icebound polar seas for what they hoped was a quick trade route to the riches of the Orient. These early adventurers could not do these things with empty pockets; they required wealthy backers willing to put their money into high-risk ventures. The history of Canada is as much about entrepreneurs, bankers, and businessmen as it is about explorers, soldiers, and settlers.
In this issue of Canada’s History we explore the business side of Canada’s development as a nation. Who started the first bank, the first stock market? How did the rules of international trade evolve? Why was wheat, for a time, the linchpin of Canada’s economy?
Joe Martin, the director of Canadian business history at the University of Toronto’s Rotman School of Management, helps answer these questions by examining Canada’s top ten historically significant business events. These gamechanging moments — which are commemorated in a mural at Brookfield Place in Toronto — were chosen by Martin and a panel of business leaders that included Purdy Crawford, William Dimma, Hal Jackman, and Lynton "Red” Wilson.
Knowledge of Canada’s business past brings greater understanding to the somewhat breathtaking events taking place today As Martin points out, Canada’s place in the world is changing as the planet moves towards a borderless globalized economy.
1. 1670 - The incorporation of the Hudson’s Bay Company
North America’s oldest corporation got its start when two French-Canadian coureurs de bois — Pierre-Esprit Radis-son and Médard Chouart, Sieur des Groseilliers — turned their backs on New France after being fined for their trading exploits. The pair travelled to London to seek help from the English and found a receptive audience in the court of King Charles II.
The king’s cousin, Prince Rupert, and other courtier investors outfitted two ships that were to sail to Hudson Bay in 1668. The Eaglet was forced back by heavy seas, but the Nonsuch made it and returned to London the following year laden with furs.
On May 2, 1670, the king granted a royal charter to the Governor and Company of Adventurers of England Trading into Hudson’s Bay Prince Rupert became the company’s first governor, and the chartered territory was called Rupert’s Land. The charter awarded the company the sole rights of trade and commerce in the Hudson Bay drainage basin, a vast area of 3.8 million square kilometres, forty percent of present-day Canada.
In its early years, the company engaged in armed struggles with the French. The conflicts left the company in a perilous state, and no dividends were paid for two and a half decades. Thereafter the company had a virtual monopoly on the British North American fur trade, although it continued to face competitive challenges.
As the nineteenth century progressed, the company became one of the most important in all of Canada, but there were changes afoot. In 1863, the International Financial Society, a British investment group, acquired the company. This marked a shift away from the fur trade into real estate as the West began opening up to settlement.
In 1869, the newly created Dominion of Canada purchased Rupert’s Land for £300,000 in what was, in terms of land area, the largest real estate transaction in history. The purchase increased the size of Canada sixfold. Meanwhile, the HBC retained some prime farmland in the region and held on to its successful fur-trading posts.
Over the years, the company diversified and became a key player in the retail scene. In the latter part of the twentieth century the Bay expanded eastward from its Winnipeg base, acquiring major retailers in Montreal and Toronto, including Zellers and Simpsons.
More recently North Carolina-based Maple Leaf Heritage Investments purchased the Bay in 2006. Two years later, it was sold to NRDC Equity Partners, a private equity firm in New York. Then, in 2011, Minneapolis-based retail chain Target purchased the leases of 220 Zellers store locations in Canada.
Today the Hudson’s Bay Company remains one of Canada’s pre-eminent retail chains. And, as North America’s oldest corporation, it has a rich legacy that includes opening up much of Canada’s North and West to trade and commerce. Important Canadian cities such as Winnipeg, Edmonton, and Victoria were built on the sites of what once were Hudson’s Bay forts.
2. 1817 – The launch of Canada’s first bank
At the beginning of the nineteenth century, the provinces of Canada did not have a well-functioning financial system. As a consequence, Montreal merchants had great difficulty in financing their exports to Britain while paying for imports. Therefore, a market developed in promissory notes.
There were a number of attempts to establish banks. The first to succeed was the Bank of Montreal, incorporated by John Gray and other prominent Montreal businessmen in 1817. The end of the War of 1812 was a factor because during the war, army bills were in wide circulation and businesses became accustomed to the ease of using paper currency
The bank’s charter, issued in 1822. was modelled on that of the First Bank of the United States. It included restrictions on share ownership and did not permit the bank to undertake any other business activities. The paid-in capital had to be in specie — meaning in coin, often Spanish gold doubloons, rather than paper money.
Another critical feature of the charter was that it was limited to ten years. Because of the shortage of capital in Canada, most of the bank’s financing came from wealthy Americans. In the early years, the bank enjoyed the privilege of being the exclusive banker to the government. It lost no time opening branches in Kingston and Quebec City.
By the time of Confederation, the Bank of Montreal was by far the largest in Canada, holding twenty-five percent of all bank assets.
When it came time to pass a Bank Act for the new Dominion of Canada, the Bank of Montreal attempted unsuccessfully to have its role be like that of the Bank of England, with the other banks restricted to a minor role as local banks.
As the twentieth century progressed, the bank shifted many of its functions to Toronto. In 1984, the bank moved into the U.S. market, acquiring the Harris Bank in Chicago. In 1998, the Bank of Montreal and the Royal Bank of Canada tried to merge, but the federal government blocked that move.
In late 2010, the bank acquired a major Wisconsin bank, which doubled its presence in the important U.S. market. With that acquisition, the Bank of Montreal is now not only one of the big five banks in Canada but also the tenth-largest commercial bank in North America.
As the largest bank in the country for the first century of its existence, the Bank of Montreal had a profound influence on government financial policy.
3. 1874 - The founding of the Montreal Stock Exchange
The roots of Canada’s first stock exchange go back to 1832, when a group of Montreal businessmen engaged in informal stock trading at the Exchange Coffee House. The formation of a brokers’ association followed in 1849.
A small group under the leadership of stockbroker Dugald Lorn MacDougall created the Montreal Stock Exchange, which was incorporated in 1874. The exchange grew rapidly, broadening from trading in railway and bank stocks to public utilities, mining, and the newly emerging manufacturing sector. Montreal’s St. James Street (rue Saint-Jaques today) — where much of the trading occurred — became the Wall Street of Canada. In 1904, the exchange moved into its own building at 453 St. Francois-Xavier Street — now the Centaur Theatre.
The Montreal exchange was hard hit by the economic turbulence of the first decade of the twentieth century, particularly during the 1907 credit crisis, when share volumes declined by nearly sixty percent. However, by 1909, annual volume exceeded 3.3 million shares.
The Great Depression changed everything. Trading volumes in Montreal declined by nearly ninety percent between 1929 and 1932. The Toronto Stock Exchange (TSE) also suffered but emerged from the debacle slightly larger than Montreal, something that would have been difficult to imagine in the 1920s. As the twentieth century progressed, Toronto eclipsed Montreal as the financial and commercial capital of Canada.
The year 1999 was momentous for stock exchanges in Canada. Montreal celebrated its 125th anniversary and became Canada’s financial derivatives exchange. At the same time, through a realignment plan, the TSE became Canada’s sole exchange for the trading of senior equities, and the Vancouver and Alberta stock exchanges merged to form the Canadian Venture Exchange.
The founding of the Montreal Stock Exchange was an important step in the evolution of capitalism in Canada. Canada’s exchanges have since moved towards being part of a much larger international body, as the globalization of world capital markets continues.
4. 1879 - The inception of a truly Canadian economy
4 The National Policy was the most significant economic policy in Canadian history in that it committed the country to an east-west economic structure that resisted the pull of the United States. Sir John A. Macdonald designed the policy as he prepared for a federal election that would see him return to power in 1878.
The National Policy consisted of three interrelated parts: the settlement of the West; the building of a transcontinental railway; and the adoption of a protective tariff. Despite a change in government in 1896, the policy was continued and lasted essentially until the 1989 Free Trade Agreement with the United States.
The requirements for the first part of the National Policy — western settlement — were already in place. Land was available as a result of the purchase of Rupert’s Land from the Hudson’s Bay Company in 1869. And the 1872 Dominion Lands Act set the conditions for offering free land to settlers.
A transcontinental railway — which British Columbia had set as a condition for joining Confederation in 1871 — was needed to settle the lands. Attempts to build an east-west rail link started in the 1870s, but little progress had been made. The third part of the National Policy — a protective tariff to build up domestic industry — was a new initiative.
Once back in power, Macdonald moved quickly on both the railway and the tariff. In 1879, tariffs were raised to thirty-five percent on manufactured imports and were imposed on an expanded list of products.
While successful in building up domestic industry, the policy also led large American corporations to establish branch plants in Canada in order to avoid the tariff. The question of free trade versus protectionism continued to be contentious in Canada well into the twentieth century.
Meanwhile, the railway became a reality. The Canadian Pacific Railway Company (CPR) was incorporated in 1881. After a flurry of track-building activity over thousands of kilometres of difficult terrain, the last spike was pounded in 1885. The CPR became a highly successful company — by the beginning of the twentieth century it was by far Canada’s biggest corporation.
The National Policy had far-reaching effects, resulting in massive investment, immigration, and economic growth. Classical economists criticized it for driving up costs and insulating Canadian businesses behind a tariff wall. However, its principal legacy was to cement Canada’s westward territorial expansion and to create an East-West economy.
5. 1896 - The beginning of the wheat boom era
From 1896 to 1913, Canada experienced an extraordinary period of economic growth. This period is commonly referred to as the wheat boom era.
In the decade prior to 1896, the Canadian economy was stagnant. However, a technological innovation known as the Hungarian milling process would change Canada’s fortunes. The system was the most significant milling innovation in centuries and was a necessary precondition for the Canadian wheat boom because it improved the milling of hard wheat, which grew well on the Canadian prairies.
The leaders in adapting the improved milling process in Canada were the Ogilvie brothers of Montreal. They moved into Manitoba, building a mill in Winnipeg in 1882 and eventually dominating the grain trade of Western Canada.
By the mid-1890s, No. 1 Manitoba hard wheat had developed an excellent international reputation for milling into flour. This marked a revolution in thinking, for the quality of prairie wheat had previously been regarded with suspicion.
This development, combined with the end of free land in the United States and a concentrated effort to attract settlers to Canada, finally resulted in the settlement of the Canadian West. The results were stunning — settlers flocked to the West from Ontario, the United Kingdom, the United States, and Europe. In the first decade of the twentieth century, Canada’s population increased by 1.9 million people — with nearly half of the increase occurring in the West.
While people were pouring into the Prairies, the economy boomed — GDP per capita nearly doubled. That’s not to say there were no bad years — the 1907 credit crisis, for instance, contributed to one of the worst economic years in Canadian history. Yet wheat was king. The introduction of early maturing Marquis wheat in 1907 — developed by Charles Saunders, director of the Experimental Farms Service — helped make wheat Canada’s main export, surpassing lumber.
Even post-1913, when manufacturing began to surpass agriculture in terms of economic importance, wheat exports remained important. In the late 1950s and early 1960s, wheat sales to China marked a first step in the growth of cultural ties between the two countries. Today, Canadian wheat is sold throughout the world.
The wheat economy had a big impact on Canada, drawing tens of thousands of people to the Prairie region and contributing immensely to the economy.
6. 1934 - The creation of Canada’s central bank
The creation of the Bank of Canada was probably the most important public policy initiative of the first half of the twentieth century. The central bank was formed in 1934 in reaction to the Great Depression, when the necessity for direct government control over monetary policy became apparent.
The idea of a ‘big government bank” was first advocated in Parliament in 1913 by independent MP William F. Maclean. The topic was revisited in 1919, when Finance Minister William Thomas White asked Canada’s bankers for recommendations on how to establish one. However, the Canadian Bankers Association opposed the idea.
The western Progressive Party included a central bank as part of its party platform in 1925. By the 1930 election, with the economy dominating political debate, the idea re-emerged.
In 1933, during the fourth year of the Depression, Prime Minister Richard Bennett established a Royal Commission on Banking headed by Scottish jurist Hugh Macmillan. Within two weeks of hearing its final submission, it formally recommended the creation of the Bank of Canada. The new bank would regulate the volume of credit, cooperate with other nations, and issue tender.
Bill 19 to create a privately owned central bank was introduced in February 1934. In the ensuing debate, the prime minister reminded members of the banking community who continued to oppose the central bank that his government was not under their control. In 1938, a new government nationalized the institution, and it remains that way today.
Initially the Bank of Canada served more as a financial advisor to the federal government than as a decider of monetary policy. In its first twenty years, interest rates were changed only twice.
Over the years, the bank has evolved. In 1991, it became the world’s second central bank to set a target for inflation. Today the Bank of Canada is responsible for price stability, regulates the level of inflation by controlling money supplies by means of monetary policy, and plays a vital role in the operation of the economy.
The Bank of Canada Act has been amended numerous times, but the wording of its preamble remains the same as it was in 1934. It says the bank exists "to regulate credit and currency in the best interests of the economic life of the nation.
7. 1947 - The discovery of oil at Leduc, Alberta
The invention of the automobile, with its thirst for petroleum products, resulted in a great transformation of Canada’s economy in the twentieth century. Yet in spite of the fact that Canada was home to the world’s first commercial oil well — at Oil Springs, Ontario, in 1858 — and had the largest oil well in the British Empire — Turner Valley, Alberta, discovered in 1914 — Canada remained a net importer of oil until mid-century.
That started to change on February 13, 1947, when, after 133 consecutive dry holes, Imperial Oil struck it rich at Leduc, Alberta. So important was the find that the Canadian oil industry uses it to reference time — "before Leduc" and "after Leduc." Leduc ushered in Alberta’s golden age of oil.
The Leduc field was estimated to possess two hundred million barrels of oil — a huge find by Canadian standards. Leduc was soon dwarfed by even larger discoveries. Five years after Leduc, oil production equalled coal production in Canada. By 1955, oil was three times greater than coal.
After Leduc, Imperial Oil — a Canadian company established in 1880 — sold its stake in its South American subsidiary International Petroleum, even though the subsidiary had ten times more production than the company had in Canada. Imperial did this to focus on its aggressive oil-finding efforts in Western Canada as well as to build refineries and pipelines.
Imperial Oil was not alone. Massive foreign direct investment and expertise came into Canada after Leduc. Most of the more than $2 billion in capital that had flowed into the Western Canadian oil patch by 1954 came from big international oil companies. Between 1947 and 1956, the capital employed in Canada’s oil and gas sector was ten times the amount invested during the entire period between the Turner Valley discovery in 1914 and the Leduc strike in 1947.
The discovery at Leduc marked a historic shift from coal to oil as the principal fuel supply of Canada, just as, fifty years earlier, there had been a major shift from wood to coal. Within five years, Canada moved from importing ninety percent of its oil requirements to being a net exporter. Today, Canada is the second-largest gas exporter in the world and by far the major exporter of oil to the United States.
8. 1965 - The signing of the Auto Pact
The arrival of the automobile in the early twentieth century introduced a new dimension to trade relations between Canada and the United States. Originally, tariffs on automobiles were the same as those placed on horse-drawn carriages and wagons. But this market protection was to prove counter-productive for Canada, as car-making became one of the most important industries in twentieth-century Canada.
By 1960, Canada was running a large trade deficit with the United State. The main reason was a trade imbalance in the auto sector. This led to the appointment of a Royal Commission, which concluded that the future lay in narrowing Canadian lines of production and increasing exports.
In January 1965, Prime Minister Lester Pearson and American President Lyndon Johnson signed the Canada-U.S. Automotive Products Trade Agreement — commonly known as the Auto Pact. The agreement provided for duty-free passage of automobiles across the border. The Auto Pact was the most significant trade development in thirty years and would remain so until the Free Trade Agreement of the late 1980s.
It did not take long for Canada to benefit. In 1964, Canada had a $618-million trade deficit. By 1970, the trade deficit had disappeared, with Canada realizing a modest trade surplus. Because of increased efficiencies, auto prices dropped and the industry expanded. In fact, Canadian vehicle production in the late 1990s was nearly twice Canadian sales — the balance was exported primarily to the U.S.
The Auto Pact shifted Canadian automobile and parts production towards a North American and global orientation. Because the pact eliminated tariffs but maintained production requirements, there was a massive growth in assembly operations in Canada. Just as importantly, the pact allowed Canadian parts companies — such as Magna, Linamar, and Wescast — to flourish on a global scale.
Most significantly, the Auto Pact paved the way for free trade with the United States and was in many ways a precursor to Canada’s place in a globalized and borderless economy.
9. 1967 - The development of the Athabasca oil sands
When eighteenth-century fur trader Peter Pond remarked upon the "springs of bitumen" he saw in northeast Alberta, he probably couldn’t have foreseen how important they would become to Canada in the twenty-first century.
The Athabasca oil sands region is today one of the largest proven oil reserves in the world. This makes Canada an important player on the global energy stage. The amount of recoverable oil in the oil sands is estimated at 170 billion barrels — enough to supply oil needs in the United States for twenty years. And the exploitation of the sands will permit Canada to export oil to China as well as to the United States.
Originally called tar sands — even though they contain no tar — the oil sands attracted development early in the twentieth century In 1913, federal government engineer Sidney Ellis began experimenting with a hot water floatation process to separate the oil from the sand. Others followed, using similar extraction principles, but profits from commercial exploitation proved elusive.
The tide began to turn in 1962, when the Alberta government announced a policy for the orderly development of the oil sands. The first commercial development began in 1967, when Great Canadian Oil Sands, now Suncor, opened the world’s first oil sands operation on the banks of the Athabasca River north of Fort McMurray In the 1970s, Syncrude, a consortium of six companies that included Imperial Oil and Petro-Canada, began operations at Mildred Lake, north of the Suncor plant. Syncrude shipped its first barrel in 1978.
Since those early beginnings, billions of dollars have been invested in the oil sands. And as oil prices have risen spending has accelerated — from over $4 billion annually in 2000 to $13.5 billion in 2010. Large chunks of that spending have gone towards leading-edge technology to mitigate environmental damage from mining and processing.
Oil sands development has profoundly changed Canada and its place in the world. The economic balance has shifted westward as tens of thousands of people have migrated from Eastern Canada to work in the oil industry Internationally, rising demand from China, as evidenced by Chinese investments in the oil sands, foreshadows the day when China will join the United States as Canada’s major export market for oil.
10. 1989 - The implementation of the Free Trade Agreement
Canada has been a trading nation since its inception, and most of its trade has been with the United States. Over the decades, trade relations between the two countries have been marked by ups and downs.
One of the first attempts to ease trade restrictions came with the Reciprocity Treaty of 1854. Opposition from American protectionists resulted in the U.S. unilaterally abrogating the treaty in 1866. When attempts to negotiate a new agreement failed, Canada introduced a protective tariff in 1879.
Efforts to secure freer trade continued, and Canadian Prime Minister Wilfrid Laurier returned from Washington in 1911 with an agreement that lowered or eliminated duties on many products. But the unratified treaty became an election issue, and voters tossed the governing Liberals out of power, effectively quashing free trade for almost another eight decades.
With the Great Depression, Canada entered the worst economic period of its history as both countries introduced protective tariff policies that stifled growth.
The period from the mid-1930s to 1980 was marked by trade liberalization both bilaterally and multilaterally.
By 1985, the Royal Commission on the Economic Union and Development Prospects of Canada was calling on the government of Canada to take a leap of faith and enter into a free trade pact.
After many twists and turns, Prime Minister Brian Mulroney and U.S. President Ronald Reagan signed the Free Trade Agreement (FTA) in October 1987. In an election held the following year, the FTA became the defining issue, with opponents arguing that Canada would lose control over its political as well as its economic future. In the end, free trade won out.
The FTA came into effect on January 1, 1989. When a new Liberal government came into power in 1993, it did not rip up the FTA but instead embraced it. A year later, the FTA was expanded as the North American Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA), which included Mexico as well.
Canada’s trade with the United States saw a dramatic increase. By the early twenty-first century, Canada was both America’s largest customer and largest supplier.
The FTA’s biggest impact was in the manufacturing sector, which saw significant rationalization, including the accelerated disappearance of branch plant operations in Canada.
Canada-U.S. trade suffered a setback with the terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001. And recent American actions — such as the Buy American policy and delays in approving the Keystone XL Pipeline—have been unsettling for Canada.
by Jennifer Nault
Several rose species are native to Canada, yet explorers and settlers began bringing new varieties as early as the 1600s. Many different types of roses are grown today, but the country’s northern climate poses difficulties. Most Canadian rose lovers have three options: move to southern British Columbia, cover the bushes extremely well each autumn or grow hardy roses.
The Explorer series is a set of hardy rose varieties developed by Agriculture and Agri-Food Canada to survive Canada’s harsh climate. Requiring minimal care and spraying, most can survive temperatures as low as -35°C when covered by natural snowfall. They are disease resistant, repeatedly flower throughout the summer, require only minimal pruning, are environmentally friendly and are available in a range of colours and sizes.
In 1886, the Canadian government established a system of experimental farms and began a program of breeding and testing hardy roses. Hardy rose breeding by Agriculture and Agri-Food Canada has mainly operated at the Central Experimental Farm in Ottawa (and later at L’Assomption, Quebec). Dr. William Saunders, the first director of the Central Experimental Farm, made a number of crosses between hardy shrub roses. Following Saunders, Isabella Preston continued to breed them from 1920 to the 1940s. She released about 20 hardy shrub roses, of which only a few are grown today.
The rose breeding program was suspended following Preston’s retirement, but was revived in the 1960s under Dr. Felicitas Svejda, who initiated the Explorer series of hardy shrub roses. The Explorer roses fall into two categories. Although some owe their genes to several species, most are either simple or complex hybrids of two classes of roses. The first, Rosa rugosa introduced to North America from Asia, has three key advantages over other roses: it is very cold hardy, it grows on its own roots and it is salt-tolerant. The other, Rosa kordesii, a unique cross that was released in 1952, combines the hardiness of Rosa rugosa with the large flowers of garden roses.
Dr. Svejda chose to name the roses she was cultivating after Canadian explorers, hoping they would prove as tough and versatile as their namesakes. However, the last of the series can only be tangentially linked to the theme of exploration. Names such as William Booth (founder of the Salvation Army) and Frère Marie-Victorin (a Canadian monk) loosely relate. Then, there are two from the series (Nicolas and Royal Edward) sporting such generic appellations that we at The Beaver are hedging our bets. (We gratefully welcome our readers’ feedback regarding this mystery.) Still, the Explorer rose series continues to live up to Dr. Svejda’s original intent, trailblazing their way to gardens around the world.
MARTIN FROBISHER
Martin Frobisher (1539–1594) led three voyages in the 1570s searching for a Northwest Passage to Asia. He discovered Resolution Island, which he claimed for England, and Frobisher Bay. On his third trip in 1578, Frobisher led 15 ships up the Hudson Strait and set up a temporary mining settlement near what is now known as Frobisher Bay.
JENS MUNK
Jens Munk (1576–1628) was a Danish explorer who tried to find a Northwest Passage through Hudson Bay in 1619. At this time, only the southern portion was known as “Hudson Bay.” Munk’s account of the bay is the first to treat the inland sea as a whole, and his map the first on which the whole of the bay is depicted. Only he and two others out of a crew of 64 survived the winter there.
HENRY HUDSON
Henry Hudson (1570–1611) failed to find a polar route to Asia on his first two voyages (in 1607 and 1608), discovering the mouth of the Hudson River instead. In 1610 he sailed through Hudson Strait into James Bay and opened a sea route to North America’s interior. After a hard winter, his crew mutinied and set him, his son and seven others adrift to a certain, quick demise.
JOHN CABOT
John Cabot (1450–1498) was a Venetian explorer and navigator whose English-backed voyages were the basis of Britain’s claim to Canada. He is the first-known European to land in North America. Cabot is thought to have landed at either Cape Breton Island, Labrador or Newfoundland in 1497, marking the beginning of British colonization of the New World.
DAVID THOMPSON
David Thompson (1770–1857) was an English-born Canadian fur trader, explorer and surveyor. Working for the Hudson’s Bay Company at 14, he was the first to make full maps of the western territory. He found the Columbia River, a trade-route connection from the Rocky Mountains to the Pacific Ocean. Thompson also charted the boundary between Canada and the U.S. from the St. Lawrence River to Lake of the Woods.
JOHN FRANKLIN
John Franklin (1786–1847) was an English explorer who made three trips to the Arctic in search of the Northwest Passage. The parties produced excellent maps on the first two voyages, with more than 880 km of new coastline mapped on the first. Franklin disappeared on the third voyage, sailing into Lancaster Sound and vanishing. It was later discovered that he and his crew perished off King William Island.
SAMUEL DE CHAMPLAIN
Samuel de Champlain (1567–1635) is considered the father of New France. This explorer mapped much of northeastern North America, founding the first settlement of Quebec City in 1608. Champlain headed the settlement until the English attacked and took it over in July 1629. Champlain returned to France, but returned as the governor of Quebec City alter a French-British peace treaty in 1632. He died three years later.
CHARLES ALBANEL
Charles Albanel (1616–1696) was a Jesuit priest and missionary. In 1649, he arrived at Tadoussac, Quebec. When the Hudson’s Bay Company was just beginning operations, he led a party that went by the Saguenay River, Mistassini Lake and the Rupert River to Hudson Bay claiming the region for France. Alter returning to Canada in 1676, he served at missions in western Canada before he died at Sault Saint Marie.
WILLIAM BAFFIN
William Baffin (1584–1622) was an English navigator who explored the northern coast of the Canadian Arctic’s largest island in 1616. Baffin was sent on two expeditions in search of the Northwest Passage. The first expedition (1615) vainly tried to find a channel in Hudson Bay north of Southampton Island. The second went northwest through Davis Strait, leading to the exploration of today’s Baffin Bay and Baffin Island.
HENRY KELSEY
Henry Kelsey (1667–1724) joined the Hudson’s Bay Company in 1684 and was its first inland explorer and fur trader. He was involved in some of the earliest discoveries of the interior of northern North America. He extended the Hudson’s Bay Company’s trade to the Saskatchewan River and opened up the Prairies.
ALEXANDER MACKENZIE
Alexander Mackenzie (1764–1820) was a Scottish-born fur trader and explorer. In 1789, working for the NorthWest Company, Mackenzie followed what is now known as the Mackenzie River. He’d hoped that it would lead to the Pacific Ocean, but instead found that it flowed into the Arctic Ocean. He eventually did reach the Pacific in 1793.
JOHN DAVIS
John Davis (1550–1605) was an English navigator and explorer who conducted three Arctic expeditions in an attempt to find the Northwest Passage. Along the way, he charted the coasts of Greenland, Baffin Island and Labrador. He discovered the strait, now named for him, between Canada and Greenland in 1587. In 1592, he discovered the Falkland Islands.
CAPTAIN SAMUEL HOLLAND
Captain Samuel Holland (1728–1801) left his native Holland to join the British army. A Royal Engineer, he was appointed surveyor-general of Quebec and northern North America, carrying out the first surveys of Prince Edward Island and Cape Breton. Holland’s survey of P.E.I. divided the island into a series of townships to prepare for a feudal land system.
FRONTENAC
Louis de Buade, Comte de Frontenac (1622–1698) was made governor general of New France in 1672 and again in 1689. He helped to expand the French fur trade and is noted as a prime instigator of French expansion in North America. He also defended New France against attacks by the Iroquois Confederacy and the English colonies.
LOUIS JOLLIET
Louis Jolliet (1645–1700) was born in Quebec and left the priesthood to become a fur trader. He was sent in 1672 to explore the Mississippi River, which was then only known through second-hand accounts. Jolliet entered the Mississippi and followed it to the mouth of the Arkansas, verifying that the Mississippi flowed into the Gulf of Mexico and not into the Pacific Ocean.
SIMON FRASER
Simon Fraser (1776–1862) was an American-born fur trader and explorer. He joined the North West Company in 1792, and was sent in 1805 to the Rocky Mountains, where he established several fur-trading posts in present-day British Columbia. In 1808 he explored the treacherous Fraser River, mistakenly believing it to be the Columbia River.
GEORGE VANCOUVER
George Vancouver (1757– 1798) was an English navigator who accompanied Captain James Cook on his second and third voyages, and later took command of a naval expedition exploring the coasts of Australia, New Zealand and Hawaii (1791–1792). Vancouver later charted much of the west coast of North America between southern Alaska and California.
QUADRA
Juan Francisco de la Bodega y Quadra (1743–1794) was a South American navigator born in Lima, Peru. He won a high rank in the Spanish navy, explored the coasts of California and constructed a special chart of them. As the Spanish commissioner, he negotiated with George Vancouver for the return of Nootka (on Vancouver Island) to British hands.
MARIE-VICTORIN
Frère Marie-Victorin (1885–1944) was a brother in the Écoles chrétiennes community, a botanist and a teacher who devoted his life to the study and classification of North-American plants. He was professor of botany at the University of Montreal and took part in the founding of the Montreal Botanical Garden.
WILLIAM BOOTH
William Booth (1829–1912) was an English revivalist preacher, who was concerned with the physical and spiritual needs of those to whom he preached. Booth founded the Salvation Army in 1865.
Jennifer Nault was Assistant Editor for The Beaver. Some of the information presented on the Explorer roses courtesy of the Canadian Rose Society, with particular thanks to Ethel Freeman. Additional information available at CanadianRoseSociety.org. This article originally appeared in the April-May 2006 issue of The Beaver.
by Christopher Moore
In September 2015, U.S. President Barack Obama declared that Alaska’s Mount McKinley, the highest peak in North America, would have its traditional name restored. It is Denali again.
We have done a lot of name restoration in Canada. It is Haida Gwaii now, not the Queen Charlotte Islands, and Iqaluit, not Frobisher Bay. While we lose a little history (who was Queen Charlotte, anyway?), we gain a longer, richer one and a name that relates to the place itself. Those places sound like Canada now, just like Toronto, Ontario, or Saskatoon, Saskatchewan.
I happened to be in Greenland when Mount McKinley became Denali again, in a charming South Greenland town called Qaqortok. Qaqortok used to be Julianehåb, but many Greenlandic names have been restored. And, since I could hardly pronounce it, Qaqortok got me thinking about naming and renaming.
How do you say Qaqortok? There seem to be three distinct versions. Greenlanders effortlessly put a little click on the qo part in the middle, and they say the t with a sound rather like the Scots use to end the word loch. Danes in Greenland have their own array of speech sounds from Danish and can say something roughly resembling the Greenlandic version. The rest of us, who never developed the right muscles in our tongues, just sound the q’s as k’s — Ka-KOR-tok, more or less. Try harder, and the locals smile to hear us gargling — or strangling.
Three slightly different pronunciations for one name makes a pretty civilized solution. We do similar things in Canada all the time.
We call a certain European country Germany, and the French call it Allemagne, even though the locals call it Deutschland.
Nearer to home, English-speakers pronounce the t in Montreal. French speakers never do, but both names seem accepted.
What do we do with Tsilhqot’in, a name that recently lent itself to an important Supreme Court of Canada decision?
Or Kw’ik-w’iyá:la?
Or Mi’kmaq?
How should we sound out lhqo — or, for that matter, the sound of a comma, or a colon?
Fortunately, the Stó:lo people of the Fraser River Valley have a sensible solution on offer. The word Kw’ik-w’iyá:la is theirs — but they also offer tongue-tied fellow Canadians the option of Coquihalla.
It’s probably a little different from their pronunciation, but most people can say it.
And, indeed, Tsilhqot’in is mostly just the old Chilcotin with a little linguistic sauce applied.
Most Canadians are not linguistic scholars. To capture sounds not used in English or French, linguists deploy diacritical marks — dots, accents, commas, even question marks — when the sounds of the alphabet as known to English-speakers prove insufficient. It’s heroic work, and it may help to save indigenous languages and literatures across the continent.
But most people do not follow that diacritical path. To smother a revived name in diacritical marks doesn’t aid communication or respect. It just silences non-Aboriginal speakers.
The sounds of names that have been restored across the country are a marvel, from Kinngait (formerly Cape Dorset, Baffin Island) to Miskeegogamang (formerly Osnaburgh House, Ontario), to the Ogimaa Mikana project in Toronto, which is now posting Anishnaabe alternatives to familiar street names like Davenport and Queen. If I can get my tongue around them, I don’t insist on the old colonial names.
But we may need to put the linguists back in the lab.
Respect and understanding are not going to be fostered by names so weighed down by technical diacritical marks that they are virtually unpronounceable. You say Tsilhqot’in, and I’ll say Chilcotin, and maybe someday we can understand both as respectful attempts to honour the real names of peoples and places.
Christopher Moore comments in every issue of Canada’s History.
This article originally appeared in the December 2015–January2016 issue of Canada’s History.
by Douglas Leechman
PEMBINA RIVER POST—30th April 1804... Grande Gueule Stabbed Capot Rouge, Le Boeuf stabbed his young wife in the arm, Little Shell almost beat his old mother’s brains out with a club, and there was terrible fighting among them. I sowed garden seeds.
So wrote Alexander Henry the Younger in the post journal. Not that he was a specially eager beaver in gardening. It was a pursuit at most of the fur-trade posts from the very first, but with varied success.
THE BOTTOM OF THE BAY
It was the 9th of November 1668 when Rupert River, at the Bottom of the Bay, set fast with ice. This was in James Bay, the southern extremity of Hudson Bay. Friendly Indians had shown Captain Gillam a sheltered cove where his ship, the Nonsuch, might winter and he had taken his men ashore where they now busied themselves with two essential operations: building a house for themselves and excavating a cellar, twelve feet deep, for their store of beer. They had brought some hens and pigs with them and accommodation had to be arranged for them too.
As soon as the ground could be worked in the following spring, garden beds were prepared and vegetable seeds were sowed, a practice followed throughout the Hudson’s Bay Company’s long history despite many disappointments and difficulties.
There were several reasons for wanting to grow fresh garden produce, the prevention of scurvy being one of the most important, even though locally made spruce beer was just as effective and, they say, not unpalatable if made right. Urgent, too, was a reduction of the heavy expense of sending out enough food from England to last a large number of men a year at least. Again and again the Company’s servants were urged to be diligent in their gardening and to raise what cattle and swine they could, goats too, and horses. One plan was to keep the pigs on Charlton Island in the hope that there they would be safe from wild beasts.
The south end of James Bay is far from being good land for gardens. Larch, spruce, and balsam: poplar, birch, and alder and a sour soil are here in plenty, but that is not the kind of terrain pigs and hens want; they prefer open forests of beech and oak, not to be found much less than five hundred miles to the south. However, the unfortunate beasts struggled along somehow or other and in following summers more garden seeds were sown and, eventually, the produce from them reaped and eaten, as were the hens and pigs for there were not enough volunteers to stay through one winter, keep the place running, and look after the livestock.
In 1681, the Committee in London sent to the Bottom of the Bay: “1 he Goate & 2 she goates & 1 Sow with Pigg wch. we have don in hopes they will increase in the Country & be of use & comfort to our people wch. is a thing that deserves your utmost care as well for the Good of the Factory as for the ease of the Compa. in the buisnesse of Provisions.”
Well, ease and comfort are fine, but there was trouble too. Towards the end of a long report to the Governor and Committee in London in 1682 John Nixon says: “One thing more I must advertise yow that yor. Honours goats are dead, and that it is lost labour to trouble yr. selves to send either them or hogs for they destroy more provisions than they are worth.” Nevertheless, pigs and goats continued to arrive and a great variety of garden seeds, as well as prunes and raisins, to combat the dreaded scurvy. Turnips were a favourite as were peas; radishes, lettuce, mustard, spinach, cabbage, and colewort all did variably well depending on the weather and the industry of the gardeners. This work was assigned to men too sick for heavy duty if there were any such about the fort; otherwise it became a routine task for all hands. Grain could not be ripened, and often peas would form pods and then stop though left on the vine till snow fell.
The spruce beer interested the authorities in London and they asked, politely enough, for a bottle or two of “that Juyce that you tap out of the trees which you mixt with your drink when any one is troubled with the Scurvy.” Meanwhile the Committee continued its efforts to make the people at least partially self-supporting. They pointed out that the latitude of the bottom of James Bay was the same as that of southern England and felt that hedges might be grown to fend off the northwest wind, a system successful in Norway and Sweden.
They sent out books of instruction in gardening, scythes, spades, and other garden tools and more seeds, adding onions and kidney beans to the list. Fresh efforts were made with wheat, barley, and oats. They might succeed and they might not; in any case, said the Committee: “Lett the event be what it will lett it be done”. This might well have been used as the motto of this obscure post, one of Canada’s earliest, but unrecognized, experimental farms.
“One enthusiast put in a requisition for twenty-four spades and twelve shovels... he wrote back, ‘I do assure you it was no mistake... they are not only useful for digging the garden but likewise for clearing the snow out of the yard all winter and other uses.’ ”
One enthusiast put in a requisition for twenty-four spades and twelve shovels. He got them all right, with a letter of mild surprise at the size of the order. “Oh,” he wrote back, “I do assure you it was no mistake for we had neither spade or shovel in the factory but what was broke in the handle, and they are not only useful for digging the garden but likewise for clearing the snow out of the yard all winter and other uses.”
Farther north, in 1731, Company men had already started on building the great stone fort, Prince of Wales. Shetland sheep and cows had been sent there and throve, but a horse that Richard Norton had brought to help in hauling stone did not do so well. Legend has it that the poor beast on being disembarked stumbled a little along the beach, stopped to survey that desolate landscape, and laid him down to die. In any event, he died as soon as he landed.
Cattle did well and increased rapidly in numbers which was all to the good, except for the fact that hay had to be made for them. At times this became a serious matter and the Moose Fort Journals for 1784 record the sad outcome of one man’s best efforts; year after year he had refrained from killing any of his cattle for beef so that he might build up a strong herd, only to watch them starve to death for lack of the hay he had not been able to grow for them. Churchill, on the other hand, went the other way; one day they killed six pigs and four kids for a real bang-up dinner and on another occasion they killed the bull and ate him too. They explained to London that hay was short and were told that their excuse was an “extream idle Plea.”
One crop has not yet been mentioned. In Churchill, in 1768, William Wales, a visiting astronomer, said that dandelions “made most excellent sallad to our roast geese.” Certain it is that the dandelion does make good greens, and also that it is not native to North America, and one hears again the legend that it was deliberately introduced as a crop by the old Hudson’s Bay men two hundred, nearly three hundred years ago.
There were still other troubles for the weary post keepers. In 1785, at Fort Albany, Edward Jarvis had just finished a letter to John Thomas, Chief at Moose Fort. As he signed his name, a thought struck him and he added a postscript. “We are over run with mice and have a boar cat who can do nothing among them they are so very numerous, would be glad if you could spare a she Cat I would return her or a kitten or two.”
Way up at the north end of the Labrador Peninsula things were no easier but even there, years later, they tried gardens, but a lack of fertile soil produced a hopeless situation, it being impossible as one man pointed out “to convert hard grey rocks into any horticultural purposes.” James McKenzie, who knew the Gulf Shore and the Labrador well, said “one would need to have blood like brandy, the skin of brass and the eyes of glass, not to suffer from the rigours of a Labrador winter.”
It was not all bad. Things got better and better until in 1838 York Factory’s officers’ mess supplied the following. Breakfast was fried fish, except on Sundays when it was beefsteak, with both on Christmas Day. For the evening meal there was always soup, and a meat course which might be beef, partridge, pork, rabbit, venison, grouse, goose, or duck with potatoes; with cheese and tarts for dessert. Wines were served on Sunday only when they had port and madeira. On week days they drank porter or spruce beer.
This was not the usual situation. In most posts the gardens made only an occasional contribution to the officers’ table, and did little to lift the strain on imported provisions. Most meat was secured by the home-guard Indian hunters (except the domesticated animals) and the annual goose hunts and fisheries supplied a lot more. Salting and freezing were the only available methods of preservation, except desiccation, and many a post lived from hand to mouth for weeks on end.
THE PRAIRIE POSTS
About a hundred and fifty miles west of the north end of Lake Winnipeg lay Cumberland House. It was built on the Saskatchewan River by Samuel Hearne in 1774, the first HBC post erected in the program of penetra-tion into the Interior. The building of this post was the opening skirmish, though not then recognized as such, in the bitter conflict between the HBC and the North West Company which was to last till 1821, when the two companies united.
Cumberland House lay in the northern coniferous forest, a region not noted for its suitability for agriculture, but gardening got under way very shortly after the post was founded. Matthew Cocking took over in 1775 and in the Journal for 25th October 1776 he notes: “one Man clearing some Ground for Gardening in the Spring”. From then on there are several references to men clearing ground and performing other horticultural tasks but nowhere do we find any account of what success these efforts met with.
The North Westers seem to have had a greener thumb than did the HBC men which is not surprising when we remember that the North Westers came, in the main, from the valley of the St Lawrence and were familiar with farms and gardens.
Four hundred and fifty miles to the northwest of Cumberland House was another post, on the bank of the Athabasca, then known as the Elk River. Here Alexander Mackenzie arrived in 1787 and reported that Peter Pond “had formed as fine a kitchen garden as ever I saw in Canada”. Turnips, carrots, and parsnips grew to a large size, especially the turnips. Potatoes did well, but cabbages failed for want of care.
“I measured an onion, 22 inches in circumference; a carrot, 18 inches long, and, at the thick end, 14 inches in circumference; a turnip with its leaves weighed 25 pounds...”
Alexander Henry the Younger, one of the North Westers, found himself in more propitious circumstances. In 1801 he was in the Pembina River post, about sixty-five miles south of Winnipeg, and just across the North Dakota medicine line, the magical boundary between Canada and the States. Here he found a milder climate and a richer soil and gardening became a pleasure instead of a chore, at least by comparison. On the 27th of September 1801, he notes a hard frost which froze his cucumbers and melons; on the 6th of October he dug up one and a half bushels of potatoes and explains that the horses had destroyed his other vegetables. Two years later, however, he was almost jubilant. On October 17th he says “I took my vegetables up—300 large heads of cabbage, 8 bushels of carrots, 16 bushels of onions, 10 bushels of turnips, some beets, parsnips, etc. 20th. I took in my potatoes 420 bushels, the produce of 7 bushels, exclusive of the quantity we have roasted since our arrival, and what the Indians have stolen. I measured an onion, 22 inches in circumference; a carrot, 18 inches long, and, at the thick end, 14 inches in circumference; a turnip with its leaves weighed 25 pounds, and the leaves alone weighed 15 pounds, the common weight is from 9 to 12 pounds without the leaves.” It was only the next year, 1804, Henry took refuge in the peace of his garden and sowed seeds. He seems to have been keen on cucumbers too, and made a nine-gallon keg of pickles, using vinegar from the Manitoba maple sap, which runs less sugar in the sap than does the sugar maple. This year he did well with his potatoes too, having planted 21 bushels and reaped a thousand, “exclusive of what have been eaten and destroyed since my arrival.”
If some of the pawky Scots factors had looked on the post gardens with a jaundiced eye, it was George Simpson who put fire crackers under their kilts. He was appalled at the cost of provisions brought from England clear across the Atlantic, and from Hudson Bay across the prairies and he was confident that a good deal of food could be grown at the posts. When he was at Fort Wedderburn in 1821 he was horrified to discover that the Indians were being supported largely by the HBC on imported foods and that they were doing mighty little on their part in the way of bringing in furs. “It has occurred to me,” he said, “that Philanthropy is not the exclusive object of our visits to these Northern Regions, but that to it are coupled interested motives, and that Beaver is the grand bone of contention.”
There were times of destitution and even of actual starvation in some of the prairie posts. In 1855, Peter S. Ogden’s son visited the Peace River forts in search of leather. “The district was in a starving state,” he reported, “people being obliged to eat dogs and horses which had died from bad treatment. . . . When I reached Dunvegan there was not an ounce of provisions in the fort, and my men were obliged to go to bed supperless. Our sinews for the district were all eaten by the Dunvegan men previous to my reaching there.”
Simpson felt, too, that more horses could be used, in such works, for instance, as improving portages and carrying freight and so he proposed to raise more of them on the spot. He wrote to Francis Heron at Edmonton requesting him to procure twenty breeding mares and ten entire horses as early as possible. A restrained footnote points out that “the proportion of stallions to brood mares is absurd, judging by ordinary standards.” No comment from the horses.
Wherever he went, Simpson sized up the agricultural possibilities and urged the men at the various posts to take advantage of the opportunities that presented themselves. It all sounded fine but there were very real difficulties to be met. No matter how you fenced your garden the deer got in and ate everything before it was even near maturity, and then the Indians came along, camped just outside the post and used your fence rails for firewood, perfectly innocently and with no thought of doing wrong. What is wood for but to be burnt?
NEW CALEDONIA
It took the traders but a single generation to cross the prairies and the mountains. Fort McLeod (now McLeod Lake, B.C.) was opened in 1805, and the surge westwards did not stop there, for Stuart’s Lake (later Fort St James) came in 1806 and half a dozen other posts followed in quick succession. New Caledonia, as the district west of the Rockies came to be called, was a new and rich area in the fur lands. By and large the fur-bearers are forest animals and New Caledonia finds itself in the sub-alpine forest zone, an excellent habitat for them but not for kitchen gardens. Except for patches along the banks of rivers and lakes, there is little fertile soil; the winters are long and very cold, the summers too short to ripen any but the earliest vegetables. Nevertheless, gardens were established at every post and with a surprising degree of success.
Much of this success was due to the enthusiastic encouragement of such men as Peter Skene Ogden who fully agreed with Governor George Simpson that the posts could be made much more nearly self-sustaining than they had been, and never failed to observe and comment on the success the various post masters had encountered. John Tod had charge of Fort McLeod in 1824 and had this to say about his gardens: “Poor success, I may add here, attended my farming experiment at Fort McLeod, which is in about 55 degrees north latitude, and close to the Rocky Mountains. At Stuart’s Lake, about 100 miles south, and more westerly, potatoes ripened on the slopes, but in the hollows, or near the lake, were liable to frost bite. In the same direction, and about 40 miles more southerly, near latitude 45 degrees, at Fraser’s Lake, some barley and potatoes grow for use. I saw patches of wheat that promised to ripen at Fort George, 80 or 90 miles to the east of Fraser Lake, and in the above named latitude. These results of small experiments in New Caledonia indicate that the ordinary cereals and vegetables might be produced by skilful and careful agriculture.”
“George Simpson, the Governor, was not well impressed. “The Soil,” he wrote, “is by no means exuberant...”
George Simpson, the Governor, was not well impressed. “The Soil,” he wrote, “is by no means exuberant, being generally of an indifferent Mould of about 8 inches from its surface—a bed of gravel and sand succeeding alternately. Esculent vegetables, notwithstanding every precaution to preserve and bring them to perfection have nearly altogether failed—and the last crop of Potatoes did not yield the produce of one fourth of the Seed put in the ground.”
In Fort Alexandria, a hundred and thirty miles due south of McLeod Lake and in the warm and sunny Dry Belt, things were a bit better. This fort was built by the North Westers in 1821, a few weeks after the union of the two Companies, an event of which they were blissfully ignorant till somewhat later. Here, at last, was a place in the interior of British Columbia where wheat could be grown. Between 1843 and 1848 from 400 to 500 bushels of wheat were ground into flour, using horsepower to turn the eighteen-inch mill stones.
George Simpson, but little affected by the woes of others, admitted when he visited New Caledonia in 1828 that: “In regard to the means of living, McLeod’s Lake is the most wretched place in the Indian Country: it possesses few or no resources within itself, depending almost entirely on a few dried Salmon taken across from Stuarts Lake, and when the Fishery there fails, or when any thing else occurs to prevent this supply being furnished, the situation of the Post is cheerless indeed. Its complement of people, is a Clerk and two Men whom we found starving, having had nothing to eat for several Weeks but Berries, and whose countenances were so pale and emaciated that it was with difficulty I recognised them”.
Full of sympathy, but unable to do much about it, he continued his travels to Fort St James where he found that “a few White Fish in the Winter with an occasional treat of Berry Cake prepared by the Natives, and a Dog Feast on high days and holydays constitute the living of nearly all the Posts in New Caledonia: and altho’ bad as to quality, would not afford grounds for complaint, if the quantity was sufficient to satisfy the cravings of Nature: but the people are frequently reduced to half allowance, to quarter allowance, and sometimes to no allowance at all.” The dogs were purchased from the Indians, who did not eat them though the men at the forts relished them.
Continuous effort, often frustrated by the poorest of rewards, eventually brought about some improvement. In 1833, John McLean arrived at Stuart’s Lake. He commented on the menu as “scarcely fit for dogs” and then goes on to say that “a few cattle were introduced in 1830, and we now begin to derive some benefit from the produce of our dairy. Our gardens (a term applied in this country to any piece of ground under cultivation) in former times yielded potatoes: nothing would grow now save turnips. A few carrots and cabbages were this year raised on a new piece of ground, which added to the luxuries of our table”.
That was just another of the frustrations; the soil was poor, its minerals quickly exhausted and no fertilizer to be had. A few crops could be harvested and then new land had to be broken, and there was precious little of it. Altogether the posts at the east end of the great belt of northern forests, around the Bottom of the Bay, and those near the west end, in New Caledonia, were about the poorest possible bets as regions suitable for gardens or larger agricultural operations.
THE PACIFIC COAST
All the posts we have discussed so far, those at the Bottom of the Bay, the Prairies, and New Caledonia, were (with the exception of some of the more southerly prairie posts) in the North Woods, the habitat preferred by most of the fur-bearers. These posts obtained much of their supplies through Hudson Bay after hundreds, sometimes thousands, of miles of river transport, hard on men and hard on the expense account, and they followed the customs and procedures laid down in the Company’s early formative years. There was a traditional way of doing everything laid down in the Standing Rules & Regulations and changes came slowly indeed, usually in the face of determined opposition.
Back in the Old Country there had been changes. Steam-driven machinery had brought about the Industrial Revolution and altered the whole pattern of industry and, indeed, of thought. It was during this period that the establishment of agricultural posts on the Pacific coast and the scheme to locate people in the Red River Settlement, where Winnipeg stands today, were undertaken. Fort Vancouver and the other farms, satellite to it, experienced the transition from the old ways to the new, barely perceptible at first but becoming more and more obvious as American settlers drove their covered wagons into the Oregon Country.
It was the cross-country expedition of Lewis and Clark that convinced John Jacob Astor that there was fur to be trapped and money to be made on the Pacific Coast and in 1811 he founded Fort Astoria near the mouth of the Columbia River. Many difficulties confronted him, not the least of them caused by the War of 1812, and in 1813 he was glad to sell out to the North Westers, who continued operations until their union with the Hudson’s Bay Company in 1821.
“To say that he [George Simpson] was horrified is to put it mildly, even allowing for the fact that an assumption of horror was one of his familiar poses.”
On the 8th of November three years later, Governor George Simpson visited Fort George, as Astoria had been renamed. To say that he was horrified is to put it mildly, even allowing for the fact that an assumption of horror was one of his familiar poses. True enough, the situation there was wild in many ways. The people were living on the most expensive imported European provisions in a country where agriculture was easy and rewarding; they had made little or no effort to extend their own activities in trapping, or those of the natives, and a blind adherence to tradition had filled the warehouses with completely useless and quite unsalable goods, including ostrich plumes, beloved of the Indians back east, and coats of mail, beloved of nobody.
Never content with half measures, Simpson determined to move. The North Westers had complained that Fort George was damp and that the furs were spoiled in consequence and the climate was not a healthy one for the men. They, too, had thought of a move, but never actually undertook it. Perhaps the most serious objection to the Fort George site in Simpson’s eyes was the fact that there was not nearly enough room for the large agricultural enterprise he had in mind. At Fort George there was but little land suitable for the plough, most of the rest of it being rocky and uneven, and there were stands of heavy timber that would have to be cleared if farming operations were to expand. And, worst of all perhaps, it was on the south side of the river and might well find itself in United States territory if the Columbia River should be chosen as part of the international boundary.
A few days after his arrival in November, Simpson sent a party upstream to look for a better site. The first attempt, in a leaky boat, got nowhere; the next was more successful, but they found nothing suitable till they had passed the mouth of the Willamette and were some hundred miles from the coast. Here they found a flat stretch overlooking the river; it had been named La Jolie Prairie and terminated in a lookout which Lieutenant Broughton had named Belle Vue Point as early as 1792. Here were extensive bench lands high enough above the river to avoid flooding and wide enough to provide all the acreage they could ever need. Moreover the benches needed little clearing before being laid under the plough. So, late in 1824, a work party set out to build the new fort and, by the spring of 1825, they had a living house for the gentlemen, two storehouses, an Indian room, and temporary quarters for the men ready for use.
From its beginning to its end in I860 the new post, “baptised” Fort Vancouver by George Simpson on 19 March 1825, had a success that is hard to overestimate. It was many years before any other farm in the Oregon Country could compare with it; in fact, it is quite possible that its performance never has been equalled for returns from such an establishment. In the course of time, satellite farms were established and they too repaid many times over the work expended on them. The importation of provisions from England for the far west was brought to an end. Meat, grain, fruit, and vegetables were grown in abundance, and foodstuffs were exported to Russian America, to California, and to Hawaii. Simpson had been proved abundantly right, and he never let them forget it. Water power on Mill Creek, six miles up the river, was harnessed for saw mills and grist mills, a school was established, a hospital, and a chapel. Fort Vancouver was the biggest and most important place in the Oregon Country. As headquarters of the Columbia District its influence extended from San Francisco Bay to New Caledonia and Hawaii.
The driving force behind the Columbia District as a whole and its nucleus, Fort Vancouver, was Dr. John McLoughlin of Rivèire-du-Loup. He had been apprenticed to a physician in Quebec when he was about fourteen and five years later got his licence to practice medicine, surgery, and pharmacy. He joined the North West Company in 1803 and, after the Union, became a Chief Factor and was assigned to the Columbia District in 1824. So much has already been written of this extraordinary man that it is surely not necessary to enter into further details. Not only had he established the first school, but also the first circulating library, the first theatre, and one of the first churches. Here at Fort Vancouver one could buy supplies and here, too, settlers could be advised in their choice of land and, later, sell their produce. It is difficult to believe that such an establishment could have so short a life, from 1825 to I860. About 1865 a visitor to the site found no sign of it but a pile of mouldering hay.
Two names are associated with McLoughlin’s: James (later Sir James) Douglas and James Murray Yale, both to achieve fame as the pioneers of agriculture and settlement in what is now British Columbia. Yale, well-regarded by Simpson, was eventually put in charge of Fort Langley on the south bank of the Fraser River, some eighteen miles east of the present city of New Westminster. Here Yale established a farm that at one time rivalled and indeed surpassed Fort Vancouver, for as that fort declined, Fort Langley was still in the ascendant.
Yale’s attitude towards McLoughlin was one of devotion, almost of hero-worship. He had spent months at Fort Vancouver nursing a wounded hand and had had the opportunity of observing all that went on. When he was given Fort Langley he was able to put to practical use all that he had learnt. Indeed, he went further and embarked on enterprises that had not been attempted on the Columbia. He shipped $ 10,000 worth of cranberries from the nearby bogs in one season, shipped salt salmon down the coast and over to Hawaii, grew hemp which he exported to England, sold barrels made by his cooper for the salmon and cranberries, made brooms, axehandles, toboggans, horse collars. He grew thousands of bushels of wheat which he ground into flour in his own mill, shipped many thousands of board feet of lumber abroad, grew foodstuffs for Russian America, and, with all this, supervised the activities of his many employees and Indian traders. Then, too, he had unfriendly Indians to contend with. On one occasion, an Indian got clear away after murdering a man near the Fort. Months later Yale was told that this same Indian was coming down the river in a canoe with some others. Yale, calm and quiet, took his rifle, went down to the waterfront, shot the murderer through the head as the canoe went by, returned to the Big House, hung up his rifle without a word, and went on about his business.
Yale left Fort Langley in 1859 after thirty-one years there, twenty-five of them in charge, during which time he introduced agriculture to the southwestern mainland of British Columbia with the greatest success. The farm continued its operations on a much reduced scale until June 1896 and was eventually subdivided and sold. Yale’s list of “firsts” is long indeed and the year’s furlough he was granted was well deserved.
As early as 1832 Dr McLoughlin had thought of forming an independent company to handle agricultural affairs in the Oregon Country. There had been complaints that fur should be the sole concern of a fur-trading company, though Simpson had stated his opinion that anything that made money for the Company was worth pursuing. In 1839, when the Company signed an agreement with the Russian American Company to supply them with foodstuffs, the Puget’s Sound Agricultural Company was formed, legally quite separate from the Hudson’s Bay Company but actually a subsidiary with control firmly in the hands of the Governor and Committee. Dr William Fraser Tolmie was put in charge with headquarters at Fort Nisqually under the supervision of Dr McLoughlin. There was plenty to do. Nisqually and Cowlitz farms were large and productive and others were added as time went on. Fort Langley was not included, as Yale was obviously more than capable of looking after that.
In the Victoria area on Vancouver Island, four farms were established under the Puget’s Sound Agricultural Company: Macaulay Point, 1849; Langford, 1851; Viewfield and Craigflower, 1853. Only Craigflower Manor still stands to remind us of those days when thousands of sheep grazed in the pastures about Victoria, including today’s fashionable Uplands.
The adoption of the 49th parallel as the United States-Canada Boundary put Fort Vancouver definitely far below. Headquarters of the western department was transferred to Fort Victoria in 1849 and it became necessary gradually to close Fort Vancouver. All the equipment for the mills, all the workshop tools, all the goods in the warehouses, everything movable was loaded on board the steamer Otter, and transported to Victoria. It took three trips in all. On the 14th of June I860 the last piece of freight was loaded, the officer in charge, Chief Trader Grahame, turned over a large bunch of keys to the U.S. authorities, and in half an hour he sailed away, ending a highly successful and important venture in agriculture.
Though the Fort was abandoned, the Company still claimed its lands in the Oregon Country, and presented the U.S. government with a bill for a million dollars; they did not expect to get it, for Governor Simpson had been tipped off that if he could get $300,000 he was to close the deal. Eventually he got $450,000 for the Hudson’s Bay Company’s interests and $200,000 for the claims of the Puget’s Sound Agricultural Company—in gold!
RED RIVER SETTLEMENT
While the Oregon Country was seeing this most successful experiment in agriculture, a similar venture, but far less successful was being carried out on the eastern prairies where the Red River is joined by the Assiniboine, the present site of Winnipeg.
It was Thomas Douglas, fifth Earl of Selkirk, who was the moving spirit behind an attempt to form here a settlement of dispossessed Scottish crofters who had been turned off the lands they had occupied for centuries as a result of changes in the legislation governing rents and land management.
The soil of the Red River Settlement was certainly suitable for agriculture though perhaps not so rich as that of Fort Vancouver; the climate was decidedly less hospitable, and the settlers were plagued by weeds, grasshoppers (which did enormous damage), floods (also most destructive), ravaging flocks of birds and, above all, inexperience and a lack of competent leadership.
Though the grant of land extended over 116,000 square miles, the actual settlement was confined to the west bank of the Red River. The arable land was divided into lots an eighth of a mile wide and over a mile in depth, extending back to a road. Behind the road was a hay meadow common to all and beyond that the limitless prairie stretching out to the west. On the cast side of the river there was timber, free for all. It was not long before log cabins were built on most of the lots, but all was not as rosy as it appeared.
Not only were the Scottish settlers more familiar with sheep than with gardens, but they sadly lacked tools and even the means to make them. Moreover they were not welcome and they were not allowed to forget it. “Every Gentleman in the Service both Hudson’s Bay and North-West was unfriendly to the Colony,” wrote Simpson to Colvile in 1822. Both Companies were principally interested in furs and were averse to seeing the country fenced and farmed. The hope that the little settlement could supply the Hudson’s Bay Company with the produce of their land was doomed to disappointment. Indeed, in 1820 they had even consumed their seed wheat and had to send a party on snowshoes five hundred miles to Prairie du Chien to buy American wheat.
Realizing the situation, the Company after the Union in 1821, initiated a number of schemes intended in part at least to give the settlers work. Large sums were spent in organizing such ventures as a Buffalo Wool Company, which failed because the cloth woven from this wool could not be sold in England for a fraction of what it cost to manufacture it in Red River. Then they tried a Tallow Company, which failed, and another company was to grow flax and hemp. This, too, came to nothing.
Governor George Simpson was annoyed. He hated incompetence and, in writing to Andrew Colvile, said: “Mr. Pritchard and his Buffalo Wool concern make a great noise: he is a wild visionary speculative creature without a particle of solidity and but a moderate share of judgement: if the business was properly managed I have not a doubt of its turning out well.”.
Another venture in which Mr. Pritchard, who was Lord Selkirk’s agent, was concerned was the “Hayfield Experimental Farm” which was established before the Union; it collapsed in 1822 because of foolish and extravagant mismanagement, nor was it the only experimental farm to fail. By 1824 the settlers had managed to secure or make some primitive implements, such as ploughs, and sickles with which the grain crops were harvested. They were threshed with a flail and ground in stone querns turned by hand, later by horses, and in 1825 the first windmill was erected. Another fine idea was distilling barley to reduce the cost of importing rum. There were a number of the settlers who were familiar with the process. Then in 1826, came the great flood, a “complete extinguisher”: but, strangely enough, it proved an ill wind that blew much good, for the ruin was so great that many of the less desirable settlers left the place: those who remained to build anew had reached the turning point in their fortunes. Five years later the Red River Settlement was on its way to prosperity. Each settler had a comfortable home with barns and outhouses full of grain and cattle. Moreover, unlike the old days in Scotland, it was all their own and there were no landlords to hound them, and no tithes or dues payable to either church or state.
It was about this time that they had another go at an experimental farm. There had been two or three after the first fiasco and now, in 1831, Mr A. R. Lillie, who had had a good deal of experience in managing a farm in Fifeshire, was charged by the Governor to see what he could do. He worked at this for a number of years with a success that nobody had foreseen, and the amount of grain he produced was a significant proportion of the total Canadian wheat crop.
“Another disastrous venture was in raising sheep... [On the 2nd of May 1833] they started with 1,300 sheep and lambs, ...but got back on the 12th of September with a little over 200 sheep.”
Another disastrous venture was in raising sheep. In the winter of 1832 a party was sent south into the United States to buy a suitable flock of sheep and, after a wrangle about prices, was obliged to go even farther south to Kentucky. Then came the task of driving the sheep back, some 1,000 miles or more. They started with 1,300 sheep and lambs, but what with festering wounds caused by spear-grass, lameness, rattlesnakes, and the necessity of keeping the herders fed on the trail, the flock was sadly depleted. They left on the 2nd of May 1833, and got back on the 12th of September with a little over 200 sheep; these apparently recovered from their long walk and were later reported to be doing well.
Farming was the important activity, but there were flower gardens too, though there is but little mention of them in the first few years of the settlement. In 1868, when the success of Selkirk’s experiment was beyond doubt, there was a big garden at Lower Fort Garry in charge of an old English gardener who sent to the Old Country for all his seeds. Fresh flowers and vegetables graced the officers’ table from the first asparagus in the spring to the last frozen turnip and parsnip well into winter, and the Lord help anybody the gardener saw touching anything without his express permission.
By 1878 Red River Settlement had a population of nearly 6,000 with model farms equipped with the most modern machinery and “Mr. Inkster tells me that last year from seven bushels of potatoes planted he dug two hundred”.
Truly, Labor omnia vincit.
THE PRAIRIE FARMLANDS
Under the terms of the Deed of Surrender, sealed on the 19th of November 1869 the Hudson’s Bay Company surrendered to the Queen’s Most Gracious Majesty all the rights and privileges granted by King Charles II in 1670. In return the Company received £300,000 sterling, and the right to claim (at any time during the next fifty years) a grant of land in any township or district within the Fertile Belt, not exceeding one-twentieth of such township or district. The Company also retained its posts and other establishments and a reasonable area of land surrounding them, amounting to about 45,000 acres.
Selecting one-twentieth of an unsurveyed area presents difficulties and it was not until the Dominion survey of the prairies was begun that a fair allocation could be made. Grants of lands allocated were made progressively as the survey of each township was approved, and the HBC paid its ratable share of the survey cost. The Fertile Belt was bounded on the south by the United States; on the west by the Rocky Mountains; on the east by Lake Winnipeg and Lake of the Woods; and the northern branch of the Saskatchewan River formed the northern boundary, an area of about 140 million acres, of which one-twentieth amounted to 7 million acres. It was determined that in every fifth township Sections 8 and 26, and in every other township Section 8 and the south half and northwest quarter of Section 26 should be known as Hudson’s Bay Land.
It was actually as late as 1928 before all the final details were settled, but as early as July 1872 the first land sale was made of a Winnipeg town lot to the Canadian Pacific Hotel Company. Town lots were put on the market early because the area was already surveyed and could therefore be defined in the title deed. The selling of farm land began in August 1879, when William McKechnie bought a whole section of 640 acres near Emerson, Manitoba. It was listed on the books as Sale No. 1: Section 8, Township 1, Range 3, east of the Principal Meridian. It cost him $6.00 per acre, or a total of $3,840.
Land sales were slow all through the 1890s but rose to a peak of nearly 370,000 acres in 1903. The First World War brought another marked decline and the Company decided to do something about it. In cooperation with the Cunard Steamship Line they organized a company with the somewhat unwieldy title of “The Hudson’s Bay Company Overseas Settlement Limited.” They had a London office at No. 1 Charing Cross and an office in Winnipeg.
Settlers were given every imaginable assistance in selecting land (not necessarily HBC land), they were advised and instructed in farming methods, helped in arranging tickets and transportation, even assisted financially in some cases. The Company established a training farm in England under the supervision of an experienced Canadian farmer. Here young men were taught milking, ploughing, haying, and all the other skills needed by a competent farmer. Advertisements were run in The Beaver and in other media urging Canadian farmers who needed help to get in touch with the Company who would come to their assistance in getting suitable young men, and also their families and friends if need be, to come out to Canada and settle on the land, first as hired help and then, if all went well, on their own.
HBC lands were for sale at the following rates: one-eighth cash, balance in seven equal annual payments with interest payable annually at seven per cent; all minerals reserved. During all these years since the Deed of Surrender the Company paid taxes on its nearly seven million acres, or what was left of them. In June 1927 it was estimated that these tax payments amounted to 15,000,000 dollars and, some years later, when the Dirty Thirties struck, it was the Company’s taxes that saved many a tight situation. By 1923 there were about three million acres still unsold as well as a great deal of town property. By 1960 all the farm land had been sold.
And so the land where once the buffalo roamed became the bread basket of Canada, a land of prosperity, of farms, towns and villages, churches and theatres, roads and railways, and from the first fumbling efforts at the Bottom of the Bay it was the Hudson’s Bay Company’s persistent and unremitting efforts that pointed the way to development of agriculture in the Canadian West.
Dr. Douglas Leechman, author and lexicographer, was formerly anthropologist at the National Museum of Canada.
This article originally appeared in the Winter 1970 issue of The Beaver.
by Shane Peacock
In the spring of 1811 John McIntosh was out in the woods of south-eastern Ontario, clearing land where the village of Dundela would soon appear, in Matilda Township, Dundas County. Little did he know that he was about to take his place in history.
McIntosh had come to this cold and unforgiving country in 1796 from the friendly, civilized region of the Mohawk Valley, fleeing family disdain for the unforgivable sin of falling in love with an unacceptable mate. He had settled on land near the town of Iroquois on the St. Lawrence River, but now the woman who had caused such upheaval in his life was gone and he was several miles further north, married to Hannah Doran and trying to tame the land he had traded with her brother. Only one-quarter of an acre of this so-called farm had ever been cleared and even that section of the wilderness had grown up again, the young trees towering above his head. But in amongst them, he kept coming upon little seedlings, strong and youthful, and decidedly unlike the others. Apples, thought John McIntosh, apples growing in the Canadian bush? He spared them.
About a dozen seedlings were soon transplanted to his garden nearby. By the following year all but one had died. He nursed it and it slowly grew. When it bore fruit, red-blushed and round, he tasted it, tart on the tongue.
Today the McIntosh is produced in greater quantities than any other apple in Canada and the north-eastern United States, and is grown in orchards around the world. Every tree, and therefore every McIntosh apple that has ever been eaten or put into a pie or into juice or cider, is a direct descendant of that little seedling that mysteriously appeared in the Canadian woods and tenaciously clung to life. It was, when John McIntosh found it, the first and the only one of its kind in the world. To this day no one is certain how it got there.
The way in which apples reproduce when unchecked by human interference creates much of the mystery. Apple trees are not “self-fruitful”; in other words, the seeds within their apples will not reproduce the same variety as the parent tree. Only by grafting a variety onto the trunk of another tree can that variety be maintained. The orphan that McIntosh found in the bush that day, likely grown from seeds of an apple core tossed on the ground by a passerby, was naturally cross-pollinated, an offspring of unknown ancestors.
The apple most often theorized as a parent is the Fameuse, known in English Canada as the Snow. This is based on several common characteristics and the Fameuse’s popularity in Quebec before 1811. There were no apples (other than crab) in North America prior to the appearance of Europeans; by the seventeenth century they had made their way westward with settlers and it would make sense that travelling Quebecers, moving through the woods around Matilda Township, 95 kilometres west of their border, would be carrying Fameuse apples.
But in 1970 W.H. Upshall of the Horticultural Experiment Station at Vineland, Ontario, maintained that trials with the Fameuse as progenitor had not been successful, and suggested Fall St. Lawrence and the Alexander as potential forebears. This is contrary to conclusions drawn by other experts, like Roger Yepsen, who unequivocally stated in his 1994 book Apples, that the McIntosh is “a talented cross between Fameuse and Detroit Red.” More than 80 years earlier The Canadian Apple Growers’ Guide had hedged its bets, simply calling the Mac, “of Fameuse type.” So the mystery of the McIntosh, probed only by educated guesses, remains.
John McIntosh likely cared little about where his wonderful new apple tree came from — all he knew was that he had to reproduce it. But his experiments with seeds kept giving him other varieties. His one tree remained, ready to disappear from history should it be destroyed.
A century and a half later Olive McIntosh, widow of John’s great-grandson, sits in her home in Morrisburg, Ontario, not far from the Dundela homestead where she once lived. She opens an old wooden box filled with family heirlooms, the greatest of which should be a national treasure: a chunk of the original McIntosh tree. Setting it on the kitchen table, she explains how John solved the reproduction problem: “Luckily, a travelling hired man just happened to come along one day (about 1835) and he showed John and his son Allan how to graft.” Thus the McIntosh survived.
Olive, whose children and grandchildren carry the McIntosh name in the area, likes to tell stories about Allan. It isn’t hard to see why. He was not only an extraordinary character, but deserves much credit for making the Mac what it is today.
By the late 1830s he was in charge of the family nursery and orchard, succeeding his mother Hannah, the real apple expert of the previous generation (at first, Macs were called “Grannys” in her honour). He began grafting in a serious way, producing bushels upon bushels of what were becoming known as McIntosh Reds. This bearded, ingenious man also experimented with fungicides (the Mac was susceptible to scabs), hewn cedar troughs to drain the orchard, and cross-pollination.
He sold, and apparently gave away, trees throughout eastern Ontario and the north-eastern United States, where he sold apples to McIntosh relatives in Vermont. He was known in the Matilda area as a medicine man and travelling preacher. Olive’s family treasures include fire-and-brimstone sermons written in his hand. Glancing through their pages, one imagines Allan booming some of its contents at slightly shaken audiences, admonishing them to be on guard for “Satan and his hellish crew”.
Despite Allan and his brother Sandy’s efforts, it was many years before the McIntosh Red became prominent. Indeed it wasn’t until 1870, nearly a quarter of a century after John’s death, that it was officially “introduced” and named; it made its first appearance in print six years later (in Fruits and Fruit Trees of America); and began to sell in truly large numbers after 1900.
The Mac’s hardiness, appearance and taste made it a contender from birth, but it was only when turn-of-the-century advances in the quality and availability of sprays took care of its scabbing problem that it realized its incredible commercial potential.
By that time things had changed at Dundela. An 1894 fire that burned down the family home badly damaged the original tree. Though Allan made extensive efforts to nurse it back to health, it produced its last crop in 1908 and fell over two years later, almost exactly a century after it had been discovered in the woods. Allan died in 1899, Sandy in 1906, so it was grandson Harvey (1863–1940) who was at the helm when the family apple became world-famous.
As we approach the end of the twentieth century, it accounts for more than half of the 17 million bushels of apples produced in Canada every year, and is our most commonly grown fruit: 130,000 metric tonnes come from Ontario alone, though it also thrives in Quebec, Nova Scotia and British Columbia (where it was introduced in 1910). In the U.S. it ranks behind only the two Delicious varieties and has a personal computer named for it; overseas it is one of few successful North American varieties.
It is hard to imagine anything that we grow for consumption that is more Canadian than the Mac. But today at the site of the first McIntosh apple tree in the little village of Dundela there is only token recognition. Drive south-east about 45 minutes from Ottawa or north 10 minutes off the 401 and turn onto county road 18 and you will see for yourself. But don’t blink, or you’ll miss it.
There is no orchard on the McIntosh homestead anymore, only a couple of houses and broken-down barns. A plaque, erected by the Ontario Archaeological and Historic Sites Board, stands a few steps from the road, next to a monument put up in 1912 bearing the erroneous information that John McIntosh found his seedling in 1796. The latter also tells any who happen by that the original tree was some “20 rods” (100 metres) to the north.
Walk around to the rear of the property in search of that historic site and you will see how we treat our national treasures. Though local residents will tell you to have a look, you probably shouldn’t, because once you are wading through the knee-high grass, you are on private property. The owner, who insists in letters to various newspaper editors that he is angry about sightseers and would be happy to show them around if they would only ask, lives 80 kilometres away in Ottawa. If you do venture through the hole ripped wide in the rusty fence, you will find yourself looking for a needle in a haystack, or at least a golf ball in decidedly long rough.
Finally, there it is, a little stone marker nearly buried beneath weeds behind a collapsing barn. “The site of the original McIntosh apple tree. 1811–1906”.
A minute down the county road to the east Sandra Beckstead sells Macs by the ton at Smyth’s Apple Orchards, a thriving 100-acre tract begun in the mid-1800s by her ancestor Sam Smyth, neighbour and colleague of Allan McIntosh. A tree grown from a graft of the original McIntosh sits in their front yard. She is bright and friendly, a breezy proponent of apples and apple eating. Only when the state of the McIntosh homestead is discussed does her mood dip.
“They have signs on the 401 for the marina and the golf course and that sort of thing, but nothing for something that is part of our history, something that we all should know about and be proud of,” she says.
She works hard at redressing this wrong. In one corner of her store, where information fills the walls, and life-size dolls of John and Allan McIntosh look on, you can take a veritable history class; and every year school children are invited to the orchard. Customers are told not only about the Mac and its heritage but of the many world-renowned apples it has parented: the Cortland, the Lobo, the Joyce, the Melba, the Macoun and the Early Mac, to name a few.
In the summer of 1996 a few louder voices joined Sandra’s. The Ottawa Citizen published an editorial decrying the political circumlocution and apathy that has left this potential symbol invisible amongst weeds (provincial funding has fizzled, the township has no money to buy the land and the county’s roadsign campaign has been derailed, or at least delayed, because of bureaucratic changes). That same month the Toronto Star printed a front-page story entitled “Rotting to the Core” with a photo of Olive’s son Harvey on the unkempt site. The Mac also appears on the 1996 Canadian silver dollar, though oddly it commemorates the 200th anniversary of John McIntosh’s arrival in Canada rather than celebrating the year he found the tree.
The story of the single seedling in the northern bush that parented millions of one of the world’s most popular apples, is an intriguing and romantic one. But Canadians, ostensibly anxious to have national symbols, have somehow left it by the roadside.
Shane Peacock is an award-winning author, playwright and screenwriter.
This article was originally published in the April-May 1997 issue of The Beaver.
How the Macintosh computer got its name
When Steven Jobs and Stephen Wozniak started their computer company in 1976 (in the garage of the home of Jobs’ parents in Cupertino, California) they wanted a fresh, non-traditional name for their new personal computer. Jobs in particular was an advocate of natural foods, so when someone suggested “Apple” — a food the health-conscious Jobs was fond of — at a brainstorming session just prior to the deadline for filing a company name, it was an image that appealed to Jobs and the others.
Within four years the personal computer industry boomed. By the end of 1982 there were more than 100 companies manufacturing personal computers. In 1983 Apple entered the Fortune 500.
According to Frank Rose in his book West of Eden, Jef Raskin, a former college professor and longtime computer hobbyist who worked for Apple, got permission in 1981 to “build his own dream computer. He wanted it to be inexpensive, portable, and as easy to use as an appliance. He called it Macintosh, [sic] after his favorite kind of apple.”
The Macintosh was introduced in January 1984; by 2015 the company sold over 317 million “Macs.” Apple Canada was established in 1980 as Apple’s first subsidiary outside the United States. In June 1995 they shipped their one-millionth computer, to a school in Nova Scotia.
Information courtesy of Apple Canada Inc.
by Marianne P. Stopp
The old garden drills are still visible alongside long-abandoned homesteads in southern Labrador. Now grown over by grasses, these rows of raised soil lie nestled in dips and on southern facing slopes, valuable microclimates in an ecosystem determined by the Labrador current. Late nineteenth- and early twentieth-century gardeners made good use of pockets of peat dotting an otherwise rocky coast, or they trekked inland to plant precious cabbages, potatoes, and turnips, where the coastal rock folds into peal hog and temperatures are somewhat higher. Their efforts came in the wake of even earlier gardeners who first tilled the soil and experimented with a variety of species in the late eighteenth and mid-nineteenth century.
My Reader’s Digest Illustrated Guide to Gardening in Canada doesn’t include Labrador in its climatic zone map of plant hardiness. If I extend imaginary zonal lines northeastward from Sept-Îles and Chibougamau, a Labrador garden would find itself in Zones 1 or 2, typically characterized by short growing seasons and cool temperatures. Yet as early as 1770 the industrious and adventurous English gentleman-merchant George Cartwright had two men at the head of Lodge Bay, near present-day Mary’s Harbour, Labrador, “employed in bringing tree-roots out of the garden, and piling them up for fireing, in the time-honoured tradition of many a pioneer garden. Much further to the north, the Moravian missionaries at Nain also began gardens in the late eighteenth century, while the earliest record of gardening in interior Labrador comes from the Hudson’s Bay Company men stationed at the head of Groswater Bay, along the Churchill River, in the 1840s.
My own garden in St. John’s (Zone 5) developed during a time when I first came across archival records of these early Labrador horticulturists. Having spent several seasons in the 1980s and 1990s conducting archaeological surveys of southern Labrador, I could well imagine the patience and toil required to wring even a single row of radishes out of hard-won drills. Whereas I pondered symmetry, layout, borders, and peonies, the chief concerns of early Labrador gardeners were self-sufficiency from costly imported foods and access to fresh food, at least for part of the year. Nevertheless, their choices of plantings are at times intriguing and clearly made in the same spirit of exploration that brought them to these shores in the first place.
George Cartwright’s journals of his sixteen years in Labrador (1770–1786) provide a unique record of early life. Cartwright was a keen observer of his new homeland and his diaries abound with descriptions of “my lov’d Labrador.” Over the years he had at least five different residences between Capo Charles and Sandwich Bay and all had gardens. As part of his merchant endeavours, Cartwright traded with Inuit and Innu, and established a string of tilt runs (traplines) in the interior as well as sealing and salmon posts along the coast. He was an enthusiastic huntsman, and his diaries contain daily references to animals killed for both sport and subsistence.
Cartwright’s first garden, at his residence Ranger Lodge in today’s Lodge Bay, included a “lower garden” planted with peas, radishes, and turnips. In the autumn of 1772 his salmon storehouse, his workers’ house, and his own residence burned to the ground in a conflagration of salmon oil and timber frames. A day later he recorded that the “peas were all nipped by the morning frosts.” Hard limes, but within a week a new house was nearly complete. During this period of residence Cartwright also maintained a potato garden on a nearby island—the only reference to growing potatoes anywhere in his diaries.
In June 1774 Cartwright moved closer to the outer coast, near present-day Cape Charles, where a garden was begun “near the house” and “the first gathering of green pease” took place in early August. His stay there was short-lived, and a year later he established himself in Sandwich Bay, planting the first garden at the mouth of the Paradise River. Between studding a house and setting salmon nets around the bay, he “had a spot of ground dug, sowed some radish and turnip seeds, and set some cabbage plants which I brought from Charles Harbour.”
Cartwright lived in the Sandwich Bay region for the remainder of his years in Labrador, until 1786, with continued gardening efforts. In April 1776 he “sowed some mustard, cresses, and onions in a tub, and hung it up in the kitchen.” Three weeks later, however, “the seeds I sowed in a box ... were dead by giving them two [sic] much heal. I sowed some radishes and mustards afresh.” Cartwright dug a new garden, which was surrounded by a Fence, sowing radishes, onions, carrots, spinach, cresses, and “early Charlton-pease,” as well as “some French beans, Indian corn, barley, oats, and some wheat of Quebec growth.” He also “had some wheat, rye, barley and oats sown in different spots about Muddy Bay and Dykes River.” In July 1777 Cartwright tried cucumbers for the first time: “pease are in bloom, and the cucumbers appear strong,” but the season, as ever, was not without its challenges, for the autumn high tides “flowed over the greatest part of my little garden, and destroyed many fine cauliflowers and cabbages.” His 1778 garden was surrounded by a wattle fence, and contained mustard, cresses, radish, onion, cabbage, and cauliflower, all mulched with kelp. The kelp, however, bred worms, which in turn devoured the seeds, forcing Cartwright to sow the seeds again. This time he also added cucumber seeds “under glasses. The kelp worms were a harbinger of worse things to come, for later that summer a New England privateer aided by some of Cartwright’s own men plundered his possessions along the coast, kidnapped limit employees, and left Cartwright with few resources for the coming winter.
Cartwright’s final garden in Isthmus Bay “produced excellent crops the first year, by being manured with seaweed and offals of fish; and also by mixing a portion of the barren sand that lay underneath, among the peat soil on the surface, it has ... brought everything to a degree of perfection, which had never been seen in that part of the world, in any former year. Here he planted several beds of the ubiquitous turnip and cabbage, lettuces, beets, red and white radishes, but also cucumbers (killed by July frosts), asparagus, and fennel.
Cartwright is innovative and persistent throughout his years in Labrador. Time and again he overcame obstacles in life as in gardening. To loosen the dense peat soil, he learned to mix it with sand or ashes. He began seedlings indoors in March and April to ensure a modicum of harvest. Garden plots were cleared of snow in spring to hasten the warming of the soil. Spinach was prepared for winter consumption by salting. And the cold-climate gardening season was extended through tub planting and cold frames. We will never be certain whether Cartwright’s cucumbers ever ripened, but his repeated planting of other species, indeed his repeated digging of gardens, suggests that the effort reaped its rewards.
While Cartwright’s diaries contain many references to gardening, not much documentation is available concerning the early gardens of the Moravian missionaries. The Moravian Brethren, also known as Unitas Fratrum (Unity of Brethren), established their first permanent mission post in Nain in 1771, approximately 240 kilometres north of Sandwich Bay. The Moravian mandate was to Christianize the Inuit, but also to trade for whalebone, furs, fish, and seal products. The mission garden was characteristic of even Moravian station in Labrador, producing root crop staples for winter consumption and employing many limit workers. According to the Moravian diaries, Nain was chosen for a mission site because the land was even and had “a good soil for grass and garden stuff or other produce. An account of the newly established Nain mission, written in 1773 by a Moravian visitor to the mission, mentions that “they have a small sandy garden and they raise sallads in tolerable perfection. By the end of the nineteenth century mission gardens had become extensive operations, painstakingly fenced for protection from the wind, fertilized with fish offal, and utilizing raised beds and cold frames to nurture the harvest.
The Hudson’s Bay Company established its first Labrador post at North West River, at the head of Groswater Bay. The climate here, not subject to the cold Labrador current, is considerably warmer than along the outer coast, and the soils tend to be sandy.
The HBC’s first attempts at gardening seem to have been in the summer of 1842, when the posts under District Chief William Nourse’s charge “experimented on a small scale with the cultivation of various vegetables.” Nourse bad placed an order for a variety of seeds including, “1/2 lb Early Dutch x 1/2 lb Swedish Turnip with a little Radish, Lettuce & Cabbage seeds.” Nourse also wished for potatoes, and for livestock to produce manure for gardening. With a little salt fish, the potatoes would, he maintained, provide for many a winter’s meal. (Nourse’s wish was granted in 1844 when two cows with calf and seed potatoes arrived on board the HBC cargo vessel The Marten.
The only recorded results of the 1842 experiment originate from HBC employee George McKenzie, who was stationed at Sandy Banks Post along the Churchill River. On January 1842, McKenzie wrote to Nourse that “I have been very successful with the Gardens, having housed thirty six Barrels of Turnips. The utmost I thought we would collect was ten Barrels. By all indications, McKenzie was a committed gardener for he also sent a “sample of seeds and grain” to Nourse “which came to maturity at this place last summer.” We learn a little more about McKenzie’s sample of seeds and grain in a letter from Nourse dated January 9, 1842, to an HBC employee in Rigolet: “It appears be [McKenzie] bad tried several kinds of seeds merely as an experiment and be has sent me some of the Grain-Consisting of Wheal, Buckwheat, Barley, Oats, and Pease.” Reminiscent of Cartwright’s attempt at naturalizing grains seventy years earlier, the idea may have been to provide fodder for livestock.
As with Cartwright, identifying which plants might grow in a region was a practical way of ensuring good health, of reducing the cost of maintaining a post, and of avoiding the tedium of salted, tinned, and dried foods; “something fresh which is a great luxury when we should otherwise have to live on salt fish or Pork alone,” wrote Nourse. The HBC continued to garden intermittently at their various posts in Labrador. A somewhat famous Labrador garden of the mid-1800s was that of Donald Smith, later Lord Strathcona, chief factor at North West River between 1850 and 1869. Smith had seven acres under cultivation, much of it under glass. He grew turnips, peas, cucumbers, potatoes, pumpkins, melons, cauliflower, barley, and oats, as well as a large flower garden. He also kept a bull, twelve cows, two horses, chickens, a dozen sheep, and goals. By 1865 small garden plots next to planters’ homes had become part of the rural scenery in the North West River region, undoubtedly spurred by Smith’s agricultural project. Potatoes and turnips had become staple crops, in 1882. Reverend Frederick Ebenezer John Lloyd, touring portions of Labrador in his capacity as a representative of the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel, remarked, “I remember seeing the most beautiful bed of lettuce I ever saw at a Hudson Bay Company’s settlement, 250 miles to the Northwards on the coast of Labrador.”
It was, in fact, the references to lettuce, cresses, and mustard greens that first interested me in Labrador’s earliest gardeners. Why would seemingly fragile plants be chosen for a cold-climate environment? As I eventually learned from my own developing gardening efforts, all three species thrive in cool weather, and grow best in the absence of hot sunlight. Cartwright’s attempts at growing cucumbers may well have paralleled my own—keep trying. Interestingly, the potato, a ubiquitous garden vegetable since the mid-1800s, does not appear to have figured prominently for Cartwright and the Moravians. These early gardens were functional rather than decorative. They required considerable efforts to clear, till, and fertilize, and were, furthermore, attempted at the end of a five-hundred-year period of climatic cooling known as the Little Ice Age. Newfoundland poet Percy Janes recognized gardening as a reasonable metaphor for human effort and the following lines resonate well with the resilience and hardiness of Labrador’s first gardeners:
“so little fruit, but from the toil
make bodies like our enemy the rock;
and yield a subtler harvest to our souls,
tempered in patience and low expectation that may save
to help us endure in rougher gardens than the spud-and-turnip field.”
Marianne P. Stopp is an archaeologist and researcher working in Newfoundland and Labrador. Her research interests include food storage and preservation among prehistoric and early historic aboriginal groups in Labrador. This article originally appeared in the April-May 2001 edition of The Beaver.
by Christopher Moore
Charles Pachter’s home/studio/gallery in central Toronto is a sleek temple of sunlight and glass that he calls Moose Factory. Its walls are covered with his work. Images of redcoat soldiers and loyalist governors’ wives hang alongside portraits of moose and Macdonald and Margaret Atwood. Pachter portrays hockey players, Newfoundland houses, and the Canadian butter tart. He put the Queen on a moose and called the image Monarchs of the North. In 1981, he depicted the Supreme Court judges in their red-and-white robes and named the result The Supremes. “Several years later, when women became Supremes, I did a more inclusive version,” Pachter says.
Pachter’s War of 1812 series is displayed at Fort York in Toronto and his First World War series is at the Ontario legislature. His flag images and moose paintings seem to be everywhere. Where did this fusion of dramatic art and the classics themes of Canadian history come from?
When Pachter was a kid in Toronto during the Second World War, his Canadian-born Jewish parents moved to a predominantly Anglican north Toronto neighbourhood. All around, the loyalist, royalist faith of old Toronto and old Ontario prevailed. He grew up surrounded by traditions that were bred deep into those known as the FOOFs — Fine Old Ontario Families — who still dominated his city and his country. That fascination with roots and loyalties stayed with him, even as he remained slightly outside it.
Following studies at the Sorbonne (French literature)in Paris, the University of Toronto (art history), and the Cranbrook Academy of Art (graphics and design) in Michigan, he launched himself as a popular and prolific artist in Toronto.
Documentary realism has never seemed a driving force in his historical painting. Pachter’s art has been intensely of our time: vivid colours, strong design, irreverent attitudes. But his subjects have come from the deep traditions of Canada, the ones he observed growing up. For Pachter, making art and engaging with Canadian history have become inseparable.
In August of 2016, Pachter will take the imagery of Canada to the mother country. An exhibition of recent Pachter works and classic images will open in the Great Hall of the historic Charterhouse in London, England, before moving on to Lady Margaret Hall in Oxford University.
He takes pleasure in his success, not just at making a career in art, but in creating images that live in the imagination wherever people take an interest in the idea of Canada. For Pachter, Canadian history has been a route to both artistic inspiration and commercial success.
It was the verge of Confederation, and people in what was then the Province of Canada were in fear of an imminent invasion.
For months, agitators in the United States had been inflaming the passions of thousands of displaced Irishmen who were angry at Britain.
Fresh from fighting in the American Civil War, the battle-hardened veterans were eager to attack Britain’s North American possessions in a bid to regain autonomy for their homeland.
Sure enough, in early June, an army of Fenians, as they were known, crossed into Canada at the Niagara Peninsula.
A hastily trained force of volunteer soldiers met them on the field in the Battle of Ridgeway.
The Irish-Americans easily overcame resistance, at first, but eventually retreated.
Although little remembered, the event is seen by some historians as a turning point in Canadian history.
It was the first the battle fought exclusively by Canadians, as opposed to British troops stationed in Canada.
On June 2-3, 2016, a conference related to the event will take place in Fort Erie, Ontario.
Billed as the first of its kind, the conference will offer keynote speeches, panel discussions, and specialist information sessions to present an overview of the restive political climate of the time.
Learn more about the conference here.
And see letters and journal entries of people involved in the conflict at this blog.
Also, read a fully story about the Batle of Ridgeway in the June-July issue of Canada's History magazine. Subscribe now!
by Paul Jones
In my days as a newbie genealogist more than twenty-five years ago, I’d just show up on a Saturday morning at a Family History Centre run by the LDS Church and ask for help. Invariably, the volunteers were more than happy to share their expertise. The same was true at libraries, archives, and other institutions across the continent.
Since then there has been an explosion of educational and training resources available to family historians, including in print (books, periodicals, tipsheets); online (tutorials, webinars, YouTube videos, blogs, wikis); from institutions (academic programs, continuing education, distance learning); and via societies and suppliers (workshops, seminars, conferences, and cruises).
No one person could possibly keep up with everything that’s on offer. If confused, simply Google the needed training, e.g.“introduction to genealogy Alberta.”
As someone who has programmed genealogical conferences and workshops, I can say with some confidence that the lecture most likely to elicit a large attendance would be one along the lines of: “How to find eight new ancestors in the next five minutes.” Genealogists are oriented towards results and tend to dismiss the “fluff.”
That’s too bad. My most memorable lessons illuminated principles and processes. I’ll never forget the late Ryan Taylor poring over a problematic census document involving an ancestor of mine. The respected Canadian genealogist’s finger moved down the page, then hovered over a line I’d barely glanced at. “Yes, I think he’s probably the key. Always check the neighbours,” he said with a wry smile.
“Always check the neighbours” turns out to be a special case of a broader principle: Extract every item of usable data from your documents. You’d think this approach would appeal to results-oriented, value-conscious family historians. Yet many of us are in such a hurry to confirm our hypotheses that we see only what we’re looking for.
Another lesson from my days as a genealogy student: Dr. Penelope Christensen’s methodology courses for the National Institute for Genealogical Studies, based in Ajax, Ontario. It was there that I learned of the three linkages that must always be proved in every family tree: parent to parent, parent to child, and child to adult.
Most genealogists understand the first two linkages because they typically yield important paperwork. But how many false pedigrees have been propagated because an adult was incorrectly linked with the records of a similarly named child?
So, my advice to fellow genealogists: The next time you attend a conference or a workshop, don’t ignore the fluff. Genealogy is not only about the data. Analysis is equally — perhaps more — important.
Just two of the five elements of the Genealogical Proof Standard deal with sources; three involve the evaluation, interpretation, and analysis of findings.
Not all methodological instruction is flagged as such. Case histories can be a delightful way of absorbing a lesson while enjoying a good story. Yet these classes are usually among the least-attended at any genealogy gathering, on the specious grounds that one doesn’t have any ancestors who lived in the time and place of the case history. That certainly used to be how I thought, too. Of course, what makes a case history great is its resonance with similar situations elsewhere and elsewhen.
In the end, go with the training that suits your learning style. But do take an eclectic view of how your learning objectives can best be met.
Eight ancestors in the next five minutes may sound like a good thing, but only if you don’t spend the next twenty years researching someone else’s family.
And, for non-genealogists, the appropriate response to a helpful family historian is not, “How do you do it?” Sherlock Holmes identified this syndrome back in 1887: “If I show you too much of my method of working, you will come to the conclusion that I am a very ordinary individual after all.” Instead try, “You are a god.” That should do nicely.
Paul Jones, a former publisher, is a writer, a consultant, and an avid genealogical researcher and volunteer.
by Shane Peacock
In the fading light of a northern night on August 28, 1951. a phantom plane appeared over Timmins, Ontario. Witnesses claimed it was yellow, one wing a slightly different shade, and that as it flew by it gunned its engine as if to send a message. Speculation was that it carried two men. One was a young Canadian legend and the other bore a name of even greater fame. But these men were ghosts—for they had already vanished from life. Two days earlier they had disappeared into the northern wilderness and become part of our nation’s history and an enduring mystery.
Bill Barilko was born in this gold-mining town in 1927 to parents of Russian heritage. It was no different than many other northern communities of that era, carved out of endless miles of coniferous trees and rock. The people worked hard, stuck together, and on cold winter nights gathered at the local arena for some release: in the fast and violent sport of hockey.
Not much of a skater but always full of courage, Barilko started as a goaltender. But as his skating skills improved he became a defenceman, a bashing, daring, spirited player who gave every team he ever played for immeasurable spine. Ascending to the local junior team in his teens he was spotted by a scout from the Toronto Maple Leafs, who admired, above all, his evident and shining pluck. Big, blond, and smiling, he stood out like some sort of hero, fated for something extraordinary.
By age eighteen, he was in Hollywood. There he played for the lowest of the Leafs’ three farm teams—the Wolves, new members of the Pacific Coast League—in the city of dreams but far from the big time. Barilko quickly made an impression. He loved to knock down any opponent who dared to enter his end of the rink, not just into the boards, but often, it seemed, right through them.
When the Leafs convened at St. Catharine’s, Ontario for their 1946-47 training camp, they were in a rebuilding stage, despite having won the Stanley Cup just two seasons earlier. An astounding six rookies would make the team, among them the speedy, effervescent Howie Meeker and half their defence. Barilko was deemed green, despite an intimidating presence, and was returned to Los Angeles. But the big club kept its eyes on him.
The new year rolled in and the team was doing well until late in January; injuries began to plague them and they stumbled. Soon they were down to three defencemen and fans waited to see which veteran defender would be promoted from their top farm team in Pittsburgh. Then a surprising and inspired choice was made by the Leafs’ irascible owner and general manager, Conn Smythe, one he would never regret, but that, in its own way. would always haunt him. He asked for Bill Barilko.
By plane, train, and taxi, he came to save them, almost crossing the continent from southwest to northeast. When he finally arrived, on February 3, 1947, Toronto was blanketed in one of the worst snowstorms in decades. Just nineteen years old, he entered the dressing room for his first practice, glanced at the slumping team and legends like Turk Broda, Syl Apps, and Teeder Kennedy, and baldly announced, “Boys, the sun is shining!”
Almost from that moment onward they became champions of unprecedented achievement.
His first game was in Montreal against mighty archenemies the Canadiens. The Leafs were savaged 8-2 on the score sheet, undone by another Rocket Richard attack. But under the surface something else seemed at play. Smythe, upset by his team’s recent timidity, was not displeased with what he saw, and especially with his new recruit. Barilko stood his ground like he would die for the cause. Instead of shying away from the terrorizing Richard, he seemed to seek him out, anxious to flatten him and his team. Big Montreal captain Butch Bouchard, used to having his way with many opponents, collided with Barilko and turned on him as if to destroy the youngster’s spirit before it grew. But instantly the teenager was facing him, anxious to do battle. The next day the Toronto papers took note. And so did his teammates.
They won their next game, against Boston, and Barilko scored. Throughout the rest of the schedule he had his ups and downs, but he never retreated and kept improving his play. The playoffs began, and the Leafs rolled over the Detroit Red Wings and young Gordie Howe into the finals. There they encountered the Canadiens: Richard, Bouchard, Elmer Lach, Toe Blake, and ambidextrous Hall-of-Fame goalie Bill Durnan, he who had exclaimed to the press that he could not fathom how Toronto had even made it to the playoffs.
Durnan would eat his words. Storming back from a 6-0 first game loss, the Leafs look the series in six games, winning the Stanley Cup on home ice in front of their adoring fans to become the youngest champions ever.
That season and the three that followed were virtually ruled by the Toronto Maple Leafs. Youthful, swashbuckling, and violent, they were English Canada’s team, their games broadcast nationwide by the legendary Foster Hewitt. In 1947-48, Barilko led the league in penalty minutes, scrapped with anyone who tested him, and kept administering those thundering bodychecks. “If he got a piece of you.” said a teammate later on. “you hurt for a week. He just tore you up.” Enemy Montreal boss Dick Irvin despised him. “I hate that Barilko so much,” he once said. “I sure wish we had him with Canadiens.”
Off the ice he never seemed to stop smiling and was the team’s practical joker. He called himself “the Kid” and exuded confidence. In both good times and bad he told his teammates, “Don’t worry about the Kid.” The optimism was infectious.
Even in the midst of battle his sense of humour was evident. Just before delivering bone-rattling hits he would warn his opponents. “Boop-boop.” he would say … and then flatten them. An early proponent of the slapshot, he could also score goals, usually in key games. In the playoffs, he excelled.
Two more consecutive Stanley Cup victories followed, making the Leafs the first team to win three in a row. In 1949-50 they seemed poised to win a fourth when, in the seventh and deciding game of the semifinals, they lost to Detroit in overtime. A shot from a distance drifted towards the Leaf goal, hit a body, and went in, ending the dynasty. The puck had struck number 5 … Bill Barilko.
The team rebounded for the 1950-51 season and found themselves in the finals against the Canadiens. It would be French Canada versus English in, arguably, the greatest Stanley Cup final ever. All games went into overtime, something never seen before or since. Richard got one winner, the Leafs’ Sid Smith, Kennedy, and Harry Watson the others, as Toronto went ahead three games to one. Another win would mean victory. The nation was gripped by the confrontation. The game had never been played like this. And the stage was set for a moment that will be remembered, said one journalist, “as long as hockey is recalled.”
On April 21, 1951, Montreal and Toronto were locked in the most titanic struggle of nearly forty years of competition. Maple Leaf Gardens was packed. Going into the final minute, Montreal led 2-1, but with 32 seconds left the Leafs tied the score in dramatic fashion. The crowd, hoarse from a thrilling, tension-filled game, went wild. But the climax was still to come.
The Leafs came out of their dressing rooms on fire and began pressing the Canadiens, trying to finish them. Soon they had them reeling. Meeker, bursting into the Montreal end on right wing, gathered up a pass from Watson and sailed behind the net and out the other side, trying to jam the puck in from there. But goalie Gerry McNeil made the save and fell. The puck bounced back to Meeker. As big Habs’ defenceman Tom Johnson rushed towards him and nailed him up against the end boards, he deftly poked the puck out towards the goal crease. It came right to Watson in front. He shot. McNeil, still getting up, stretched sideways to stop it. But the puck hit the Canadiens’ Bouchard and squirted towards uncovered Leaf centre Cal Gardner. He would have a clear shot, and McNeil was out of position. Bouchard couldn’t reach him; neither could nearby Rocket Richard. But as Gardner eyed the puck, a sort of apparition appeared on the scene. Two minutes and fifty-three seconds had elapsed in overtime.
This was in the days before hockey was televised, but an old Gardens’ film has preserved the moment. As the puck comes towards Gardner, he and six other men are in the frame—Meeker, Johnson, Richard, Bouchard, Watson, and goaltender McNeil. Then a flash begins entering. First a stick, then a big. bold body: “Bashing Bill” Barilko. Against all good sense, he vacates his blueline position and seizes his moment. He takes the puck on his backhand and fires a bullet towards the net, falling as he does. Airborne, he watches the puck dart over the falling McNeil’s right shoulder and into the net. Flashbulbs go off; light fills the Gardens for split seconds. One light belongs to Nat Turofsky, the hockey photographer who would record many feats but never one greater than this. His photo of Barilko scoring as he flies through the air is one of the most famous in sports history.
The Gardens erupt as never before. The sound from the crowd is so enormous that a journalist turns to another at his elbow and can’t be heard. He scribbles on a scrap of paper: “If the man from Mars were to walk in here, what would he think?”
Barilko is lifted onto the shoulders of his teammates, the Stanley Cup is brought to centre ice, Captain Kennedy proclaims this his greatest thrill in hockey. The crowd keeps roaring, refusing to leave; the band plays “AuId Lang Syne.” Across the nation, listeners sit by their radios, enthralled.
“Hollywood Bill” Barilko has produced a classic Canadian moment. He is twenty-four years old. He has been in the NHL for four and a half years and won four Stanley Cups. And he will never play hockey again.
Four months later, on Friday, August 24, he has an argument with his mother Fay in Timmins. As daring in life as his dart from the blueline against the Canadiens, he is always in search of adventure. He is preparing to go fishing on Seal River, where James Bay meets Hudson Bay in near-arctic Quebec, and will fly with a local dentist who is an amateur pilot. But Mrs. Barilko lost her husband on a Friday and the day haunts her. She has a premonition of danger and begs Bill to go another time. Within hours he is gone.
On the morning of August 27, his sister Anne receives a phone call from a friend. Bill and his pilot, expected to have returned the previous evening, are twelve hours overdue. The day lengthens. Worry turns to fear. Several local pilots take to the air, scouring the vast wilderness below’ the lost plane’s route to the north. Area media get word, and by August 28, the news is spreading nationwide. The next day all the Toronto papers run front-page headlines, photos, and extensive articles. Barilko Lost in Northern Wilds, says The Daily Star. The Globe and Mail ominously reports that bad weather is descending upon the James Bay region. And the Evening Telegram shouts in big, bold letters Barilko Alive. The report would prove false.
In Timmins, Fay Barilko is inconsolable. She is found wandering the streets in a heavy downpour, drenched to the skin.
By August 28, the Ontario Provincial Police are involved, as is the Royal Canadian Air Force Rescue Coordination Centre in Trenton, Ontario. The formal search begins the next day. Headquarters are set up at the little airport in Kapuskasing, a pulp-and-paper town on Highway 11 in the north. This will be the largest search-and-rescue operation in Canadian history.
Right from the outset the entire story is engulfed in an aura of mystery. Even the names involved seem from a Twilight Zone episode. Blond, twenty-four-year-old Barilko has vanished in a yellow plane called a Fairchild 24. In 1611, Henry Hudson disappeared in the same area, cast adrift by a mutinous crew, floating away into an enduring Canadian mystery. Three hundred and forty years later Barilko’s plane is piloted by his friend the dentist, Dr. … Henry Hudson.
Clues seem endless and reports of sightings are many. A hydro crew working near the Ontario Northland Railway line near Coral Rapids north of Cochrane saw a light in the sky on the evening of August 26, like the light of a small aircraft. The next day a bush pilot spots smoke rising from the same vicinity. But when the RCAF blanket the area “tree by tree” and “inch by inch,” they find nothing. Cree people are asked to help search the James Bay coast. Some report having seen the plane just south of Rupert House near the Nottaway River. That area is soon combed, to no avail.
The number of planes made available grows from four, to ten, to seventeen, to twenty. They search north of Timmins, north of Cochrane, northwest of Kapuskasing, above the waters of James Bay, on subarctic islands, and in northwestern Quebec. Nothing. The area covered grows to more than 500,000 square kilometres. The Globe and Mail runs six front-page stories in two weeks. All rumours and evidence are thoroughly investigated, the tiniest bush fires are checked, empty canoes and tepees are searched. Nothing.
Authorities begin to piece together what happened before the plane vanished into the night. After two days of fishing, Barilko and Hudson had left Seal River, heading south for home on the morning of Sunday, August 26. They arrived at Fort George and its Hudson’s Bay Company depot midway down the eastern coast of James Bay about noon. There they unloaded several items—sleeping bags, a tent, cooking equipment—in an apparent attempt to lighten their load. Then they landed at Rupert House, 260 kilometres farther south, near the Quebec-Ontario border. They refueled. Dan Wheeler, local HBC clerk, warned Hudson of a storm brewing to the south; Hudson replied that they had 120 pounds of fish in their pontoons and were anxious to get home before it spoiled. Barilko walked quietly along the dock, looking out into the Canadian wilderness.
Moments later, despite Wheeler’s warnings, they tried to get airborne off the water. The plane seemed to labour. It looked weighed down by something. It dipped and dived in the air and barely climbed over the trees. A Cree woman commented that it seemed to be doing tricks. The storm, with its gusting headwind, awaited them in Ontario.
But what did all of this mean? What did it say about the fate of the men and their plane?
The search went on into a second week and then a third. More plumes of smoke were investigated, a piece of airplane plexiglass was checked in a farmer’s field near Kapuskasing, yellow clay on riverbeds (as yellow as the Fairchild 24) produced false hopes, photo reconnaissance came into use, and planes and men became so overused that a Dakota aircraft crashed near the end of a runway and almost produced more tragedy. But the intensity of the search didn’t lessen. “We’ll fly at 500 feet and allow for only a mile visibility.” said Searchmaster G.J. Ruston of a new tactic. “With as much territory as we have to cover, that amounts to looking under every twig.”
But looking under every twig proved insufficient. And finally, during the last week of September—after thirty days of searching, 1,354 air-hours, using twenty-eight planes and covering 843,443 square kilometres—the search was called off.
In Toronto the Leafs were heartbroken. Turk Broda, Feeder Kennedy, and Bill’s brother Alex had helped raise money for the “Search for Bill Barilko” fund aimed at mounting a ground search party. But as the team gathered for training camp on September 23, hope seemed gone. They cancelled their victory banquet. Barilko’s name was placed at the top of the roster list and his equipment was hung in his stall. But he never came.
Conn Smythe, known for being a skinflint, offered a $10,000 dead-or-alive reward and posted it in the papers. He had been golfing with Kennedy when he heard that Barilko was missing. It had cut him like a knife. As the search proceeded he had spent time watching films of the Leafs’ Cup triumph and told the press gathered at camp: “I can’t get over the way that Barilko stood out.” The young man from the north had been his “bounce boy,” the unflagging spirit of the team.
The air of mystery about Barilko’s disappearance continued. It grew beyond speculation about where the plane went down or how the men might be surviving, trapped in a muskeg desert, besieged by black flies and mosquitoes. Mystics and mediums were drawn to the case. Some said Barilko was still alive, and there were whispers that he and his pilot had fled somewhere for some secret purpose.
Stories like the sighting of the ghost plane over Timmins had fuelled such things. It had been said that a yellow aircraft had appeared suddenly out of the sky. buzzed down low over the Hudson home, gunned its engine, seemed to stall more than once as if to attract attention, and then turned toward nearby Porcupine Lake, where Hudson frequently landed. It was a single-engine craft with pontoons and one wing a slightly different shade: all fit the description of the lost Fairchild 24. Mrs. Hudson saw the plane and so did a close friend. She joyfully ran from the house and drove to the lake to pick up her husband and Bill Barilko. But the plane never appeared. Later the sighting was discounted, said by some to have been a Lands and Forests search plane, but a week later “a yellow object on a hill” near Timmins reawakened interest. Days later searches were still being made in the area.
Other circumstances deepened the sense of mystery. Barilko had come from a gold-mining town. He had invested in gold. It had long been said that some miners smuggled bits of gold out of the depths in their pockets. But one had to get it into the right hands to profit from it. Dentists, working with gold fillings, were perfect mules, and Dr. Henry Hudson was a dentist. This melded with accounts of the plane being weighed down by something much heavier than 120 pounds of fish, extensive police involvement in the search, the story of the Timmins ghost plane, and the fact that the crash had eluded a microscopic search of the north. Together these factors provided the background for a great deal of intrigue.
Other stories were even more bizarre. One claimed that Barilko had fled to the Soviet Union and was teaching the Reds how to play defence. In 1951. at the height of the Cold War and Joe McCarthy, rumours, speculation, and conspiracy were all the rage. When a plane Hew off the radar screen in the area where North American military were daily tracking the skies for Soviet invasions, such a disappearance was ripe for rumour.
But above all, Barilko’s fame may have been behind the romanticizing of his final chapter. He had achieved the ultimate in a Canadian boy’s dreams … and then vanished. In the twentieth century, mystery seemed to go hand in hand with many famous deaths, often media-driven. In Bill Barilko people may have seen their own hoped-for immortality, and they just couldn’t let him go.
Something strange happened to the Toronto Maple Leafs after the summer of 1951. They stopped winning. Right from the minute they played their first exhibition for Princess Elizabeth and Prince Philip at the Gardens in October, they seemed to lack something. The team that had won four Cups in five years was knocked from contention in four straight games in the spring. Over the next six years, they missed the playoffs three times and once even finished dead last.
No player would be allowed to wear Barilko’s number again, and his loss hung over the team like a curse. It was said the Leafs would never regain the Stanley Cup until Barilko was found. But in the spring of 1962, eleven years and one day after he scored his dramatic goal, Punch Imlach marched a new team into Chicago and reclaimed the Cup. The Daily Star announced on its front page that “the jinx” was over.
Five weeks later, Gary Fields, a pilot with Lands and Forests out of Cochrane, was flying a routine flight towards James Bay. About 100 kilometres north and a little west, he looked down and saw something glinting amongst the dense black spruce trees and muskeg below. In seconds it disappeared. He and his colleague returned home thinking they had seen the remnants of a well-marked plane crash. When they told their story to others, jaws dropped. The search was on again. But for a week the plane eluded pursuers. Finally, on June 6, they found it.
“The mystery surrounding the disappearance of hockey star Bill Barilko 11 years ago has finally been cleared up,” said the Toronto Telegram. But was it?
The aircraft was twisted, half-buried, and camouflaged. It was a yellow Fairchild 24 with CF-FXT on the wing, and there were two skeletons in the cockpit. All that made sense. But others things didn’t. The plane was facing north rather than south, its instruments were in a nose-up position and its pontoons, those sealed pontoons that had been so full of fish, or gold, or whatever, were … empty.
Personal items found on the scene made it obvious who the dead men were. But because there were no dental records to confirm their identities, neither body was officially identified. An inquiry was held into the cause of the crash in Cochrane on October 18, yet despite lingering questions, it was treated as an open-and-shut case. Though the Search and Rescue report blamed the crash on pilot inexperience combined with bad weather, other investigators, most notably the Department of Transport, said there wasn’t enough evidence to know for certain. The question of how 120 pounds of fish could have disappeared from the pontoons while in the air between Rupert House and the crash site was never explored.
In Overtime, Overdue, the only book written about Barilko, John Melady pursues such issues. A search-and-rescue expert, he feels that many things about the case remain mysterious. The size of the RCAF rescue operation was enormous, unprecedented, and hardly fitting for the loss of two men in a single-engine plane. The number of OPP officers assigned to the search seemed abnormal too. Melady, knowing the size of the plane’s gas tanks and that they had been refuelled in Rupert House, says lack of gasoline could not have caused the crash. Like others, he also wondered what happened to the fish. His research revealed that the OPP had ordered that no one touch the plane until they arrived, and when Gary Fields saw it a short while later, he noticed that the pontoons had been sliced open, again raising rumours that the plane was full of gold bullion.
Melady quoted an article in the Toronto Telegram the day after the plane was found. In it Peter Worthington called the OPP investigation a “hush-hush assignment.” “Although the hush has surrendered the victims,” he wrote, “the mystery still lingers.”
Bill Barilko has now disappeared into our popular history. In the real world he was replaced on the Leaf defence by Tim Horton, another hard-rock from the north who died violently and became a legend. In song Barilko was memorialized in the 1990s by Canadian rock giants The Tragically Hip. The haunting and elliptical “Fifty Mission Cap,” about a man who finds Barilko’s story on the reverse side of a hockey card, was often sung at packed Maple Leaf Gardens concerts as sweater number 5 hung from the rafters near the spot where he scored his goal.
Late in life Turk Broda was asked to name the greatest defenceman who ever played in front of him. “Bill Barilko,” he replied, without hesitation. He would have been a great one, said others, and had only scratched the surface of his potential.
In a tavern north of Toronto in the year 2000, Harry Watson sits down to reminisce. Seventy-seven years old, with white hair and glasses, he still gets excited when he thinks of his former mate and that moment on April 21, 1951, when, poised on the ice five metres in front of the Montreal goal, he saw Barilko whiz past and time stood still. Eleven years later, he bore his friend’s light casket at a Timmins church.
When he talks of “the Kid” he turns wistful. “It didn’t matter where we went, he’d walk into a room and he’d just seem to light up the room. People loved to he with him. … It was really something.”
It’s a phrase he uses more than once. The conversation turns to the goal, the roar of the crowd, the plane’s disappearance, and rumours of gold smuggling. Bill Barilko’s life seems like a fairytale, a mystery, a story that never happened. But it did.
“It was really something,” says Harry Watson.
Journalist, playwright, and screenwriter Shane Peacock’s young-adult novel, Bone Beds of the Badlands (third book in the Dylan Maples Adventure Series from Penguin) appeared in fall 2001.
This article originally appeared in the August-September 2001 issue of The Beaver.
by Joanna Dawson
The 1930s were a tough time to be in politics. When the Great Depression set in, Canadians were among the hardest hit and many were forced into a life of poverty — a result of falling wages, high unemployment rates, and plummeting prices on exports. Helpless in the face of a worldwide crisis, Canadians looked to the government for help.
When governments proved unable to restore the faltering economy or provide enough relief, voters didn’t hesitate to give the job to a new leader. After all, they had nothing to lose.
Throughout the 1930s, Canadian governments at all levels were frequently turned over as voters tried to find someone who could to alleviate the effects of the depression. It’s in this context that we look at Prince Edward Island’s 1935 election and Walter Lea’s unprecedented political victory.
Walter Lea was born on February 10, 1874 in Tryon, Prince Edward Island. After a modest upbringing and education, he went on to manage the family farm. Lea always had an interest in politics and in 1915 he was elected to the House of Assembly. A few years later, he was reelected and named Commissioner of Agriculture.
When Premier Saunders joined the Supreme Court in 1930, Walter Lea was called on to form the Liberal government. He became the first farmer-Premier and undertook many initiatives to improve and diversify the island’s agricultural industry. However, his reign was short-lived and lasted just over a year. In 1931, his government was defeated when the Conservatives won 28 of the island’s 30 seats. Lea assumed the seat of Leader of the Opposition.
Four years later, Prince Edward Islanders were at the polls again. Lea was still vying to become Premier, although he was now suffering from poor health. He directed his campaign from a hospital bed for six weeks, and then from his home for the remainder of the election. He made only one public appearance during the entire campaign.
The circumstances of Lea’s campaign made the election results all the more astounding. When the votes were counted, Lea’s Liberals had swept the province. It was the first time in the history of the British Commonwealth that a party won every political seat and was left without an opposition in the House. Members of the Liberal party unofficially took on the role of opposition, providing voices of criticism to the government. In addition to assuming his duties as Premier, Lea took on the portfolios of Agriculture and Provincial Secretary.
Newspapers across the country carried the story of Lea’s victory, which reflected a broader change in Canadian provincial politics. When the Great Depression hit, many Canadian provinces elected Conservative governments with the hope that they would be able to control the economic crisis. However, by the mid-1930s, little had been done to alleviate the effects of the depression and voters began to elect new governments. Prince Edward Island was the last of six provinces to replace their Conservative government with a Liberal one. Just three months later, a similar change played out on the federal stage, as Mackenzie King’s Liberal party defeated the Conservative government.
Walter Lea’s victory was an unprecedented feat that was not be repeated until 1987, when Frank McKenna won all fifty-nine seats in New Brunswick. In the context of the Great Depression, Lea’s landslide win indicated that the people of Prince Edward Island, like the rest of their fellow Canadians, were ready for a change. Sadly, Walter Lea passed away a few months after his historic win. However, regardless of who was in charge, it seems that no government could stop the depression and Canada’s economy didn’t improve until the outbreak of the Second World War.
Canada has declared 2010 the year of the British Home Child to commemorate the thousands of poverty-stricken children sent here from Britain between 1869 and 1948.
Throughout the late nineteenth century, Britain was faced with poverty, pollution, and social inequality. As a result, hundreds of thousands of people — especially children — were forced to live in horrible, slum-like conditions. These children had limited options. Many went “into service,” and toiled in workhouses or served as indentured labourers. Others lived on the streets. By the late 1800s, it was impossible to ignore how bad the living conditions had become, and organizations in both Britain and Canada decided something needed to be done.
The British Child Emigration Movement officially began on October 28, 1869, when Maria Rye — an English social reformer — brought sixty-eight children from London and Liverpool to Canada. Rye wanted to free children who were too poor to survive on their own, and provide them with opportunities they couldn’t find at home. The plan was to have younger children adopted by Canadian families, and to have older children provided with shelter and food in exchange for farming help until they were eighteen-years-old. Both the Canadian and British governments supported the program; Britain, because it reduced the costs of having to support struggling children; Canada, because it provided workers-in-training and young children that could be adopted.
Rye’s initial movement spawned a number of organizations, and over 100,000 children were sent to Canada between 1869 and 1948. In total, 150,000 children were sent to Canada and other Commonwealth countries such as Australia, New Zealand, and South Africa. Most of the children were between six- and fifteen-years-old, but some were as young as six-months-old.
Living conditions varied for home children. Some were treated very well, and found loving and caring families to adopt them. Others, however, were faced with a variety of circumstances not unlike those they left behind in Britain. Education suffered horribly. Many farming families saw the home children as free labour that would take up the slack created when their own children left home to attend school. Many home children grew up with limited or no education. And while most of the children were called orphans, two-thirds of them had a parent in Britain. Most parents were just too poor to keep them.
Prime Minister Gordon Brown issued an apology to home children on Feb. 24, 2010. Brown also met with former home children to listen to their stories first-hand. His apology followed a similar one from Australian Prime Minister Kevin Rudd on Nov. 16, 2009. Canada has proclaimed 2010 the Year of the British Home Child, and various efforts are being taken to ensure the past is not forgotten. Websites and organizations are trying to gather as much information about home children as possible, and are trying to help families trace their origins and ancestors. The Canadian Post Office will issue an honorary stamp in October, and there are plans for a Special Anthology Book and Memory Quilt.
Do you know a Home Child or are you looking for one?
- Follow our genealogy group!
- Listen to a podcast with the grandchild of Barnardo children.
- BritishHomeChildren.org
The official 2010-Year of the British Home Child in Canada website. It contains information about the various projects taking place this year, and includes many stories of past home children.
- Collections Canada
Search for a home child that came to Canada between 1869-1930 at the Library and Archives Canada database.
- Canadian Centre for Home Children
The Canadian Centre for Home Children was opened in 1999. It is located in Cavendish, PEI, the home of world famous orphan, Anne of Green Gables. The Centre’s mission is to obtain information about home children for their descendants.
- Our Roots
Our Roots is a site dedicated to local Canadian histories. It’s a good place to search if someone is trying to track down information about their family’s past.
- TheShipsList.com
Check past ship lists to find when a home child came to Canada.
Magazine to mark Home Children experience with new book.
A special edition anthology book about British Home Children will be published later this year by Canadian Stories magazine to commemorate 2010 as the Year of the British Home Child. The anthology, in conjunction with a memory quilt and Canada Post honorary stamp, will pay tribute to the 100,000 children sent to Canada from Britain from 1869-1948.
Canadian Stories is a literary folk magazine written by or about Canadians. It features writing about family stories, personal experiences, and memories from the past. It includes excerpts from memoirs, as well as stories, and essays speculating about the future. Some of the topics that have been featured include: pioneer days, life during the Great Depression and the World Wars, the joys of moving, country life, vacation experiences, encounters with animals, and the significance of Remembrance Day.
Ed Janzen, publisher of Canadian Stories magazine, is currently gathering stories from all over North America that will be compiled into an anthology book later this summer. As of April 1, Janzen had received over twenty-five submissions, and many more are being collected. The anthology will hopefully be a two-hundred-page collection, and it will be available later this year.
To submit a story, contact Canadian Stories magazine.
See also:
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Agnes Macphail was the first woman in Canada to break into the House of Commons, and she was far more than a token female politician during her long career serving her constituents.
Born in rural Ontario, Macphail overcame the conservative expectations of her family and made a career for herself as a teacher, working at several rural postings. But she soon found her calling in politics.
Macphail was raised by farmers and was acutely aware of the issues they faced. She was elected to represent them in 1921 — the first woman elected to the federal government.
Thus followed a productive political career in both federal and provincial politics during which Macphail fought tirelessly against a barrage of gender discrimination through which she had to constantly prove herself worthy. Even with this added pressure, Macphail championed issues such as worker's rights, prison reform, seniors' pension, and gender equity, making great headway in many areas.
Writer and humourist Will Ferguson admires Macphail over other gender pioneers because of her progressive take on gender equity. Unlike persons case champion Emily Murphy and Nellie McClung, who fought for women's vote, Ferguson says Macphail did not subscribe to the then-prominent maternal feminist camp that serves to further divide the genders. Maternal feminists argue that women deserve a place in politics due to their more gentle, pure and nurturing natures, which would have a positive effect on political doings.
“Agnes Macphail['s approach] was very much equal rights, which is the fact that women deserved the vote not because they're angels and not because they're special, but because they are people with those rights, and equal rights are an end in themselves,” Ferguson explains.
Ferguson commends Macphail for standing her ground in a hostile environment, which she addressed with humour.
“What I really admire about her is that she took no guff from the men, and she was quite quite funny,” he says. “But most importantly she had an immense impact.”
“She went into politics for what she could do, not what politics could do for her.”
Macphail sets the example of a fearless politician that had the courage of her convictions, Ferguson says. She should be respected for standing her ground and keeping touch with her goal, which was to help those she represented.
“She went into politics for what she could do, not what politics could do for her. So there is an integrity to her that we sadly lack in today's leaders,” Ferguson says. “The politicians always start off with these great principles but they soon sacrifice them on the alter of expedience, which Agnes Macphail never, never did.”
-Text by Sandy Klowak

Agnes Macphail was born on March 25 in Grey County, Ontario to Dugald Macphail and Henrietta Campbell.
Macphail graduated from teacher's college in Stratford Ontario and got a job at Gowanlocks near Port Elgin, Ontario, the first of many teaching positions.
Two years after women gained the right to run for Parliament, Macphail was elected to the House of Commons in the first federal election in which women could vote, representing South-East Grey County.
Macphail went as a delegate to League of Nations in Geneva-- the first Canadian woman to do so. There, she was a member of World Disarmament Committee.
Macphail played a large role in establishing a royal commission to investigate Canadian prison conditions, leading to several reforms.
Macphail was defeated in the election, ending a 19-year run as MP.
Macphail was one of the two first women elected into the Ontario legislature, the other being Rae Luckock. Though she was not re-elected in 1945, she regained a spot in the legislature from 1948-51.
Macphail brought in legislation demanding equal pay for equal work for Ontario women.
Macphail died just before Senate appointments were to be announced, for which she was being considered.
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