Chapter 1 - Remembering

October 1966• Algonquin Park, Ontario,Canada

“Common Loons… have four distinct calls. These are the tremolo, wail, yodel, and hoot. The tremolo sounds like a crazy laugh and is used… to signal alarm or worry... The wail is one of the loveliest of loon calls. It is used frequently during social interactions between loons and… to regain contact with a mate during night chorusing... The yodel… is a long, rising call with repetitive notes in the middle and can last up to six seconds. It is used by the male to defend territory... The hoot is a one-note call that sounds more like hoo. It is mainly used by family members to locate each other and check on their well-being.”
Hinterland Who’s Who, The Common Loon

An autumn sunrise slowly burns the mist off the surface of Whitefish Lake. Wilfrid Louie stands on his dock. He looks around the landing that bears his name and across the bay at a bridge that spans the narrows.

The railway bridge was built by lumber baron James Randolph Beech (JRB) when he negotiated a red pine timber license in Algonquin Park. Shipping by rail reduced the time and cost of driving the logs down the Bonnechere, Madawaska and Petawawa Rivers.

Wilfrid Louie places an envelope marked “Miriam” on the fish-cleaning table that sits on the dock. There, she is sure to find it. He places a multi-pocketed khaki hunting vest on the middle bench of the boat.

At sixty-nine years, and despite a gloomy prognosis, and increasingly foggy mind, Wilfrid Louie can gingerly step down into the aluminum fishing boat and crank the nine-horsepower motor.

The outboard coughs small puffs of blue in low tones as the boat splits the still water and nudges the remaining mist to either side. Wilfrid Louie takes a deep, deliberate breath.

A loon calls out from the far end of the lake in search of its mate. An ancient creature, the loon is the waterfowl that time forgot – a wiry and greasy bird whose dense bones allow it to dive into lakes in search of perch and catfish. Those same bones are a burden in its frenetic, lengthy take-offs.

Wilfrid Louie pulls up on the sand beneath the railroad bridge. He struggles up the side of the hill dragging the hunting vest until, winded, he stands on the wide railing and looks back across the bay. He thinks to himself – how ironic to stand on this bridge constructed by the Beech family in this very moment.

Wilfrid Louie takes his time to catch his breath and gain control. Seconds and minutes pass as he strings together his life’s events in his consciousness. He struggles against his mind’s recurring tendency to wander.

He rummages through his memories as if they are endless piles of raw footage – holding strips of frames up to the light – tossing most back onto the floor – and splicing together a series of only those that best tell his story.

Wilfrid Louie wonders if the filament between his family and that of the Beech family had been destined to braid from the very start.

He remembers his father, Yee Ah Louie, and his search for fortune. He pictures his mother, Shirley, and his sister, Lilly. He thinks of his friend, David Chase. He remembers the story of a murder.

He struggles to hold the most prized, edited frames all at once within his imagination. And coming back through the haze of his mind’s eye, there is the one he does not want to fade – the one he needs to see clearly in this moment.

Miriam.

Wilfrid Louie sees her penetrative eyes, her wicked smile. He hears her crazy laugh.

Chapter 2 - The Briefing

November 1885 (81 years earlier) • Beech Company Building, Montreal, Quebec, Canada

“…the rich undergo cruel trials and bitter tragedies
of which the poor know nothing…
The poor sit snugly at home while sterling exchange
falls ten points in a day. Do they care? Not a bit…
But the rich are troubled by money all the time.”

Stephen Leacock, Sunshine Sketches of a Little Town

Francis Beech and his younger brother, Peter, climb the stairs to the third floor of the Beech building in Montreal’s financial district. Their father has summoned them to the boardroom.

“There is a silver cookie tray being passed around the parlour – and we Beeches are stuck in the bush chopping down trees, sweating our arses off,” grumbles the towering, bearded patriarch, James Randolph Beech (aka JRB).

He is seated at the head of his boardroom table in his custom-built oak and leather chair – specially adapted for his unusual height. The pendulums of the ornate case clock that stands in the corner of the room can be heard. 

Francis Beech is alert as he and his brother take their seats at the table. He has learned to observe subtle hints of a shift in their father’s mood – whether the élan in the striking of a match or gloom in his tone of voice.

“There is enough economic spillage with the construction of a rail line to transform our family’s destiny,” says the lumber baron packing tobacco in his pipe. “Beyond the construction contract, the key to financial windfalls is the land adjacent to the railway that will skyrocket in value. The millions of empty acres in the bush and prairie are nearly free for the taking. Those who know the future route or, better yet, choose its path can make investments that will create trust funds for generations.

I’m frustrated at having missed out on the construction of the Canadian Pacific Railway, but determined to play a role in the next chapters. The BC regions of the Shuswap and Okanagan represent our golden opportunity for an extension railway line.” JRB rises from his chair and slowly walks behind his sons – around the perimeter of the boardroom.

“I’ve used my connections in Ottawa and Victoria to lobby for the contract. This is our chance to join the ranks of the nation’s powerbrokers. They’ll never invite us in. We need to knock down the bloody door,” he says pointing with the tip of his pipe.

“The necessary contributions and handshakes have been made. You will travel as my representatives to the town of Barkerville, in the interior of British Columbia, for a discreet meeting with our partners to close the deal.”

Francis and Peter Beech

Although not giants like their father, the brothers are of above average height and topped with shocks of sandy blond hair. Two years separate Francis from his younger, more extroverted brother. Francis is vigilant and disciplined, Peter is fearless and driven. They have attended the best schools – standing out on both the ice rink and debating team.

“Peter knows that I’m here. That’s why he’s not afraid of being so reckless,” Francis said over breakfast to their mother, Beverly Beech, while his brother slept in. And while it would never occur to Peter Beech to study the nature of their bond, to Francis it is a topic of some importance. “Ours is a relationship of razzing camaraderie and unspoken, unshakeable loyalty,” he explained to his mother. “And our complementary skills make us a formidable duo.”

The favourite moments of their childhood occurred during summers with Beverly at the family cottage on Lake Massawippi in Quebec’s Eastern Townships.

These were long sunny days – far from scrutiny – spent reconnoitering the forest, building forts, swimming, and fishing. Beverly let them run wild but enforced the boys’ household duties.

Thanks to their mother, the boys were taught impeccable manners in the meeting and greeting of others – no matter their station – to make eye contact, and to engage in dialogue.

Preoccupied with growing his businesses, JRB did not often join his family at the cottage. On the occasions he did, he was able for the odd weekend to relax – calling his sons for supper by his affectionate nicknames: “Gem” for Francis and “Bull of the Woods” for Peter.

With the wail of loons as their background music, they took their time enjoying family dinners in August and early September on the sprawling porch that overlooked Lake Massawippi. Dessert was typically served a few minutes before the colourful spectacle of sunset.

Over dinner, much to his mother’s delight, Francis would share an insight – an interesting story he had read in the encyclopaedia from the cottage study.

“Did you know that Polar Bears are the most menacing of all bear species and can be over 10 feet tall? They sever a man’s head with one swipe,” Francis explained looking round the table to gauge his listener’s reactions. “It’s possible that members of Franklin’s expedition were devoured by these monsters.”

Peter would, by turn, talk of the boys’ adventures in the forest or on the water.

“You’re a boy of action. A Bull of the Woods!” said his father with a tousle of his son’s thick head of hair. 

At the end of an evening the boys most clearly remembered, their father gifted them pocket watches that he had purchased from Henry Birks in Montreal. Each of the treasured possessions was engraved on the back with the boy’s nickname along with JRB’s family motto: Not good enough – Beeches must be better.

That night, lying in their twin beds, Francis, stared at the ceiling and reflected on the evening.

“I think Father enjoyed my story over dinner. He was looking right at me,” he said. “Don’t you think?”

“I don’t know. Maybe,” replied Peter Beech pulling his blanket over his shoulder. “I don’t get why you worry so much about what people think – even at the rink – especially what Father thinks.”

Francis Beech rolled onto his side to face his brother’s bed. “What’s wrong with worrying about people? You don’t seem to care about anything except what you’re doing in the moment. How is that any better?”

“I do too,” his brother replied. “Maybe you’re right about one thing though – I don’t care who’s watching,” he said rubbing his eyes. “And I think there’s a difference between worrying about people and worrying about what people think. One thing’s for sure, you need to stop looking up at the stands and just play the game.” Peter Beech then closed his eyes and in seconds was sound asleep.

That the boys were destined to become influencers of public discourse and leaders of their communities is widely accepted amongst their teachers and the extended family.

JRB has pondered long and hard his options for the continuance of the Beech Company. For those that are part of the Beech inner-sanctum, although nothing has ever been said by the Founder on the topic, it is speculated that Peter, despite his carelessness, has the royal jelly. In JRB’s mind, however, the question remains open. He holds out hope for a late blooming of thoughtful authority from Francis.

The briefing

The Beech Company boardroom is the envy of the city’s business leaders for its floor-to-ceiling continuous quilted grain of black maple that wraps the four walls and the intricate stained glass above portraying images of industrious French-Canadian fur traders, lumberjacks, and fishermen – although not one French-speaking employee of The Beech Company has ever been promoted above the level of logging camp foreman.

The boardroom table is a solid oak work of art of with opulent birdcage carved legs – customized to a height of 35 inches. More than one company director of shorter stature has abruptly quit the board after experiencing the humiliating sensation of peeking over the top of the Beech family dinner table.

JRB returns to his seat at the head of the table. He methodically refills, taps, and lights his pipe, speaking calmly through the haze of Cavendish tobacco. He describes the three men with whom the boys would be meeting.

“One fellow is long-time business partner and well known to the family. The other two are brothers who wield decision-making power in British Columbia.” JRB stops and scans his sons’ expressions. He embraces the moment of silence between them and watches for a squirm. 

JRB lowers his voice and slows the cadence of his words.

“Don’t mess this up boys.”

“The deal is nearly set – but they’re going to squeeze us one more time… and that’s OK. If you need it to close, propose that each Coolie crew have a white manager. The payroll from these will be collected and transported monthly to Victoria.” JRB pauses and takes a long draw on his pipe.

“Whatever you do – don’t rub their noses in it – don’t remind them that they’re harlots – maintain the façade. You know and they know what this is – there is nothing to be gained by speaking the words.”

“I’m confused,” Francis says. “I thought Chinese coolie railway crews didn’t need managers. Don’t they even have their own cooks and bookkeepers?”

“That’s right. They don’t need managers, so they’ll have them in name only. At three dollars a day per manager and three Coolie crews, there should be enough sweetener to satisfy our partners,” replies his father.

It’s not lost on Francis Beech that this move represents a change for how the family sees itself. They tell each other their success has been built upon the sweat off their brows, shrewd negotiations and, indeed, some good fortune.

“Is there a risk, Father?” Francis Beech dares to ask.

 “The moral calculation comes down to the simple fact that this contract will be granted one way or another by means of graft. Every other prominent Canadian family has done it – and continues to do it.” JRB holds the tip of his pipe in his clenched teeth. “If we are to take our rightful place – this is the next, necessary step.”

James Randolph Beech

JRB is a man of his word who concludes complex deals with a handshake and scribbled notes – known to leave money on the table or even modestly overpay for an acquisition. Far from being gullible or naïve, JRB knows that future partners will consult previous ones and, in a competitive market, he wants to be perceived as the most trusted of dealmakers.

The Beech Company is one of Canada’s largest lumber operations – a modern, integrated organization from harvesting to sawmills whose timber was used to construct Canada’s parliament buildings.

Constantly seeking means to increase efficiencies, JRB has constructed a railway line from Ottawa – through Algonquin Park – to Parry Sound on Georgian Bay to reduce the cost of moving timber from remote tracts.

Family members insist that JRB was destined to be a captain of industry. He was born on a grey, damp November 2nd, 1834 on the farmhouse kitchen table in the town of Massawippi Outlet in Quebec’s Eastern Townships.

JRB’s father inherited and operated the family farm until his boy was 8 years old. It was then he built Massawippi Outlet’s first general store.

And it was in this store that JRB applied the lessons on business that would guide his future success – even as a boy he had an unparalleled work ethic and an uncanny capacity for detail.

His father counted the days receipts each evening, separating the coins into piles on the pine counter. His comments to JRB as the boy tirelessly mopped, dusted and rearranged products were on the day’s revenues. “Four dollars and seventy-two cents, not too shabby,” he would say to his son. JRB didn’t see it that way. Not in the least.

Numbers were to JRB what musical notes were to Mozart. He acquired a large leather-bound ledger that he brought home at night to record and study transactions.

By candlelight in his corner of the house, JRB taught himself about credits, debits, revenue, expense, overhead and margin, factors his father didn’t consider. During the day, he experimented with the placement of products on the counter or at eye-level on the rows of shelves. He handcrafted cards in different coloured inks to describe product benefits and discounts and fixed them to the racking.

His father gave JRB ample leeway and soon found himself taking instructions from his son. “You’re too easily satisfied, Dad. You’re not a fighter,” JRB told him.

Products with the highest margins and those that represented impulse purchases became his focus. If a shop in another town were closing, JRB would swoop in and purchase the entire inventory for pennies on the dollar. In time, he developed a discipline of incremental increases in volume and profit that were the envy of shopkeepers across the townships.

Word got around and discreet information-gathering visits from competitors became commonplace. The province’s merchants murmured, “Who is this retail prodigy and how does he work his magic?”

But it wasn’t magic. It was a painstaking system driven by the stance he first took towards his father – who left him unimpressed – and in time he engraved upon his children.

The end of the briefing

JRB closes his ledger and makes eye contact with each of his boys. “Any questions?” he asks.

They shake their heads. JRB rises and as he exits the boardroom stops and turns to face his sons: “Now, go close the deal. Come home promptly, there’ll be work to do.  And remember, Not good enough – Beeches must be better.”

Little did he know only one son would return.

 Chapter 3 - The Bucket of Blood

November 7, 1885 • Owen Sound, Ontario, Canada  

The music almost died away ... then it burst like a pent-up flood;
And it seemed to say, "Repay, repay," and my eyes were blind with blood.
The thought came back of an ancient wrong, and it stung like a frozen lash,
And the lust awoke to kill, to kill ... then the music stopped with a crash…
Robert Service, The Shooting of Dan McGrew

Francis and Peter Beech depart the head office boardroom, head home to pack, and make their way to Montreal’s Windsor Station. They take the train to Weston Station in Toronto where they catch their connection to Owen Sound – a further eight hours through tiny hamlets and empty bush.

With the trans-Canada CPR not yet complete, the options for travelling west from Ontario are to either pass through the US or embark on a Great Lake steamer at the port of Owen Sound. From there, passengers cruise through Lake Huron on their way to Fort William at the western end of Lake Superior.

The brothers are booked for one night in Owen Sound at The Bucket of Blood. They have first class tickets the following day for the season’s final voyage on the SS Algoma.

Known as the “Chicago of The North,” Owen Sound is a town on the shores of Georgian Bay, 130 miles northwest of Toronto. The Beech brothers are wide-eyed as they walk from the train station towards the intersection called “Damnation Corners” – so named thanks to the location of four taverns - the jewel of these being The Bucket of Blood.

One block to the west, the boys pass the four churches of “Salvation Corners” – home to shady priests, judgemental preachers, vindictive nuns and the dour Women’s Temperance Union whose ill-fated mission is to eradicate the evils of alcohol.

The most futile effort of local prohibition advocates is next door: Seldon House. The desk clerk of this alternative hotel that offers patrons a dry option welcomes any ray of sunshine as it tends to awaken the dormant flies upon the sills, and provide a moment of distraction from the insufferable solitude.

As the Beech brothers arrive at Damnation Corners, they hear a cacophony of music, shouting, and screams emanating from the establishments.

“My God, will you listen to that?” grumbles Francis Beech to his brother. He breathes deeply through his nose. “And the town reeks of tobacco, spilled beer, and stale urine.”

A man staggers down the street towards them shouting angrily. Apparently, he is still participating in an unintelligible dispute with those that have just had him evicted. “What you lookin’ at?” he slurs as the brothers give him a wide berth.

Peter Beech points out a woman displaying frenzied dexterity in the shadows of a darkened alcove.

“What’s she up to?” asks Francis Beech.

“From the looks of it, I’d say she’s relieving some old sod of a sperm retention headache.”

The brothers enter The Bucket of Blood and are greeted by an earnest boy who leads them to a corner booth in the dining area and offers to take their bags to their rooms. They each order the house specialty of pig knuckle – on a bed of sauerkraut with mashed potato.

The Bucket of Blood has walls of twelve-inch pine and oak floors covered in sawdust. About 50 patrons can squeeze into the dimly lit dining area. In the corner of the tavern sits an upright Heintzman piano – one of the first ever crafted in the colonies. The piano is part of the owner’s lucky winnings in an arm wrestling competition along with the services for one calendar year of Tom, the lad who greeted the brothers and can be observed rushing to and fro around The Bucket.

Since leaving Montreal, the brothers have spent their time hashing out their mission and exchanging stories of sport, women, food and drink. Today is no exception. They travel well together – relying on Francis’ discipline for organizing and Peter’s charm for introductions and negotiations. They are, with rare exceptions, considerate and cordial travellers – lessons learned from the earliest age from their mother and reinforced by their father who has zero tolerance for public displays of boorishness.

Seated at a table adjacent to the brothers’ booth are an animated, rotund couple and a dashing young man. The three quaff pints of beer, energetically debate, and share a basket of deep-fried summer sausage with a saucer of homemade German mustard (which extravagance costs them an extra penny).

Lubricated by the ale – they soon catch the attention of Peter and Francis Beech and strike up a conversation.

“Hello!” exclaims the rounder of the two men. “Won’t you join us?”

It is clear from the Beech brothers’ dress and demeanour that they are people of means.

“Thank you very much,” replies Francis Beech. “We would not wish to intrude.”

“Nonsense!” replies the man. “But I understand. Since you are not intruders, we shall have to do the intruding!”

And with that, the couple and their handsome companion slide in beside their neighbours.

Peter Beech winks at his brother and tilts his head as if to say, ‘here goes nothing.’

Francis Beech squints and leans forward. He remarks that both men, oddly, have near perfect sets of teeth.

The stout pair introduces themselves as Edmund and Ruth FitzGerald originally from Antigonish, Nova Scotia but for the past five years, proud citizens of Owen Sound. Edmund is Owner/Publisher of The Owen Sound Times newspaper and he introduces Ruth FitzGerald as his wife and secretary.

The dashing young man shakes hands with the brothers. “Lewis Tichborne,” he says. “Entrepreneur dedicated to those afflicted with miserable mastication… and also advertising sales manager for the Owen Sound Times.” He points to his shining smile and that of Edmund FitzGerald as evidence of his handiwork.

Edmund FitzGerald orders another round for the table. The boy Tom runs over two pitchers of ale.

“Newspapers?” remarks Peter Beech, “Is there money to be made in that business? Seems there’s an awful lot of competition. Back home in Montreal there’s a new one launching and another one closing every few months.”

“They are the lifeblood. Newspapers are the future!” exclaims Edmund.

The Beech brothers are expressionless.

Edmund tries again. “Newspapers weave together the fabric of our communities. They play a crucial role in our democratic lives,” he says with enthusiasm and some spittle. Edmund can tell the Beech brothers remain unimpressed. He leans back, rolls his shoulders, and gives a quick glance to his wife.

Ruth clears her throat.

“My husband’s into highfaluting publisher babble. But from a business perspective, whoever owns the printing press and the means of distribution owns the market,” she explains. “You may have too much printing capacity in Montreal. We’ve got a high-speed Gordon Printing Press – made in New Jersey – it’s the only one in Owen Sound – and it’s gonna’ remain the only one in all of Grey County, if I have anything to say about it.”

Francis Beech sits back to think – as is his habit – and pats down the thick cowlick that sprouts above his brow. Peter Beech leans in to engage.

As does Ruth FitzGerald. “We’re now making more money from advertising than from single copy sales,” she says. “Advertising is the key. Think about it. We are the only means for merchants to get messages in front of customers in a timely manner. And when one merchant starts advertising, his competitors have no choice but to follow. If we could fit more ads in our paper – if we could print more pages – we could increase revenue tomorrow morning.”

Edmund interrupts to point out that Lewis Tichborne is his newest employee, responsible for advertising sales. “He’s breaking records every month.”

“By how much?” Peter Beech bluntly asks.

Again, Edmund FitzGerald pauses and looks to Ruth for the answer.

“We’ve put him on a commission – that’s helped keep him focused. He’s now selling for more than five hundred dollars a month,” she replies.

The handsome young man, Lewis Tichborne, smiles and winks at the brothers. He has been sitting back and paying attention – observing body language. He excuses himself from the booth and looks to the boy, Tom, for directions to the lavatory.

“But what are the paper’s politics? What’s your editorial policy?” asks Francis Beech.

“We’re not really in it for the politics. Whatever’s in the best interest of Owen Sound – that’s our politics,” says Ruth FitzGerald matter-of-factly. “If we serve the community – the community will serve us.”

“This fellow – Lewis Tichborne,” Edmund says in the man’s absence, “knows everybody – he gets to town and in months, he’s best friends with the Mayor, he’s attending all these social gatherings, he’s involved in politics. I think he’s both a card-carrying Tory and a Grit too. He has this way with people. Such a clever young man.”

“Too clever by half,” adds Ruth. “We have to keep an eye on him. I admit he does serve our purposes – the money is rolling in – but there is something about him. He’s smooth and everybody seems to love him.” She shakes her head, wary. “I just don’t know how he feels about other people. As we say back home – half the lies he tells aren’t even true,” she lowers her voice as Lewis Tichborne reappears and heads towards the table. He slows down to smile at a woman crossing the dining room.

The handsome man retakes his seat still looking in the direction of the woman and Peter Beech invites Lewis Tichborne to explain his success.

“What’s that? My success? Well you know, folks love a great smile,” he says – again flashing his flawless (if slightly oversized) choppers. Francis Beech remarks that they oddly resemble rows of unmarked playing dice.

“Let me assure you, they are as authentic as they come – fastened in a base of pink Indian rubber.”

Peter Beech presses the young man for more and motions to the boy to bring another round.

“Look, I just try to get in the head of my customer. I watch the way he moves and listen to the way he talks. What is he thinking? Who are his competitors? What’s his wife nagging to him about? Those things tell me a lot about what he fears and what he wants in life,” says Lewis Tichborne as the playful becomes serious. He picks up a pitcher and fills the glasses of his companions. “I’m never selling advertising, gentlemen. I’m pouring my customers a shot of elixir – specially concocted to treat their innermost ailments.”

The group orders more deep-fried sausage and rounds of ale that the boy Tom promptly serves. Peter Beech tells a joke. When pressed, Francis Beech explains that he and his brother are traveling west on a Beech Company project. He remains vague on details.

“Well isn’t that grand!” exclaims Edmund FitzGerald. “We’re joining you tomorrow aboard the SS Algoma. We’ve got meetings with the owners of the newspapers in Fort William and Port Arthur. What do we call them meetings, Ruthy?”

“Exploratory discussions,” she replies with a grin.

“Here’s to exploratory discussions!” toasts Edmund FitzGerald.

The table raises their glasses and clinks all around.

Ruth FitzGerald downs her pint before the men and pounds the empty glass on the table.

“That’s impressive,” says Francis.

“I come from a family of farmers and soldiers – seven older brothers. You can’t run with the big dogs if you piss like a puppy,” she says to the amusement of the Beech brothers.

“If there’s one thing Ruth doesn’t do, it’s piss like a puppy,” says Edmund squinting at the Beech brothers. “You know I saved her from a rough and tumble upbringing.”

“Thanks Honey,” replies Ruth wiping the beer from her chin. “But did you ever think it might be my rough and tumble upbringing that saved you?”

As the evening goes on, The Bucket of Blood becomes a whirling carnival of booze, music and sloppy humanity. Boundaries and inhibitions evaporate as folks spend their last dollars buying rounds for people they’ve only just met. Buttocks are grasped and necks are clammily bit in the haze of festivities.

“On with the dance, let joy be unconfined!” cries Edmund FitzGerald who now sits before the Heintzman piano and regales the room.

Appreciative patrons purchase a line of pints and shots that balance atop his instrument. A group of chambermaids and kitchen help circle Edmund in admiration – singing along anytime they recognize a tune or catch on to a chorus. His head gyrates and his mouth contorts like a howling Bassett Hound as he belts out the lyrics. He’s a sight to behold, with synchronized kicks of the piano frame the driving bass of Edmund’s high-energy Nova Scotia folk songs.

Young Tom gets up and accompanies him on the violin. The boy’s improvised solos solicit enthusiastic rounds of applause.

Back in the booth Ruth FitzGerald notices the eye contact between Edmund and a singing, sultry chambermaid while Lewis Tichborne and the Beech brothers laugh, order more rounds and sing along.

Out of the blue, Lewis Tichborne turns and asks the brothers, “Who do you think is the toughest fucker in this room?”

Despite his pickled state, and instantly suspicious, Francis Beech replies, “What do you mean? What have you got in mind?”

Truth be told, The Bucket of Blood is home to its fair share of tough fuckers.

One is seated in the opposite corner of the room, regaling his table with the telling of stories of war and adventure. John “Daddy” Hall, dressed in a stylish, if out-dated, red woollen tunic, is the town crier and leading distributor of the Owen Sound Times newspaper.

The others at the table are fixated upon the tall, wiry man as he speaks:

“I have experienced a renaissance that disguises my advanced age. Years ago, I lost all my teeth and all my hair – but thanks to the magic of a woman from Chatsworth – they have regenerated.

Born in Windsor, I was – across the border from Detroit. My father was a Mohawk Warrior and my mother an escaped slave. As a boy, I fought in the War of 1812 with the great Tecumseh we defended Upper Canada from the American invaders.

But I was captured by the bastard Yanks and they sold me into slavery.

For ten years I served a wicked man. Below his perfect blond hair – he was a liar.  All smiles and laughter – he spoke of me in front of folks as if I was family.

And one night I hear him talking to his woman saying he was selling me to a New Orleans plantation owner. Now, I never believed him when he talked of me like family – but sell me to a plantation owner?

That night I knew I must escape. I had free reign of the household, so I got a few hours head start – but the son-of-a-bitch sent bounty hunters and bloodhounds at first light. Most men wouldn’t have a chance. 

I was one step ahead. Before I left, I took a Spanish onion from the pantry. As soon as I hear the dogs, I stopped and rubbed it on my feet,” recounts Daddy Hall, his foot on his knee, demonstrating the technique. “And the bloodhounds lost my scent.”

The boy Tom brings a tray of rye whisky glasses to the table. Daddy Hall flips him a penny tip and his eyes light up as he continues his story:

“I fought for the Crown against the Yankees again in 1837. Then I came here – built a home in Mudtown – and that’s when my teeth and my hair – they all fell out.” He pauses, takes a sip of whisky and continues.

“Some folks say it’s called Mudtown because when it rains, the mud flows down the cliffs. But my neighbourhood is home to escaped slaves and Jamaican immigrants. That’s why they call it Mudtown. In fact, as town crier, I’m the only Mudtowner even allowed in this hotel.

But you see these teeth – you see this glorious hair,” says Daddy Hall as he parts his lips and points to his shoulder length black curls with white streaks. “That was my woman from Chatsworth – the genuine love of my life. She rejuvenated this old man – every last part of me,” he says leaning into his audience – the light of the oil lamp casting shadows on his triangular face.

Young Tom, having put down his violin, sits on a stool beside the bar. He holds a small board in one hand and pencil in the other. Attached to the board is a piece of wallpaper torn from the vestibule of The Bucket. Glancing up every few moments at the hard-partying circle around Edmund and the piano, the boy sketches.

The hotel owner cries out, “Tom, focus boy! Get over there and collect them empty glasses and dirty plates.” Tom puts the board and pencil down on the bar and runs over.

“So, who is it?” repeats Lewis Tichborne. “Who’s the toughest fucker?”

Francis Beech crosses his arms and refuses to answer.

Peter Beech looks around the harum-scarum room. “I don’t know, I suppose it’s that tall fellow with the long hair over there,” he says pointing at Daddy Hall.

Lewis Tichborne gets up from the booth and wades his way across the room to Daddy Hall. He makes a fist, twists his torso, pulls his right arm behind his body, and blindsides the unsuspecting victim with a vicious wallop to the temple.

By the time Daddy Hall gets up, Lewis Tichborne has moved on through the crowd. Enraged and confused, Daddy Hall slugs an innocent man standing next to him.

Francis and Peter Beech cannot believe their eyes. “What. The. Hell?” says Francis Beech. Peter Beech laughs at the insanity.

A Brouhaha erupts involving nearly all present. There are no sides, just a chaotic, uncoordinated melee of drunken punching, kicking, and hair pulling. Extreme levels of intoxication save many participants from more serious injury.

During the fracas, in a drunken daze, Edmund continues to bang away at the Heintzman piano – his driving beat punctuated by his surprisingly well-timed booting of the frame as he howls The Maple Leaf Forever.

“In Days of yore,

From Britain's shore

Wolfe the dauntless hero came

And planted firm Britannia's flag

On Canada's fair domain.

Here may it wave,

Our boast, our pride

And joined in love together, 

The thistle, shamrock, rose entwined,

The Maple Leaf Forever…”

Finally, the music stops, the participants stumble away or lay unconscious upon the floor, and the Beech brothers are the only witnesses alert enough to appreciate the violence and audacity of what comes next.

They are transfixed as Lewis Tichborne stands up and pulls a pair of red-handled pliers from his back pocket. No one has consumed more than him, yet Lewis Tichborne calmly and squarely walks over to the comatose Daddy Hall. He turns Hall’s face upwards, holds his jaw firmly with his left hand and proceeds to extract one-by-one the newly sprouted teeth.

He then moves on to others who are sufficiently inanimate and continues his extractions. His technique has been perfected as he deliberately straddles his victims, applies the pliers, squeezes, and then yanks with leverage.

In a matter of moments his pockets are full of enamel and The Bucket of Blood is every bit deserving of its name.

The morning after

Upon rising the next day no one recalls with clarity the hours that lead up to the previous night’s violent climax. Vague recollections of drink, song, and violence along with general soreness are evidence of the folly. For some, painful, bloody gums add to the mystery.

Neither Edmund nor Ruth FitzGerald has any memory of going to bed. They awake in their room at The Bucket naked, under a blanket with Edmund lying spread eagle on his back and Ruth on her side.

Edmund opens his eyes. It takes him a moment to remember where he is. The base of his skull throbs in pain. He puts one foot on the floor, slowly sits up and stumbles towards the bathroom. As he does so, Ruth opens her eyes and spies a magenta-coloured oblong pattern on Edmund’s left buttock. In a wave of rage she is convinced she knows what it is.

“You dirty Casanova bastard!” she cries. “You were messing around with that kitchen girl last night! And the harlot bit you right on the ass! I can see her teeth marks, you sad excuse of a man!”

Edmund is stunned. While not beyond the realm of possibilities, he truly does not recall any such activity.

“Darling, I don’t think I could have done much – look at me, I’m still drunk. I honestly don’t remember doing anything – whatever I could have done… it must have been harmless,” pleads a terrified and noxious Edmund.

Sunlight comes through the open curtains of their second-floor room. Edmund squints and thinks for a second that darkness would be much better at this moment. Ruth throws the blanket off and rises from the bed. Standing naked, she addresses her equally bare-assed husband.

“You can goddamned well go to Port Arthur on your own. Have your exploratory discussions and show them just how smart you are. Pray to God they don’t ask a single meaningful question because I won’t be there to bail you out!”

She turns to find some clothing from the previous night and she sees them. In the middle of the unmade bed, previously hidden by the blanket – and before that by Edmund’s ass – is his set of flawless dentures.

Ruth FitzGerald stops talking and begins straightening the room – her hostility continues to float nonetheless. Edmund knows enough to remain silent as he dresses and packs. They have only minutes to board the SS Algoma.

Chapter 4 - The Wreck of the SS Algoma (The Beech Brothers’ voyage to Barkerville)

November 8, 1885 • Owen Sound, Ontario, Canada 

The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down
Of the big lake they called 'gitche gumee'
The lake, it is said, never gives up her dead
When the skies of November turn gloomy…

Gordon Lightfoot, The Wreck of The Edmund FitzGerald

Aboard the SS Algoma

The Algoma is a game-changer.

Deemed the safest in Canada, she’s a luxurious 264-foot, modern marvel constructed in Glasgow, Scotland for The Canadian Pacific Company.

Francis and Peter Beech are duly impressed as they cross the gangway. “Isn’t she beautiful?” Peter asks.

“Anything that carries us away from this miserable backwater is beautiful in my books.”

Until the transcontinental railway is completed through the rugged Ontario bush the Algoma and her sister ships, the Alberta and Athabasca, are the means of transportation for freight and passengers from Georgian Bay to Port Arthur at the western end of Lake Superior. There, travellers connect to the railway and can head west.

Ships of this size cannot pass through the Welland Canal, so after the ocean crossing, the vessels were sliced in two at Montreal. Wooden blocks plugged the open ends and tugs pulled them through the locks and across bodies of water until they were reassembled in Buffalo. The final stages of assembly and finishing touches were performed in the shipyards of Owen Sound.

A glittering coalescence of brass, white gloves, velvet and single malts – the Algoma is a gem of refinement in the austere hinterland of Northern Ontario. There is room for 200 passengers on the opulent and spacious first-class level. Another 300 can be accommodated on the more spartan steerage level below.

In the name of safety and modernity, she is fully electrified with not a single open flame on board. Deck lighting is courtesy of large glass-covered Edison lights. Attentive porters illuminate electric lighters for the cigars and pipes of first-class smokers.

There’s no need for candles or oil lamps as cabins are equipped with electric reading lights. When the Algoma sails at night, the inhabitants of Manitoulin Island wonder whether her eerie, electrical incandescence is that of a Great Lakes ghost ship.

A steam engine driving a single propeller supplemented by two sailed masts give the Algoma outstanding speed and stability. She makes the passage from Owen Sound to Port Arthur in less than forty hours. For this, her final round trip of the season in the dicey month of November, the Algoma is far below her passenger capacity.

Edmund and a still-steaming Ruth FitzGerald join the Beech brothers and another dozen passengers in first class. Although his room is in steerage, Lewis Tichborne finds a way to mingle above as well. The now toothless Daddy Hall, a guest of the FitzGerald’s in recognition of record newspaper sales, is among the thirty-five passengers registered on the lower deck.

It’s a sunny autumn day as the ship leaves Owen Sound heading north-northwest on the still waters of Georgian Bay. Lewis Tichborne, Daddy Hall, and Edmund FitzGerald join the Beech brothers on the deck for a smoke and to admire the stark beauty of their surroundings. The sky is clear and the men hear the haunting tremolo calls of the last two loons to migrate south in the shallows off White Cloud Island.

“Turn a map of Ontario 45 degrees clockwise and the land mass bears a striking resemblance to the form of an Indian elephant,” Edmund FitzGerald explains to Peter and Francis Beech. “Essex County becomes the trunk; Niagara, the front legs; The Bruce Peninsula is the tail and our little town is tucked tightly beneath the wagger – Owen Sound is the malodorous rectum.”

The Beech brothers laugh and the others in the group, who had heard Edmund’s description many times before, nod in approval.

“That explains the stench of Damnation Corners,” says Francis Beech.

“My boys, we are leaving the aptly-named Grey County. A portion of God’s creation that – apart from an annual eight weeks of sunshine – is completely devoid of colour,” says Edmund FitzGerald. “Folks in this town have little else to do but drink, fight and fornicate – but, importantly, for those eight precious weeks they also find time to fish.”

“Then why in the world is Owen Sound home for such a glorious vessel?” asks Peter Beech. “I’m sure there were other options.”

Edmund FitzGerald clears his throat. “Owen Sound won the contract for the final fittings and maintenance of the CPR ships over them arseholes in Collingwood thanks to the sacrifice of the Owen Sound labourer who – in solidarity with shipyard owners – promised a ten percent reduction in wages. Equally important – was the plan to have workers from Mudtown perform the most hazardous tasks at half a white man’s wage,” he says with a wink directed at Daddy Hall.

A few hours into the trip, the first-class dining room is set up for afternoon tea. A remarkable string trio plays Pachelbel. Two long tables covered in linen are prepared with an impressive assortment of sandwiches, beverages, condiments, cakes and cookies. Fine china and silver complete the presentation.

Edmund FitzGerald fills his plate with sandwiches – cut in delicate triangles and crusts removed – of ham, Colman’s mustard and thinly sliced pickled cauliflower. He has a well-steeped Darjeeling tea with a spot of milk. Ruth FitzGerald prefers a cup of Earl Grey and a few shortbreads. Francis Beech chooses a cup of English breakfast, egg salad sandwiches and a handful of ginger snaps. Peter Beech, who has the heartiest appetite, piles an assortment of pretty well everything both sweet and savoury onto his lunch-sized plate.

The interloping Lewis Tichborne helps himself as well, inspecting samples, placing those of interest on his plate and returning others to their trays.

The group sits at a round table in the sparsely attended room. Francis Beech concludes the setting is entirely civilized. “I approve,” he says with a playful grin, sipping his tea. Observing the buffet, he spots a delicate hand come out from behind the table and snatch a shortbread from a silver tray.

“Good heavens! Would you look at that!” Francis Beech exclaims pointing to the fully revealed arm blindly feeling its way around the selection of goodies. Lewis Tichborne jumps up and marches to over the table to identify the culprit.

“I know you!” he cries.

The boy Tom stands up.

Peter Beech calls him over to the table. “Tom!” he hollers. “What the hell are you doing on the ship?”

The boy sheepishly approaches. “I heard you talking last night at The Bucket. It sounded like quite the adventure so I decided to see for myself.” 

“Did you tell anyone? Do your parents know? Does your boss know?” asks a concerned Ruth FitzGerald.

Tom shakes his head.

“Well then you’ll be our guest,” says a smiling Peter Beech pulling up a chair and moving a plate of treats in front of the boy. “Join us for tea!”

Tom carries a sketchpad under his arm that he places beside the chair. Francis Beech takes notice of it. The boy has drawn a landscape of the arching, windswept trees of Manitoulin Island. Francis passes the drawing around the table. Shaking his head, “Is there anything this kid can’t do?”

Come evening, first-class passengers and a fair portion of the crew gather again in the dining room. The ship’s chichi chef, originally from Chalon-sur-Saône in France, has finally mastered the Algoma’s electric stoves and while his handmade menu cards read Boeuf Charolais, in actuality, he delights his guests with a dinner of Grey County beef tenderloin served rare with roasted herbed baby potatoes and a creamed horseradish sauce.

Meanwhile on the bridge, Captain Moore is pleased with the time being made. He prefers to navigate the islands of Lake Huron prior to complete darkness. The Captain has made known to the powers that be at Canadian Pacific that he finds November excursions to be foolhardy risks for limited rewards. Glancing at his slim manifest for this trip, he thinks that upon his return he will have it sent to Montreal to reinforce his point.

The skies cloud over and the seasoned mariner knows this night will provide him with little to no moonlight. Moore strolls around the perimeter of the deck to take in his observations and greet any passengers braving the cold winds.

Still sporting their white summer uniforms, the first-class waiting staff gather the dinner and dessert plates and then wheel silver carts of after-dinner drinks through the dining room.  Francis and Peter Beech request a glass of port.  “Just leave the bottle,” says Lewis Tichborne, winking to the waiter.

Entertaining the guests with smooth banter between each number is the leader of the string trio, a much-travelled musician from Montreal. Peter Beech approaches him and suggests he give Tom a chance to join in the performance. In a musical voyage around the world, the group delights with renditions of Vivaldi, Bach, Dvorak, and a sprinkling of Klezmer arrangements. The talented boy finds a way to contribute on each piece – transforming the group into a quartet with his lively violin.

Francis Beech is in a reflective mood as the Algoma cruises into the narrowing St. Mary’s River that connects Lakes Huron and Superior. He leans towards his brother’s ear, “Here we are, surrounded by this dense, primeval wilderness on either side. God knows what hidden beasts keep an eye on us or what lurks behind the first few feet of bush. All the while, we are cocooned not one hundred yards away within the safety of this magnificent, modern ship. It’s a curious thing.”

Peter Beech smiles and clinks his brother’s glass of port. “You think too much – and about all the wrong things… You want to know what I’ve been pondering?”

“What’s that?” replies his brother with a smile.

“This Edmund FitzGerald fellow doesn’t impress me much – bit of a twit actually – but Ruth FitzGerald – she’s someone we need to keep our eye on. If we want to show Father that we can deliver results for the company, it’ll be by hiring super-sharp people like her.”

Francis Beech shakes his head, “A woman? Really – to do what?”

The music stops and the maestro introduces his trio and their young violinist. “Ladies and gentlemen, I want to thank our special, unexpected guest – from Owen Sound, the young stowaway, Tom Thomson.”

A last round of drinks is served. The Algoma briefly docks at Sault Sainte Marie permitting the passengers to stretch their legs before re-embarking and tucking into their cabins for the night.

Gitchi-gami

The Ojibwa call Lake Superior Gitchi-Gami, which means “great sea.” 350 miles long and 160 miles wide, it is the largest freshwater lake in the world. As the ship emerges from Whitefish Bay into Superior, the temperature drops below freezing and snow begins to fall.

A tailwind pursues the Algoma. In order to provide greater stability on the rolling waves, Captain Moore orders the sails up. The Captain has the ideal disposition for his calling and decades of experience on the water. Resolute under pressure and clear in his commands, his crewmembers never describe him as warm or friendly. But they do appreciate Captain Moore’s coolness and predictability.

The swirling snow eliminates any visibility. The view from the bridge of the ship is hypnotizing with squalls of flakes flying towards the glass. A wet-behind-the-ears seafarer may have panicked under the conditions, but Captain Moore calmly instructs his crew to measure wind speed, make the appropriate adjustments and maintain the ship’s charts accordingly.

It’s late and, despite some unease, Captain Moore retires to his cabin for some much-needed rest. His tossing and turning precedes a more pronounced rolling of the Algoma. He awakens after a short, fitful doze and returns to his command.

Through the windows of the bridge, forty-foot walls of water greet the Captain. “This November blizzard is turning into a gale, gentlemen. All hands to the pumps,” he says without a whiff of consternation. Captain Moore immediately orders the sails lowered.

Crewmembers follow his directions running off to the masts at the stern and bow. They have hardly two feet of visibility on the open deck. The waves of Superior begin to toss the Algoma as if she were a cork upon the sea. Passengers sit up in their beds, their white knuckles gripping rails, walls and each other.

Captain Moore’s normally stoic face betrays his alarm studying the charts at the helm. “Hard starboard!” he hollers hoping it is not too late to head out onto the open lake. Waves of numbing water roll over the deck and she has almost completed her turn when an unnatural squeal of twisting steel and a shuddering deceleration lacerate the Algoma.

It is a simple miscalculation. The tailwinds are stronger than the crew calculated – and the Algoma is moving two knots faster than contemplated on the charts.

Isle Royale stands in the way and the ship strikes a granite shoal.

Hysteria ensues. Desperate for reassurance, Edmund FitzGerald frantically emerges from his cabin and grabs a rushing crewmember by the collar only to be met with an expression of terror.

The Algoma stops her forward movement and is hinged upon the shoal – rising and crashing down upon the rock with each violent swell. Captain Moore knows that this cannot continue for long. He surveys the situation and judges the waves too formidable to permit the launching of lifeboats. Panicked people gather in the first-class dining room, situated towards the stern in the back third of the ship.

Water floods the fractured hull of the Algoma and she begins to bend, pressuring deck planks to splinter and snap. Francis Beech thinks the sound, as she is again lifted and dropped upon the granite, is like the cry of some prehistoric creature. The electric pulse that weaves through the ship’s decks and cabins sparks, crackles, and is finally extinguished.

Peter Beech’s eyes adjust and he runs to the Steerage level below and bangs on cabin doors. Most are empty – he enters in total darkness calling and feeling his way around the bunks. He rushes through hallways sensing each oncoming wave as it rises and braces for the inevitable collision upon the rocks. As passengers are found – mostly women and children dressed in nightgowns and pyjamas – he directs them up the stairs towards the dining room.

Francis Beech runs to assist his brother in the rescue effort and when confident that the steerage level is empty, they join the others in the first-class dining room. A shocked and shivering collection holds onto handrails and bolted-down tables. Terrified parents tightly grip their weeping children.

It is then that the bow finally brakes away from the Algoma, splitting down the middle of the huddled group of travellers and tearing apart the first-class dining room. Parents are separated from shrieking children, lovers are torn from one another and the broken-off bow is pulled towards the open lake and sucked into black, merciless Lake Superior.

The debris-strewn stern remains inclined on the shoal locked in its repetitive, rising and pounding cycle. Every few moments, a wave washes over the remaining deck – and yet another wailing passenger is carried away.

Peter Beech again rises to action. He finds a rope and together with Francis threads it through a railing on the stern. “If the rest of this ship goes down, we’re all done for. Our only hope is to ride it out,” he yells as the brothers and Captain Moore weave the rope around Ruth FitzGerald, Edmund FitzGerald, Lewis Tichborne, a dozen other crew and passengers, and the railing.

In the panic, at the other end of Algoma’s remaining shell, Daddy Hall and a group of eight other crewmembers and passengers choose a different tactic. They climb the rigging of the rear mast hoping to rise above the terrible waves.

Each party now faces the other – one tied to the railing the other clinging to the higher rigging. To climb down the mast and attempt to cross the deck to join the others on the guardrail means certain death. To untie oneself from the railing surely brings about the same destiny. Each group makes its wager. A thrashing, tragic spectacle takes place over the longest night.

As each monster wave approaches, Captain Moore focuses his eyes upon the silhouette of the men on the rigging and counts their number. After the white water engulfs them, and then washes away he performs another tally. His helplessness in the face of the scene as their number slowly dwindles is overwhelming. Unable to turn away or to provide succour, the unflappable Captain shudders in sobs.

Their muscles weakened by temperature and fatigue, the men desperately search for means to grip the slippery poles. One youthful crewmember leaves his bleeding right-hand digits wrapped in rope and tied in place while the rest of his person is sucked clean off the mast.

In time, the bull-headed Daddy Hall is alone upon the rigging. Eyes swelled and blinking, with each surfacing he looks around as if surprised that he still clings to life.

Daddy Hall wraps his raw-boned limbs around a pole and locks them in position. While above the water, he gums blasphemous accusations towards the heavens and words of encouragement to those tied to the railing.

As the eternal night ends the stern finally stops rocking and lodges itself in the crevice on a slight angle. The winds die down and heavy flakes of snow fall gently upon the survivors.

Captain Moore releases himself from the rope. Peter and Francis Beech follow suit. They search for blankets and clothing in benches and cupboards. The others untie themselves as well. Hypothermia now becomes their greatest risk. Daddy Hall descends from his perch. The survivors from the railing hug him as if he is once again a returning war hero. The air is heavy with grief. No one speaks.

Young Tom finds his violin in its case – still dry. He turns the pegs slowly and tunes each string. The boy’s purple fingers grip the instrument, his small body sways, snow gently falls and he begins to play a melancholic In The Bleak Midwinter as the first light of dawn appears.

The horizon is slowly revealed and Peter Beech cannot believe what he sees. The jagged, steep shore is like a mirage – only 50 feet from the wreckage. The water between ship and shore, however, is rolling, deep, and deadly.

Daddy Hall is equally incredulous. A strong swimmer, he has many times swum the length of Owen Sound harbour and despite or perhaps due to his exhaustion judges these 50 feet to be an inconsiderable challenge.

He suddenly dives into the water and begins to swim towards the shore. Although thoroughly soaked from his overnight ordeal, he is not prepared for the glacial temperature. His breaths are short and his normally strong stroke is clumsy as he struggles to lift his arms over his head.

As he approaches the shore, he tries to stand on the slippery rocks only to slide back down into the water. The sad sequence repeats twice more and Daddy Hall shakes and shivers. He yells slurred words back to people on the Algoma whose eyes are glued to his struggle.

His hands and forearms bleeding from the sharp rocks, Daddy Hall is finally within a few yards when a powerful wave knocks him forward and his head hits a crag. Gitchi-gami claims one more soul and his body drifts away, face down into the murkiness.

Further cries of grief rise from the survivors on the wreckage.

Moments later, fishermen appear at the shore of Isle Royale. Together with Captain Moore and Peter and Francis Beech they string a line of rope to what is left of the Algoma and ferry the remaining souls to safety on a rowboat. The fishermen bring blankets and make a fire on the shore.

Peter Beech finishes distributing the blankets and stands beside his brother before the bonfire.

“I can’t believe we made it,” says Francis Beech rubbing his hands together to generate some heat. “I was terrified with the thought of either one of us not surviving.”

“Yet here we are, Francis. And now you’ve got quite the story to tell,” Peter Beech replies.

Francis shivers in the crisp air. He looks his brother in the eye. “Peter, you don’t seem to understand. You took foolhardy risks and I can’t imagine having to close this deal on my own – let alone explaining to Father should anything happen to you.”

“No need to worry about me, Francis,” says Peter Beech with a wry grin and a slap on his brother’s back. “If that’s indeed what you’re doing.”

Algoma’s sister ship, Athabasca, later arrives and transports the survivors to Port Arthur where they are met by reporters anxious to interview the survivors.

[NEWS CLIPPING]

The Owen Sound Times

NOVEMBER GALE SINKS ALGOMA

FULL SCALE OF CATASTROPHE IS UNCLEAR

Port Arthur, Ontario, November 9th, 1885

The last voyage of the season of the Canadian Pacific Great Lakes steamer Algoma has ended in disaster.

The Algoma started her trip from Owen Sound for Port Arthur on Wednesday. Early on Thursday morning she ran into a November gale as she exited Whitefish Bay for Lake Superior.

Conflicting news, alarming and reassuring, was current yesterday as this paper went to press. Even after midnight it was said the Algoma was the safest ship in the country and that all passengers and crew survived.

Late last night a Canadian Pacific Company official, Mr. Andrew Spinnaker, announced that the Algoma had sunk after all her passengers and crew had been transferred to another vessel. Later he admitted that many lives had been lost. An unofficial source from Port Arthur stated that only 11 have been saved out of 75 to 100 persons on board. A list of the first class passengers includes the names of Owen Sound Times Publisher Mr. Edmund FitzGerald and his wife Mrs. Ruth FitzGerald.

Whatever the case may be, the sinking is likely one of the most awful in the history of Canadian navigation.

The stories of the disaster are more than usually conflicting, and it is quite impossible to reconcile the bulk of the earlier and optimistic reports with the sinister news received after midnight. There is unfortunately only too much reason to believe, however, that the latest and worse news is nearest the truth.

The main hope that remains is that the sister ships Athabasca or Alberta may have picked up more of the passengers and crew. As to this there is no news at the time of writing.

“When I first announced that the Algoma was the safest ship in Canada and virtually unsinkable, I had good reason to believe that all passengers and crew had survived the ordeal. I can no longer make this assertion,” said Mr. Spinnaker as this paper went to press.

We are of the opinion that no boats should be allowed to leave any of our Canadian ports after the 15th of October, and certainly not later than the 1st of November. The loss of life after these dates during the last decade is something terrible to contemplate.

Chapter 5 - Bloody Barkerville

December 10, 1885 • Barkerville, British Columbia, Canada  

“If you’re gonna make a mistake
Don’t you make it twice
It’s cold on the shoulder
And you know we get
A little older every day”
Gordon Lightfoot, Cold On The Shoulder

The Body

Francis Beech pulls his jacket tight around his chest. There is no wind – but the air is sharp. Barkerville is most frigid on a night like this with no cloud cover. He has stepped out of the Fashion Hotel bar without his gloves, toque or winter coat and feels the cold pinch his ears.

His brother has been gone a long time – too long he thinks – but Francis Beech is in that space between sobriety and black out – drunk enough to have lost track of time – sober enough to suspect something is wrong.

The three-quarter moon shimmers upon the snow. Under other circumstances Francis Beech would have appreciated the beauty of the night.

He reaches the edge of town and spots a body awkwardly slumped over at the foot of a tree. He is difficult to recognize at first. His scalp has been cut from the back of his head – with skin still attached at the brow – and a large flap of magenta flesh hangs forward covering his face. Blood splatters, as if flung from a soaked paintbrush, cover his hands, arms and clothing.

Francis Beech picks up a stick and uses it to lift the hairy piece of flesh and skin to reveal the face. “PETER!” he screams, as he falls to his knees expulsing the word from his core. The horror of his brother’s last moments is frozen in his facial expression.

Francis Beech’s howls of anguish awaken and frighten nearby residents who spill out of their homes wearing coats over their one-piece union suit long johns. He remains kneeled – his face in his hands. Although his extremities are slowly freezing, Francis Beech no longer feels the cold.

Sergeant Dillon Titmarsh of the British Columbia Constabulary is on the scene in minutes. He makes note of contusions on Peter Beech’s face and scrapes on his arms and knuckles. “Move back,” he instructs the gathering crowd as he makes sense in the shadowy moonlight of tracks in the snow surrounding the body.

“He hasn’t been gone that long,” Sergeant Titmarsh says, feeling the temperature of the skin below the collar. “We’re lucky,” he adds, peering into the bush. “Had he not been found ‘til morning, wolves would have devoured his flesh and scattered his remains.”

Barkerville

Barkerville is a gold rush town in the interior of British Columbia. As the yields of California and the Fraser Canyon shrivel, the focus of fortune-seekers has moved northeast to this secluded part of the Cariboo mountain range.

Since the arrival of the original prospectors – mostly from California – one finds Mexicans, African-Americans, Europeans and a sizable community of Chinese, who make up nearly half of Barkerville’s population of 5,000 souls.

And there is the surrounding indigenous population dominated by the Carrier Indians – their tribal name derived from the practice of mourning widows carrying the ashes of their deceased husbands.

Peace and order is expected from and enforced upon this eclectic crew. British Columbia’s political leaders in far-off Victoria know full well that a gold rush attracts the worst of humanity and they empower their constabulary and justice system to keep the town in line.

As Sergeant Titmarsh is fond of saying, “fear is the beginning of wisdom.”

The officer is a no-nonsense, reformed heavy-drinker – he awoke one morning and said “no more” (this time, really meaning it). A barrel-chested bull who stands six feet three inches tall, Sergeant Titmarsh is a veteran of the Canadian West. Ten years earlier, he was a member of Sam Steele’s North West Mounted Police contingent sent to stop American whiskey traders from crossing the border.

Sergeant Titmarsh completes his inspection, instructs onlookers to help Francis Beech to his feet and lend him a coat. He makes note of the young man’s distraught state.

“It’s my brother. His name is Peter,” sobs Francis Beech.

“You boys have any fisticuffs since you got to town? Piss anyone off?” asks Sergeant Titmarsh.

Francis Beech shakes his head.

“What brought you to Barkerville?” asks Sergeant Titmarsh.

“Uhhh, our father sent us here,” replies Francis Beech.

Within minutes, news of the atrocity spreads through the frontier town.

It is the method of mutilation, of course, that is the focus of gossip and speculation in the parlours and boarding houses of Barkerville. A mix of excitement and terror animate the discussions.

Many local residents have witnessed and heard the inhuman sounds of scalpings. They know it to be an excruciating way to die. The nest of sensitive nerves in the head make the pain unbearable and most victims pass out – bringing a ghoulish end to their blood-curdling screams.

Despite being so close to town, no one admits to Sergeant Titmarsh of hearing any such screams from Peter Beech.

The Beech brothers are recent arrivals – but everyone in Barkerville already knows their story.

The handsome duo, hailing from a prosperous eastern Canadian family, arrived with significant fanfare. Before the murder, the story of their adventure was featured in the Barkerville Nugget newspaper: “Barkerville Welcomes Heroes of Lake Superior Catastrophe”

Chapter 6 - Gam Saan (Gold Mountain)
(How Yee Ah Louie made his way to Barkerville)

December 12, 1885 (Two days after the murder) • Barkerville, British Columbia, Canada 

“There are strange things done
in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold”
Robert Service, The Cremation of Sam McGee

Henri Quesnel talks to Yee Ah Louie about the murder of Peter Beech

Working alone in the back lot of the Kwong Lee Wing Butcher Shop, Yee Ah Louie clutches a rope and yanks down with his entire weight. Threaded through two sets of pulleys and tied around the right hind leg, the rope is wrapped to a post as the pig reaches a height of four feet and bleeds out. This being his third kill of the day, the blood streams down, coagulates, and fills a frontier bathtub to the brim. His raw hands and forearms have small cuts and are covered in blood.

The shop is located in Barkerville’s Chinatown at the southwest edge of the settlement and is part of an international business network that imports and distributes goods for the Chinese diaspora.

Yee Ah Louie carts his burgundy pudding to a Métis canteen owner who lives at the other end of town. The convivial Henri Quesnel, grandson of Jules-Maurice Quesnel who accompanied Simon Fraser on his explorations, mixes the viscous vat with garlic, chopped onion, and spices to create his version of boudin. When this delicacy is on the menu at Canteen Chez Henri, some regulars stay away, but his French-Canadian and European guests rave over a presentation that includes ample melted butter, Brussels spouts, and roasted crab apples.

Henri Quesnel shares with Yee Ah Louie the story of the grisly discovery of Peter Beech’s body at the edge of town. Along with Tangia Tura who hails from the Cook Islands, they form a trio that has struck up a friendship founded upon common interests in good stories, good food and good drink – or any kind of drink, really – but preferably good food and absolutely good stories.

“You look like you’ve got your tongue on the ground,” he says as Yee Ah Louie pulls the heavy cart behind the canteen. Henri Quesnel has prepared a plate of Yee Ah Louie’s favourite dish – a variation on traditional Indian pemmican - Saskatoon berries mixed with venison, grainy mustard, salt, and just enough pork fat. He places his creation in the middle of the table and serves it with warm bannock bread.

Henri Quesnel pours two glasses of brandy and leans in to tell Yee Ah Louie what he has heard. Everyone knew who they were - the Beech brothers arrived in Barkerville with some fanfare.  A copy of The Barkerville Nugget lies on the table with the headline: “Barkerville Welcomes Heroes of Lake Superior Catastrophe.”

“It was brutal… a vicious scalping. He must have riled someone up or maybe more than one person – but that killing - that was done by a man with rage in his heart,” says Henri Quesnel whose language, thanks to his education back east, maintains the echo of a French accent and a fair share of tournures de phrases canadiennes.

Yee Ah Louie listens while he eats, wrapping the savoury pemmican in a triangle of bannock.

“It’s a rich family. I hear his father owns all of Ottawa and half of Montreal. They’re going to find out who did it – one way or another. A little bird told me they want to build the railway into the Shuswap. Maybe someone doesn’t like the deal? Who knows, it’s a real basket of crabs. With the scalp hanging there, Sergeant Titmarsh says it might be an Indian. Me, I don’t know. Maybe yes, maybe no,” Henri Quesnel continues.

“All of Ottawa and only half of Montreal?” asks Yee Ah Louie wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “I’d take half of Barkerville, Henri. I crossed the ocean, panned mountains of dirt, had frostbite, and bloodsucking black flies but no fortune for me.”

Henri Quesnel pours more brandy. “How’s the pemmican?” he asks.

Yee Ah Louie smiles and nods in approval, washing down the remnants of a mouthful of bannock with the brandy.

“It is many years since I went to Kowloon harbour and got on a junk for Gam Saan – Gold Mountain. But those boys –” said Yee Ah Louie pointing to the Beech brothers headline in the newspaper. “Those boys were born to fortune. Still looking for mine – and pulling a cart of pig blood to Canteen Chez Henri,” he adds.

“That’s your journey – your story,” says Henri Quesnel. “You want to tell it again Yee Ah Louie? How you and Tangia Tura made your way to Barkerville?

Yee Ah Louie looks up at him. “You want to hear it?” 

“Enweille, it’s a good one – and I’ve got nothing else to do,” says Henri Quesnel putting a log in the woodstove.

He fills brandy glasses again and sits down across from Yee Ah Louie.

Yee Ah Louie tells Henri Quesnel a story

“Just for you, Henri. I will tell the story again,” says Yee Ah Louie with a rare grin.

“My plan was to make my fortune and return to Hong Kong in one or two years – maybe three.

I was bornin 1842, the year of the Opium War. I lived with my mother and my dear big brother, Ah Chu – a good man. My father was not around. He worked the mines in Canton – showed up once or twice a year – sometimes with food or money – sometimes not.

Under the watchful eye of my brother, the streets of Kowloon were my home. In the market, my favourite stall belonged to an old Turk named Affendi. I think he liked me. I loved his lokum – Turkish Delight. I pinched squares when Affendi was busy and not looking. Lokum is a delicious paste of starch and sugar with pistachios and hazelnuts. Affendi added cinnamon, lemon, and orange.

I took the lokum and rolled it into a ball with my tongue to the top of my mouth and pressed it against my front teeth – to make the sweetness last.

I did it every day and a black spot grew from the sugar,” Yee Ah Louie says pointing to the hole in his front teeth. “I stopped smiling because people stared. I chewed bits of white paper – and with my tongue pushed it, like this, to hide the hole in my teeth,” he said demonstrating the technique to his friend.

“My brother, Ah Chu, was there for us. He provided for the family – working in a butcher shop. When we had a problem, we turned to Ah Chu. He fixed it. He taught me to cut meats and clean carcasses and he made good soups.

The death of Yee Ah Louie’s brother, Ah Chu Louie

When he was 20 years old – a hot and humid summer – Ah Chu, started having headaches. He said it was the air in the butcher shop. His headaches got worse and soon he could no longer see. My mother looked for help. But no one could do much.

Near the end, Ah Chu would shake. Mother was superstitious. She told me to hold his body. I don’t know if that was for him or for her. She screamed: ‘Hold him, hold him – stop the shaking!’ Henri, my jaw hurts when I remember those days,” Yee Ah Louie confesses to his friend. The eyes of both men well up.

“Father was at the doorway the next day.

He covered the window with rags and Ah Chu lay down beside him. I remember the scene clearly. He brought lamp, a pipe, a dish of black paste, a bowl, a needle, and a scraping tool.

Father placed a blanket and pillows around Ah Chu and lit the lamp. He took a small ball of the paste and with the end of the long needle, held it over the fire. It grew and turned gold. He pulled the sticky ball into strings and then rolled it and put it in the hole in the bowl.

He held the bowl above the flame and told my brother to breathe it in. I watched my father bend down and talk in my brother’s ear. My brother’s body did not shake and I swear I saw demons rise in the air.

My father was around for two days after Ah Chu died. He sold family goods of value – the ones that mother did not hide under the floorboards. Then he left and I never saw him again.” Yee Ah Louie smirks and finishes the dregs of his glass of brandy. “Another?” he asks.

Henri Quesnel pours another round.

Yee Ah Louie’s voyage across the Pacific

“That’s when I made the decision to go to Gam Saan to make my fortune. I was thirteen. I borrowed money from my uncle and told my mother I was leaving. She was a little sad – not too sad. I stole a piece of lokum to last the journey.

The morning I left Hong Kong, the sky was dark – it was monsoon season Affendi the Turk met me at the harbour and gave me a singing cicada in a bamboo cage. ‘Cicadas are a friend on a voyage. Their song is the music of your journey,’ he said. He was good to me. You know, Henri, I think Affendi knew that I stole his lokum. 

The crew of junk were hard men many countries. They scared me and I stayed in my little corner below deck. After many days on the China Sea, the junk passed south of the green hills of Formosa. The sky was clear and the view was beautiful I went up and breathed in the fresh air. I was excited and I asked if we had reached Gam Saan. The crew laughed at me for the rest of the voyage.

Henri, I know you like this part. Our long trip was only getting started. After days of good wind and good weather, in no time, the sky turned black with terrible winds and rain like knives. The sails were taken down.

The floor of the ship moved up and down and I was scared. I crawled to pull myself through a hatch to see what was going on. Sailors ran around, shouted at each other in Pidgin English, and I will never forget what I saw next.

A rope broke and a sail came loose. It flapped so hard the clapping sound it made was louder than any thunder you’ve ever heard. It looked like it would snap the mast in two and smash through the deck. And that was the first time I saw him. His face had a scar from his chin to his hair,” says Yee Ah Louie drawing the path of the scar upon his own face. “He had a tattoo up his arm and on his back. He was ugly.”

Henri Quensel coughs, laughs, and coughs again. “Yes, I do like this part, Yee Ah. Continue!” he says.

“Well, the man with the scar and tattoo climbed the mast way up high with his knife in his mouth. I watched him cut the lines of the sail – one hand holding on for his life and one hand cutting the rope. Then the sail was released and it flew off into the sky like a giant bird. I could not believe his courage.

The rain and the waves did not stop and the water on the deck was up to our knees – the scar-faced man saved the junk from destruction, but I still worried we would sink.

And I was not ready to die – not then – still not today. Going down in the Pacific to be eaten by a giant squid or disappear in the mud – that’s not my way to go, Henri.

I went back to my hole under the deck and found my bamboo cage in water – no more singing for my cicada. His journey was over and I thought mine was too. I ate all the lokum and waited for the end.

And then, as fast as it came, the storm stopped and we had no more weather after that. The crew sang a song in their different languages getting the extra sail from under the deck as the sun came up and replacing the one that flew away.

I remember the morning we sailed into San Francisco Bay – it was such a beautiful sight – 43 days after leaving Hong Kong. I stood on the deck and the big man with the scar and tattoo was there beside me. I looked up at him and told him that here – very soon – I would pay my uncle, send money to my mother, and make my fortune.

He shook his head and told me that there were no more fortunes in Gam Saan – that we come here to work for companies who control the gold fields. ‘You will be lucky in two years to pay your uncle,’ he said.

California & Yee Ah Louie’s first gold rush

My first three nights in San Francisco were spent with other migrants in a dark, stinking shed at the wharf.

I was hungry and frightened. A man from the Kwong Lee Wing Company named Lee Soon came to see me. He took me by the arm to a table outside with men from the Bureau of Immigration.

He pinched my arm and I nodded to answer their questions about work, family, and politics.

‘No politics,’ Lee Soon said.

The officer stamped and folded the papers and gave them to me. Lee Soon smiled and brought me to a horse-pulled cart.

Chinese companies in Gam Saan help miners – who need equipment and protection. The Kwong Lee Wing Company picked me – and we are still together like with a wife that you want to leave but still have not. Lee Soon gave me a booklet to keep my debts to the Company up to date.

The Kwong Lee Wing Company sent me to Mariposa, California – many hours south of Sacramento – I was there for two years looking for gold.

I paid the Company for equipment and food and I paid the California Foreign Miner’s Tax – $3 a month! It was in Mariposa, I learned to mine and I learned to work. But I made no fortune and I did not send one dollar to Hong Kong.

Yee Ah Louie’s second gold rush in the Fraser Valley, British Columbia

I heard miners talk about a new gold rush. There was no more gold to find in California. I worked my way back to San Francisco stopping for a while to make money at a hotel kitchen in Hangtown.

The Kwong Lee Wing Company paid my voyage to Fort Victoria – a small town with hundreds of tents full of prospectors. 

I camped there and got my mining license, equipment, food and warm clothing. Lee Soon put it all in my booklet.

Most prospectors went up the Fraser River to Yale on paddle wheelers – but a canoe was cheaper. Lee Soon told me what to bring and where to meet the man who would take me.

I met four other miners and we dropped our packs into a big Salish canoe. The driver worked for the Company and he told us where to put our packs. ‘One man, one pack,’ he said but a prospector – a young man with a red beard – had two packs.

‘One,’ the helmsman said again.

But the man with the red beard dropped his second pack in the canoe. The helmsman reached down, picked the pack with one arm and threw it the harbour. I saw the tattoo on the man’s arm and the scar on his face. I knew it was the brave sailor from my voyage on the junk.

The red beard man was angry but the big man with the tattoo and scar looked him in the eyes and that was it.

He took us to Yale, and when we got there, I spoke with him.

‘I remember you. We traveled on the junk from Hong Kong,’ I said.

He remembered me. ‘Yes. You had the cicada in the bamboo cage. It drowned. That was a bad luck… Where are you going?’

‘To find my fortune,’ I told him.

‘Fortune is good,’ said the big man.

‘Come with me. We can work together. I will teach you to mine and you – you will keep us safe.’

That day, Tangia Tura and I were friends and partners.

He is a sailor from the Cook Islands. His grandfather showed him to read the sun, moon, stars, birds, and waves.

He has a tattoo on his back and his arm – and in the middle of the tattoo there is a loon.

We shared my equipment and I showed Tangia Tura the tricks I learned in Mariposa.

Near Cache Creek, 50 miles from Yale, I showed him to pan in the stream.

‘Fill the pan with sand and hold it under water. Make the pan shake back and forth, side to side, and move it in circles. Look at the dirt run out the pan. Break up the mud and sticks with your hand. When the dirt is gone, throw out the stones and roots. Do this over and over and the gold, because it is heavy, will be at the bottom.’

We made more money than I did in Mariposa. We were five years mining in the Fraser valley. I paid my Uncle and sent a little money to my mother. But we spent more on better food and drink.

Following the gold further north to the Cariboo Region of British Columbia

‘Konero pono,’ said Tangia Tura. In his language, it means talking truth. ‘The people we meet here do not konero pono,’ he said.

Tangia Tura can tell when a person lies. He sees in their eyes – and if you lie one time to Tangia Tura, you are done – forever.

Tangia Tura told me, ‘My grandfather said that before you speak truth to others – you speak truth to yourself. That is how to konero pono.’

‘Prospectors are not so good at that,’ I told him.

Because that’s what prospectors do. They tell stories. Makes them feel big. Stories about gold, about fighting, and about women. They tell these stories to themselves – and they tell them to others.

But stories of a new gold rush are life and death. If we are wrong, we lose everything. If we are right, we find our fortune.

There was a story of new gold in the Cariboo. Tangia Tura was not so sure. I said we move fast.”

Henri Quesnel gets up from his chair to refill the glasses and plop another piece of pemmican on the plate in front of Yee Ah Louie. “Don’t stop there,” says Henri Quesnel. “You haven’t got to me yet.” He sips his brandy and retakes his seat.

Barkerville

“I’ll get to you, Henri. I’ll get to you.

Billy Barker and his gang of Englishmen dug 40 feet at William’s Creek to become the richest men in British Columbia.

We carried our food and supplies over 150 miles of fur trade tracks to Barker’s stake.

Soon the tents were gone and the town of Barkerville was here: taverns, restaurants, wood sidewalks, brothels, churches, and a newspaper.

It was late in the season and we set up camp. There was little water in the stream. Like I saw in Mariposa we set up a cradle to wash sand and mud so the gold stays on the sides.

Tangia Tura carried the dirt and the water and I moved the cradle back and forth looking for gold sparkles.

We found some gold – no jackpot – but some gold.

You know this, Henri. The Cariboo is hard life. The summer is hot and the winter is terrible – you cannot get warm.

But the worst is bug season. Blood down our necks and behind our ears – you can’t get away. They are everywhere. You do not sleep at all in bug season. Tangia Tura and I went nearly mad from mosquitos and black flies.

A year prospecting is a ‘dog year.’ It takes 7 off your life. We did four dog years in the Cariboo until one day we saw Billy Barker – the richest man in British Columbia.

He was dirty. His beard was long and his clothes were torn. He stood in a stream with a pan in his hands.

Billy Barker saw us come out of the bush.

‘This is my stake. Not sharing,’ he yelled at us.

‘We’re just passing through,” said Tangia Tura.

‘Aren’t we all!’ said Billy Barker. ‘Who sent you?’

We stopped – shared our spruce beer and Billy Barker drank it all – very fast.

‘Who sent you?’ he asked again. “Was it that she-devil wife of mine?’

Billy Barker was mad – maybe it was the bugs.

We left him – still talking to himself.

‘That is us,’ Tangia Tura said. “If we don’t quit – we will be Billy Barker.”

We made some money in the Cariboo – but our booklets were full of debts. We sold our mining equipment back to the Company.

Abandoning mining and settling in Barkerville, British Columbia

Lee Soon said to me, ‘You will be a butcher for The Kwong Lee Wing Company and Tangia Tura – he can be useful, too.’

So we live in a shack beside the butcher shop.

Before the sun is up, I bleed the game and cut the meats and Tangia Tura visits men who owe money or break rules. He sees gamblers, prospectors, and lonely miners who try to steal a working girl.

One look does the job. They see Tangia Tura’s shoulders and his scar and that’s it. But when his face is not enough, he breaks fingers. And when that is not enough, Tangia Tura has a ‘tewhatewha’ - a club he made from white birch.

Here in Barkerville, at a game of Faro, you see men drop the cards because of visits from Tangia Tura. Go to church, and you find men looking over shoulders because their broken hands can’t hold hymn books.

A powerless trio

And that’s when we met you, Henri. You came to the Butcher shop.

Tangia Tura looked at you.

‘I like Henri. He konero pono,” he said.

I answered, ‘Not Henri, he makes up stories!’

And I remember what you said, Henri. You said, ‘A good story is true. Even one that is all lies.’

So, we became friends.

And when there was an election – Henri, you brought us to the speeches and meetings.

You made us go vote.

But when we got there the man said, ‘No. You are not allowed.’

He showed you a book on the voting rules.

‘No Chinese. No Indians,’ he said.*

And Henri, I remember how you were angry.

Today, I bring pig’s blood to Henri Quesnel who will make boudin.

Together, the three of us make meals, tell stories, and drink. You read The Barkerville Nugget newspaper to me and Tangia Tura. If our meal is good, you put it on the menu at Chez Henri Canteen.

And the story is not over, Henri. Maybe I will prospect one more time – one more chance to find my fortune.”

“You tell a good story, Yee Ah Louie,” says Henri Quesnel. “But you’ve got to stop shovelling the clouds.** You tried prospecting and the Company got richer – not you. Maybe you weren’t so good. But you are very good at what you do today. No matter what we tell ourselves, we become what we do,” Henri says. “And you, my friend, you are a butcher.”

The bottle of brandy is empty. Henri Quesnel clears the table.

“Thank you for the pemmican and the brandy,” says Yee Ah Louie.

“Thanks for the story,” replies Henri Quesnel.

Back at the butcher shop

A snow flurry falls in Barkerville as Yee Ah Louie pulls the empty cart back towards the other end of town.

He parks the cart behind the Kwong Lee Wing Butcher Shop. There, Yee Ah Louie is startled to see Sergeant Titmarsh and Tangia Tura seated on the back porch.

* “The Qualification and Registration of Voters Act” stated aim was to improve the convenience and efficacy of the maintenance of voter’s lists. Henri Quesnel was livid when the Registrar read them Section 13 of the Act. “Nothing in this Act shall be construed to extend to or include or apply to Chinese or Indians.” The Registrar continued: “You,” he said pointing at Yee Ah Louie, “are absolutely excluded. “And Henri Quesnel, as a half-breed, so are you. As for Tangia Tura, you’re a bit of a mystery – neither fish nor fowl. But you most physically resemble a mix of Chinese and Indian and therefore to respect the spirit of the Act, you too must be prevented from casting a ballot.”

** One of Henri Quesnel’s French-Canadian translations, shoveling the clouds (Pelleter des nuages) means to contemplate an unrealistic project.

Chapter 7 - His Teeth Were Set On Edge

December 24, 1885 (2 weeks after the murder)
Barkerville, British Columbia, Canada

“I am a great believer in luck.
And the harder I work,
the more I seem to have of it.”

Stephen Leacock

It is Christmas Eve and the Kwong Lee Wing butcher shop is closing early.

In the back kitchen of the shop, Yee Ah Louie sets a table for his friends, Tangia Tura and Henri Quesnel. He leaves a bell on the counter in case of any last-minute customers.

Yee Ah Louie bounces around the room, sipping his drink and chatting to his friends. He is preparing a meal he first saw served at a hotel in Sacramento.

“A cook told me a story. I was on my way to San Francisco after I left Mariposa. I needed money, so I worked in the hotel kitchen for a while. I remember this meal and I thought when I hit pay dirt – still no pay dirt,” exclaims Yee Ah Louie raising his hands in the air. “But tonight, I make it for you.” He picks up his glass and takes another gulp.

“Yee Ah, you’re like a calf’s tail* in there. What’s going on?” asks Henri Quesnel.

“The cook called it the ‘Hangtown Fry.’ In ‘Hangtown’ there are no police and no judges. When prospectors are robbed, they get rope and they hang the thieves in oak trees.”

Tangia Tura and Henri Quesnel look up at Yee Ah Louie and take in the story.

“One day, a lucky miner from Hangtown finds in the dirt a gold nugget the size of an apple. He goes straight to the hotel and demands the most expensive meal. The cook – who told me the story – mixes eggs, bacon, and canned oysters.”

Yee Ah Louie picks up a hunting knife and drives it through the lid of a sixteen-ounce can.

“The last shipment from Victoria came and I see this can of oysters – I remember the cook and his story. No one will miss one can of oysters. I make ‘Hangtown Fry’ for my friends,” he says.

Yee Ah Louie cuts thick slices of the bacon and cooks them in the cast iron skillet – not too quickly – until just beginning to crisp. He removes the precious pork and collects the drippings.

The hissing and random popping of bacon cooking in its grease is like music to their ears – almost as comforting as the odour that fills their nostrils.

Yee Ah Louie combines eight fresh eggs, half a cup of cream, salt, pepper, a dash of Asian spices and fifteen oysters. He gently blends the mixture. The oysters and their sticky mixture are then dredged in a cup of flour spread evenly on a plate.

“How long will this take? We’re hungry,” says Tangia Tura glancing at his pocket watch.

“Patience, Tangia Tura,” replies Yee Ah Louie, his pupils like pin heads.

He gently places the oysters in the hot bacon grease and cooks them golden brown (about half a minute on each side) – he removes them and sets them aside.

Yee Ah Louie then plops the remaining bacon grease into the skillet and adds the egg mixture. As this thickens, he crumbles the bacon into the mixture. When it is cooked – but still moist – he serves it evenly onto three plates and distributes the crispy oysters on top.

To cap off things off, Yee Ah Louie unveils eight quarts of beer made from molasses, hops, yeast, and the tops of Sitka spruce trees.

“You’ve outdone yourself. This smells so good,” says Henri Quesnel as he digs into the dish.

Tangia Tura wipes his mouth with his broad forearm after washing down a mouthful with a mug of the tangy spruce beer. “Y’er a good cook, Yee Ah Louie,” he says.

Henri Quesnel has the latest copy of The Barkerville Nugget. As the group’s most accomplished reader of English, he often reads aloud articles of interest. In this edition, most stories are about the murder. Henri Quesnel scans the headlines.

“‘Heroic son of lumber baron brutally murdered’,” he reads. “Barkerville residents fear for their safety; Victim’s brother offers reward for information leading to arrest; The victim, Peter Beech and his brother Francis Beech are candidates for the Albert Medal for Lifesaving.”

“Here’s another one – ‘An interview with the leading investigator, Sergeant Titmarsh.’ Hmmm, that’s interesting,” says Henri.

Tangia Tura raises his eyebrows. “What does Sergeant Titmarsh have to say?” he asks.

“Read it,” insists Yee Ah Louie.

“Hey, relax. Breathe through your nose** boys… ‘The experienced Sergeant Titmarsh confirmed that a number of leads were being investigated and that if anyone had information regarding the case to see him at the Barkerville Police station… He would not comment on rampant speculation that the crime was committed by Indians due to the ruthless method of the killing… Many local residents fear a repeat of the Chilcotin massacre from twenty years ago when members of the tribe killed twenty-one white men who were building the wagon road to William’s Creek.’”

“Sergeant Titmarsh came to see me,” says Tangia Tura.

Henri Quesnel stops reading and looks at Tangia Tura.

Yee Ah Louie’s eyes widen and he finishes his mug of spruce beer.

“Well, what did he have to say?” asks Henri Quesnel.

The yanks are coming

Before Tangia Tura can answer, a bell is rung at the counter – Yee Ah Louie rises to see who has entered the store.

A smiling, handsome man (with flawless teeth) looks Yee Ah Louie in the eye.

After the sinking of the Algoma, Lewis Tichborne accompanied the Beech brothers on their journey to Barkerville. Ruth FitzGerald told her husband Edmund to grant him leave with a promise to return to Owen Sound in the spring for the busy advertising season.

Lewis Tichborne has been part gopher, part court jester for the Beech brothers – all while gathering what information he can on their business. In Barkerville, he is sharing a room at The Fashion Hotel with a working girl.

“I haven’t had a good meal of beef since I was on the Algoma,” Lewis Tichborne says to Yee Ah Louie. “I’m not much for these festive feasts of fowl. I’ve got a new honey who says she’s gonna’ cook for me… Gawd, I hope she can cook… You got any carrots, onions and potatoes to go with it?” he inquires.

Yee Ah Louie shows him a rib roast. “Four-bones, good size, good cut.” he says.

“Now that’s a piece of meat,” says Lewis Tichborne. “What the hell, let’s do it. I’m celebrating my new job!”

“I’ll wrap it for you,” says Yee Ah Louie.

With those words, the ever-observant Lewis Tichborne notices the small clump of chewed paper slide out of position from the front of Yee Ah Louie’s teeth.  Yee Ah Louie catches the patch with his tongue and presses it back into position to cover his black cavity.

“What’s that you’ve got there, Chinaman?” asks Lewis Tichborne. “That a hole in your teeth?”

Hearing the discussion out front, Henri Quesnel and Tangia Tura emerge from the back kitchen.

“Good evening gentlemen,” says Lewis Tichborne acknowledging their presence before turning his attention back to Yee Ah Louie. “You see these beauties?” he says spreading his lips to reveal his pearly whites.

Yee Ah Louie studies the flawless choppers.

“I know,” says Lewis Tichborne. “Aren’t they’re perfect? And you wanna’ know something? I am a rich man today thanks to these teeth. People want to look at me and spend time with me because of my smile. I made them myself and I can do the same for you. Every man needs the confidence that comes with a smile,” he says.

“You can do that for me?” asks Yee Ah Louie.

“I most certainly can.”

The terms are set and agreed upon. Lewis Tichborne will return on Boxing Day to remove Yee Ah’s remaining teeth and take the necessary measurements for his creation that will be set on a base of pink-coloured India rubber. Yee Ah Louie agrees, he will pay one hundred dollars for the product – in advance.

Lewis Tichborne shakes hands all around, wishes the three friends a ‘Merry Christmas’ and grabs his roast and accompaniments.

“You didn’t pay for the beef,” says Yee Ah Louie.

“Just take it off your bill,” Lewis Tichborne says over his shoulder as he walks out the door.

The three friends retake their seats around the table in the back kitchen.

They eat in silence for a moment until Tangia Tura shakes his head and speaks. “You think that guy Konero Pono?”

Henri Quesnel looks at his friends. “He sure looks like a funny sparrow*** to me.”

Yee Ah Louie assigned to Coolie Railway crew

The next day, Yee Ah Louie meets Lee Soon, the Kwong Lee Wing Company representative, who agrees to front the monies for the dentures. His only condition is that Yee Ah Louie join a coolie railway construction crew as camp cook in the springtime, where he will be paid one dollar a day.

“You’re crazy to do this, Yee Ah Louie,” Henri Quesnel tells him. “You’ve got a better life as a butcher than as a camp cook.”

“What has Barkerville done for me? replies Yee Ah Louie. “I have nothing to show for my years of sweat.”

* Like a calf’s tail - Henri’s direct translation of French-Canadian expression «Être comme une queue de veau» - meaning to be nervous or performing many tasks at once.

** Breathe through your nose – Henri’s direct translation of French-Canadian expression «respire par le nez» – meaning stay calm.

*** Funny sparrow – Henri’s direct translation of French-Canadian expression «drôle de moineau» - meaning odd duck or crazy loon.

 Chapter 8 - A Moment of Truth

January 1, 1886 (3 weeks after the murder)
The Fashion Saloon, Barkerville, British Columbia, Canada

“We must protect the rights of minorities
…and the rich are always fewer in number
than the poor.”

Sir John A. Macdonald

Francis Beech is up early.

Hunched over his notes, he feels a drop of sweat meander past his eye, roll over his cheek, and hover before falling onto the paper. He clenches his writing hand to stop it from shaking. Facing an imminent moment of truth, he knows that he must salvage something of value from this tragedy.

The fear that consumes him is the notion of coming home – not only without his brother and without an explanation – but adding insult to injury – without a deal. He pictures himself stumbling through explanations as his father silently lights his pipe and glares at him through the haze.

His palms are damp.

The sun is just starting to rise and Francis Beech is already washed and dressed, sitting at his desk in the Fashion Saloon’s sprawling ‘Pay Dirt Suite’ which has been his base since arriving in town.

The Barkerville Nugget described the Fashion Hotel & Saloon as “the largest and most complete establishment… with card room, bar room, and billiard room with 3 tables. We question if there is another such spacious and elegantly furnished saloon this side of San Francisco.”

Before Francis, in a symmetrical pattern upon the desk, are sheets of paper upon which he has inscribed notes on the negotiations.

These include profiles of the three men with whom the deal is to be struck. He has drawn a grid into which he organizes his insights on their respective mandates, and preferences.

Other sheets contain a list of open issues, with columns outlining each side’s position and potential compromise solutions. A sickening wave of anxiety rises up and washes over his body. Francis Beech closes his eyes. He misses Peter most in this moment. It was his brother’s fearlessness and charm that would be crucial in such a situation.

Lewis Tichborne and The Beech Company

Considering how delicate the deal, it may seem odd that Francis Beech consults an outsider on the state of negotiations. His single bold step since the disastrous first meeting with the partners and his brother’s murder is to have named Lewis Tichborne a Beech Company employee.

It was over dinner just before Christmas when they reached agreement. “Listen Frankie,” said Lewis Tichborne. “I can feed you information that no one else can. I read people – and this talent will serve you well.” He leaned toward Francis and put a hand on his new friend’s arm. “Yours is a family company, and it’s always been my belief that there’s a need to protect family members. My role, my duty, will be to protect you.”

Francis Beech drew back, rubbed his knuckles and looked Lewis Tichborne in the eyes. “The message appeals to me…” he said. “But the messenger? I’m not so sure,” he thought.

Lewis Tichborne sensed that his words did not sit well with Francis Beech. He pressed on.

“Think about any mistakes you’ve made in the past. With me by your side, you could avoid repeating them. I’m an insurance policy.”

Francis Beech who pushed back from the table and crossed his arms. Lewis Tichborne drew back and raised his hands in mock surrender.

“Frankie, I’m not suggesting you’ve made any big mistakes. Just think of a time when you may have been wrong about something. It’s in that kind of situation when I will be able to provide you with insight into people’s needs and insecurities… things you can leverage for control,” said Lewis Tichborne.

Francis Beech furrowed his brow and following a prolonged silence, he spoke.

“We’ll have to see how this goes, but for now, you’re my personal assistant. Your mandate is to help me close this deal. The first meeting with the partners was a disaster for my brother and me. It’s vital the next meeting go well,” said Francis slapping the table. “You report to me and no one else. When we get back to Montreal, I’ll introduce you to my father, but you will never meet him alone.”

Lewis Tichborne looked at Francis Beech with a sly grin. “You can’t think of a single example of having been wrong about something, can you?” He rubbed his chin. “Fascinating.”

Francis continued: “You need to understand something. I make a point of taking my time to appreciate the pros and cons of each situation. I do not make rash decisions. I don’t act on whims. When people fail to heed my counsel, and frankly – I’m not being pompous when I say this – they regret not listening to me.”

Francis Beech sends for Lewis Tichborne

Francis stares at the papers on his desk, recalling the traumatic first negotiating session. His pulse quickens and he absently rubs a hand over his chest. He rises and opens the door to his suite. Down the hallway, he spots a hotel porter, sends him to summon his newest employee, and orders breakfast for two.

Lewis Tichborne, looking pale and with bags under his eyes, enters the ‘Pay Dirt Suite.’ The two men share a hearty breakfast of coffee, back bacon, fried eggs and sourdough toast at the suite’s dining room table.

Lewis Tichborne struggles to follow Francis’ explanation of his negotiation analysis and scenario planning. “That’s a whole lot of paper, Frankie. Exactly how many rabbit holes have you been down?” he asks.

Francis Beech ignores the question.

“Here is where I contemplate their motivations,” he says pointing at one of his sheets. “I need you to double-check these. Do you think I’ve got it right? Am I missing anything?” he asks.

Lewis Tichborne pushes the paper away from him on the table.

“Are you paying attention?” Francis Beech asks.

“Absolutely, I am Frankie... but maybe you’re overthinking this?” he replies chomping down more bacon and polishing off another cup of coffee.

“Are you serious? This is the most important deal of my life – in the life of our company,” explodes Francis Beech. “It’s not conceivable to overthink it. Making matters worse, our partners do not like newspaper coverage – and my family just happens to be the focus of a juicy news story – an open investigation of a rich young man’s violent murder. How do I manage that?” He shakes his head.

“How do I manage that?” he laments.

About to continue his tirade, he leans toward Lewis Tichborne, and is taken aback by what he smells. An exasperated Francis Beech inhales deeply through his nostrils and detects a vile odour.

“You smell like booze,” Francis Beech says accusingly, “What good are you to me hung-over? Or are you still drunk?” he asks.

“I might still be a little tight. I only went to bed a few hours ago,” replies Lewis Tichborne. “Quite a night,” he adds.

Francis Beech weaves both hands into his shock of blond hair and walks in a wide circle around the suite. He looks down at the desk and the scenarios he has sketched out. In the midst of this Herculean task of the imagination, he panics.

“Maybe the meeting can be delayed,” he says to Lewis Tichborne.

“I don’t think that’s advisable,” he replies. “These guys want to get the hell out of Dodge.”

The Negotiating Partners

Francis Beech’s panic is heightened by the first meeting between the brothers and their potential partners that took place in a private room at the Fashion Saloon on the day before the murder.

It did not go well.

In that first meeting, across from the Beech brothers sat three accomplished men – each in his fifties and at the height of his power. The boys knew one of the players. For the other two, they had only the benefit of their father’s briefing.

The First Partner, Robert McGreevy

At that first meeting, the brothers instantly recognized the rosacea-cheeked, redheaded Robert McGreevy.  The son of an Irish blacksmith, Robert and his brother started as successful contractors in Quebec City. Their coldblooded manoeuvring through political and legal rat’s nests caught the eye of the province’s Tory powerbrokers who are always on the lookout for protégés. When the Department of Public Works announced a competition for buildings in Ottawa to house parliament, the McGreevy brothers pounced. Despite the fact their tender contained none of the required cost schedules, the contract was awarded to them.

A young and ambitious James Randolph Beech was contacted by Robert McGreevy and asked to submit a bid to supply the lumber for the parliament project. He was informed of obscure specifications that were not shared with other bidders.

JRB found the situation to be curious, but “I never look a gift horse in the mouth. What downside could there possibly be?” he remarked at the time. Indeed, the project became the Beech Company’s prestigious calling card and lucrative, long-term cash flow that funded future expansion.

The parliament project* became a template for McGreevy brother collaborations. Their partnership was forged on Sunday evenings over bottles of imported Thomas Street Distillery whiskey.

One brother worked the backrooms - the other worked the shovels. No notes were taken, for as Robert, a fan of alliterations, liked to put it, “neither pigment nor pulp were prerequisite for protecting our pact.”

The Other Partners, Joseph and John Trutch

Beside Robert McGreevy sat the brothers Joseph and John Trutch, both trained as surveyors and engineers in Devonshire, England.

The California Gold Rush brought the brothers to San Francisco. It wasn’t, however, until Joseph Trutch successfully lobbied the powers in London for a position of influence in the colonies of British North America that they attained a whole other level of prosperity.

Joseph Trutch finagled his way to become the Dominion Agent of Canada for British Columbia and Chief Commissioner for Land and Works. In these capacities, he handed out land to the railway, oversaw Indian affairs, promoted immigration, and granted Crown lands for roads, bridges and buildings. These authorities gave Joseph Trutch the power to achieve two personal objectives. He shipped a fortune from kickbacks and insider information back home to England and radically reduced the acreage allotted to Indian Reserves.

His brother John Trutch owned and operated a toll bridge in Yale BC that controlled access to the Cariboo region and areas north. He walked with a pronounced limp – the result of a pistol duel. Unlike Joseph, who after filling his treasure chest had absolutely no intention of remaining in the colonies, John Trutch made efforts to build relationships with his neighbours. These entreaties proved to be futile as the locals held fast to their resentment of John Trutch’s bridge tolls.

As one prospector remarked in regards to his hated tolls, “The lonely, dimwit smiles and offers tea hoping you don’t mind being gouged both coming and going over his bridge.”

The Disastrous First Meeting

In their first meeting, Peter Beech had been aggressive. He figured that a quick agreement – one where he held back on the additional margin for manoeuvring – was within his grasp. He laid out the terms as a fait accompli and pushed for an immediate signing. The Trutch brothers and Robert McGreevy were not impressed.

“It’s a pleasure to do business with folks such as yourselves,” said Peter Beech at that first session. “I respectfully submit that while the Beech Company would indeed like to do this deal – the Beech Company does not have to do this deal,” he stated matter-of-factly in an effort to define their respective bargaining power.

“The scope is clear. We can build the railway from the main line of the Canadian Pacific to the north end of Okanogan Lake. The Shuswap and Okanogan Railway will run from Sicamous, through Armstrong and Vernon to Okanagan Landing. As agreed to by our father, James Randolph Beech, we will pay twenty thousand dollars to both Bob McGreevy and Joe Trutch here,” he said with a confident smile. “Gents, let’s not dilly-dally. The last thing any of us want is to get snowed-in up here in the Cariboo. This is the deal that we have a mandate to close – so I say we close it and get back to the comfort of our homes.”

Joseph Trutch tugged on his thick mutton chop sideburns, rose from his chair and ended the meeting prematurely.

“No goddamned bourgeois lumberjack is going to get away with such insolence. Do you really think we don’t have other options? We always have other options,” he fumed before exiting the room followed by his brother and Robert McGreevy.

“That didn’t go as planned,” said Francis Beech.

Peter Beech smiled and replied: “I don’t believe him. I think we’ve got this.”

“Are you mad? That man is deeply offended,” replied Francis Beech. “He wants your scalp.”

The Moment Of Truth

Francis Beech and Lewis Tichborne enter the empty meeting room, take their seats on one side of the table, and wait. To make a point to his new employee, Francis Beech reviews his working documents one more time.

“Your face is green,” he says to Lewis Tichborne.

Twenty minutes after the scheduled start time, they hear a muffled discussion from the hallway between the Trutch brothers and Robert McGreevy. The partners enter the room and the Trutch brothers - expressionless - take their seats. Robert McGreevy’s normally pink complexion is ash-coloured.

“Ooooh, I’ve got the whips and jangles,” mutters Robert McGreevy. He removes his footwear and puts his feet on a chair.

Francis Beech kicks off the meeting with a long-winded adulating tribute to his partners, while Lewis Tichborne has another coffee and rubs his temples hoping to alleviate the headache that pounds his skull. Unaware that he lost his audience within the first few minutes, Francis Beech continues - glancing at his notes in a prepared speech that goes on for an excruciating half hour. Joseph Trutch crosses his arms. Robert McGreevy sighs and looks up at the ceiling.

During a silent pause in Francis Beech’s turgid soliloquy, Lewis Tichborne’s recent overconsumption shifts in his lower tract and makes a primal sound – one that a lost baby whale might make across the ocean to its pod.

Lewis Tichborne suddenly interrupts his boss.

“I’ll be right back,” he exclaims, rising quickly from the table. 

“Do you mind if we break to caucus?” asks Francis Beech of his counterparts not wishing to be left alone at the table. He follows the fast-moving Lewis Tichborne out the door.

“I’ll just be a minute,” Lewis Tichborne insists to Francis Beech upon entering the washroom.

Francis Beech ignores the instruction, follows into the washroom, and speaks to him through the stall door. “What are they thinking? Are they flattered? Is my speech working? What do we do next?”

Lewis Tichborne is sweating from every pore of his body. His head throbs and his sphincter cramps such that he can no longer withhold the inevitable.  “Just give me a goddamned second, Frankie.” And with that, his movement erupts like a bag of cherry pits dropped in a porcelain washbasin.

Francis Beech remains oblivious through the cataclysm and continues his line of questioning. “Who on their side looks to be in control?”

Of a suddenly much clearer mind, a bemused Lewis Tichborne exits his stall, grabs Francis Beech by the shoulders and looks him in the eye.

“You can stop rowing, Francis. We’ve reached the shore.”

“You mean my speech is working?” asks a confused Francis Beech.

“No,” he replies. “I mean you don’t need to continue that dreadful speech. They’re ready to sign,” says Lewis Tichborne.

“Really? Without the additional incentives?” asks Francis Beech.

“No, the incentives are part of the deal – actually, I gave a little more than what we originally talked about,” replies Lewis Tichborne.

“What do you mean? That’s more than my father authorized... And how do you know this anyways?” asks Francis Beech.

“Frankie, you decide – would you like to explain to your father that not only is his prodigal son dead but that you also lost the deal? Or would rather tell him how, despite your extreme distress, and against insurmountable odds, you closed it. In a moment of truth, you made the decision to sweeten the terms – and you would make the same decision again – because the Beech family legacy was at stake?”

“Who did you talk to?” asks Francis Beech.

“Robert McGreevy is our guy. Joseph Trutch is a self-dealer – a rich, nasty self-dealer – who only wants his cut. And the other Trutch brother is an idiot in search of a village.” Lewis Tichborne brushes lint from the shoulder of Francis’ coat. “I spent the night with McGreevy – we shared some… festivities. You should see that beast drink whiskey. We went to the card room and he played blackjack with me standing behind him. Barely keeping his head up, he had two hands going at once and in minutes he’s up more than a hundred bucks. He gets annoyed with the dealer, a Chinaman, and asks me to intervene. He says the Chinaman refuses to speak to him in English. So, I politely asked the dealer to speak English to my friend and he replies - as clear as a bell - ‘Sir, I am speaking English.’ We have another round of whiskey and to close the deal, I send a couple of German dancing girls to his room. He likes the chubby ones… Frankie, trust me, we got this.”

Francis Beech does not know what to expect when he and Lewis Tichborne return to the meeting room.

“Let’s get this deal done so I can get the hell out of town,” grumbles Robert McGreevy.

Francis Beech looks down and sees the cover and signature page of a document.

“Agreement between The Beech Company and Her Majesty Queen Victoria, represented by the Minister of Public Works of Canada, to do the excavation, grading, bridging ballasting, track-laying, etc. from Sicamous, on Shuswap Lake, through Armstrong and Vernon to Okanagan Landing, British Columbia on the line of the Canadian Pacific Railway.”

Joseph Trutch handwrites a short amendment to the test of the agreement while the parties sign the contract: “I understand you intend to use coolie crews. They’re not a desirable class of people as a permanent part of the population but, I admit, can be useful temporary labourers.” He furrows his brow and shakes his head. “They’re like a swarm of locusts that leave the land impoverished and desolate – who have no intention of building a great country. They make what they can and send it to China. When this project is complete, I don’t want any of your coolies to stay in British Columbia and I will hold your family accountable that they go back from whence they came.”

“Understood,” replies Francis Beech. “Sir, since we’re adding conditions, you do realize that we will have to build through some land that Indians may claim as their own. We’ll need your help to avoid delays.”

“They won’t be an issue. The Indians have no rights to the lands they claim, nor are they of any actual value or utility to them,” replies Joseph Trutch. “I can’t see why they should retain these lands to the prejudice of the general interests of the Colony.”

Celebrating the Signing

Francis Beech feels a euphoric, almost sensual relief. He awkwardly hugs Lewis Tichborne and insists they celebrate.

They are seated at a table in the Fashion Saloon’s dining lounge and the maître d’ – making an exception – allows champagne to be served with lunch. Francis Beech orders two well-seasoned racks of lamb, served with mint sauce and crispy herbed potatoes cooked in duck fat.

Lewis Tichborne remarks how Francis’ smile radiates and fills the room. The hotel’s other patrons cannot help but notice as well.

“Look at you, Frankie! Quite the switch from your dark pessimism of this morning,” exclaims Lewis Tichborne.

Francis Beech orders champagne for the entire room and, as he reaches across the table to toast Lewis Tichborne for his fine work, realizes that Sergeant Titmarsh has entered the Fashion Saloon dining lounge and is looking in their direction.

Sergeant Titmarsh strides towards their table.

“Good day Sergeant Titmarsh,” says Lewis Tichborne rising from his seat to intercept and shake the Sergeant’s broad hand.

“Good day,” the officer replies ignoring the outstretched hand and turning to face Francis Beech. “The brother of a murder victim making merry over rounds of bubbly and racks of lamb. What am I to make of this?” asks Sergeant Titmarsh.

* A Royal Commission on the construction of the parliament buildings shed some light on the rot within the Department of Public Works. A maximum of $540,000 was set for the overall project. It eventually took 19 years to complete at a cost of over 4 million dollars. The scandal led to the resignation of the Chief Commissioner of Public Works and the dismissal of the Deputy Commissioner. It also gave credence to rumours that the Tory party used the Department as a tool for fundraising and patronage. As a third party supplier, JRB and the Beech Company were omitted in the analysis. The McGreevy brothers were invited to the Beech Company fishing lodge on Lake Massawippi in the Eastern Townships of Quebec for a celebration of the Royal Commission’s toothless conclusion.

Chapter 9 - A Wicked Wind

January 21, 1886 (7 weeks after the murder)
Barkerville, British Columbia, Canada

“It's a wicked wind
And it chills me to the bone
And if you do not believe me
Come and gaze upon
the shadow at your door”
Gordon Lightfoot, Shadows

Sergeant Titmarsh works tirelessly on the Peter Beech case – and apart from Christmas Day – has not taken any time off since its occurrence. He knows full well that to have such a murder unsolved sends the wrong message – to the restless population of Barkerville and to his superiors in far flung Victoria.

Years earlier, shortly after landing in Barkerville, Dillon Titmarsh awoke one winter morning frozen to the boardwalk in his red flannel union suit – frostbite on his buttocks as the crap flap had been left open. He squinted into the sunlight and saw the outline of two children standing over him and giggling.

There was something about the children’s ridicule combined with the agony of blackened rump flesh that propelled him to sobriety. He promised himself that never again would he touch the stuff. A few weeks later, a desperate British Columbia Constabulary offered him a position to be their man in Barkerville. Dillon Titmarsh had become Sergeant Titmarsh.

Sergeant Titmarsh always dreamed of becoming a man of law and order. As a boy, his hero (and neighbour) was none other than Sam Steele. When fifteen-year-old Sam Steele travelled to the nearby town of Orillia, lied about his age, and enlisted with the 35th Simcoe Foresters, he returned home from the armoury with regimental crest, polished buttons, rifle, and snappy uniform.

Steele promptly recruited the impressionable Dillon Titmarsh, eight years his junior, to march with him about the family farm, observe his shooting, and retrieve targets.

Sam Steele was an excellent shot and Dillon Titmarsh was smitten. When recalling this childhood experience, he once remarked: “I remember seeing Sam Steele in uniform for the first time. He was so dapper. I felt safe. And when he fired that rifle, well that’s the day he became my hero.”

Years later, when Sam Steele was a burgeoning leader of the North-West Mounted Police (NWMP), he gave Dillon Titmarsh the opportunity to prove himself with a contingent deployed to assert dominion over western Canada.

Sam Steele orchestrated a parlay between the Sioux leader, Sitting Bull (who sought refuge after the Battle at Little Bighorn), and a US Army General and it was during these talks, that the bond between Sam Steele and Dillon Titmarsh was ruptured – permanently.

Publicly displaying the vice that would haunt his life, Dillon Titmarsh slurred his appeal to the Sioux warriors on the importance of avoiding American whiskey traders.

Sam Steele tossed Dillon Titmarsh aside and assumed the role of spokesman in a performance that bolstered his budding reputation. He calculated that his affection for his former neighbour left him with no choice but to expel him from the force.

“Those who love well, punish well,” Sam Steele explained to his devastated protégé who, thousands of miles from home, proceeded to wander aimlessly – working odd jobs just long enough to procure his next supply of booze – until that fateful and painful winter morning in Barkerville. 

After assuming his new role as Sergeant Titmarsh, his sister, Liz, travelled west to join him in Barkerville, where they shared a modest, but impeccable home. Their mother was relieved to have Liz quit Medonte Township where, at the age of twenty-five, she flirted with the shame of spinster status. Upon her arrival, she was hired at the Fashion Saloon as a clerk. Within three years, she managed the entire operation.

Liz said to her brother “you’re always bringing home drowning kittens.” Between his broad shoulders, devilishly handsome smile and good-boy image, it was easy to appreciate his appeal. “But there are many devious felines eager to impersonate drowning kittens – and you, brother, can’t seem tell the difference.”

Liz was the kind of woman who knew what ought to be done in any given situation and, as such, annoyed her brother to no end – mostly when providing him with unsolicited advice. Sergeant Titmarsh, irritated, would remind her that she remained unmarried because she rejected out-of-hand three quarters of her potential suitors and scared the hell out of the rest.

On this night, the winter wind seeks out every cranny of their framed home and Sergeant Titmarsh must regularly feed the woodstove. The big man has a voracious appetite and is enjoying his favourite snack. Liz has prepared a plate of crusty bread cubes warmed and smothered in sharp cheddar with some homemade bread and butter pickles on the side. He washes it all down with black tea.

“I got a telegram today from Victoria. They want news on the Peter Beech murder investigation. I don’t have any news. I interviewed every employee and most of the guests at the Fashion Saloon. I went door-to-door at the end of town where the body was found,” says Sergeant Titmarsh.

Liz listens to her brother while she moves through the home in random sprints dusting a shelf, rearranging a pantry, or painstakingly straightening a tablecloth until it reaches positional perfection.

“Thanks for this snack, Liz – real tasty.” Sergeant Titmarsh takes another bite and chews thoughtfully. “Why did nobody hear him scream? Why didn’t anybody hear anything?” he asks, with a half-eaten cheesy crust perched in his mouth.

Liz stands a few feet away in the kitchen and scrubs melted cheese from the pan.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” she says.

“And why was he scalped? That’s a tell-tale sign for sure. But I haven’t found anyone who saw him with an Indian. What am I to make of the defensive wounds? Did a drunken fight get out of hand? If so, there had to be witnesses – so who is being protected? No one’s gonna’ protect an Indian. And it’s not just the pressure from Victoria. I’m gonna’ face more delinquency than ever in this town if I don’t make an arrest soon.”

“You’re going about this the wrong way,” says Liz drying her hands on the dishtowel.

“You’re not even asking the right questions.”

Sergeant Titmarsh rolls his eyes. He should know better than to think out loud in front of his sister.

“Isn’t it quite the coincidence that the most powerful man in British Columbia, Joseph Trutch – and his brother – are here in Barkerville at the same time as these boys from Montreal? What were they doing in Barkerville? They don’t fit the bill for Barkerville types – they’re not here to find their fortune – they’re already rich,” says Liz pointing her finger at her brother for emphasis. “And you need to find out more about that shady Robert McGreevy character.  I am sure that they all met – on the day before the murder. They had suites at the Fashion Saloon – and a meeting room was booked. You need to find out why. Don’t get distracted by the scalping. Anyone with sufficient strength could have scalped Peter Beech.”

Sergeant Titmarsh sits and processes his sister’s points – his mouth is slightly open. He squints and clears his throat. “I wonder. That Tangia Tura fellow with his weapon – the thug for the Chinese company. I went to see him, but he’s not much of a talker. Maybe I should try again. You know, I saw the murder victim’s brother, Francis Beech, having a grand old time in the Fashion Dining Room. Looked like he was celebrating – don’t you think that’s strange? Now, he did tell me that it was his father that sent him and his brother to Barkerville.”

Sergeant Titmarsh rises and brushes the crumbs from his shirt to the floor. “Someone has got to spill the beans – I may have to twist some arms. Maybe I’ll start with Tangia Tura and then go up to Quesnel and talk to a few Carrier Indians.”

They are interrupted by three hard knocks at the door.

Liz walks over and opens the door.

A man of unusual height crouches to pass through the doorway, ignores Liz, and looks straight at her brother.

“Are you Sergeant Titmarsh?” asks the stranger.

“Yes, I am. How can I help you?” he replies.

“My name is James Randolph Beech. I understand that you’re the man investigating my son’s murder.”

Sergeant Titmarsh ushers JRB into the house and pulls up a chair for their guest.

A tiny drift of snow snakes into the home. Liz shuts the door.

“May I take your coat?” asks Sergeant Titmarsh. “Let me put another log on the fire.”

“I’ll keep the coat,” replies JRB who wears a practical if not fashionable full-length Grizzly skin overcoat. “I won’t be staying long.”

“Then please, have a seat,” says Sergeant Titmarsh.

The men sit at the kitchen table facing one another. Sergeant Titmarsh introduces Liz who now stands a few paces away in the kitchen. JRB acknowledges her presence with a nod.

“It’s a blustery night. Wicked wind out there, sir,” says Sergeant Titmarsh.

Liz offers a cup of tea. This, JRB also politely declines. As he begins to speak, Liz slows her arranging of clean dishes so as not to miss a single word.

“I’ll cut to the chase,” JRB begins, his tone equal parts soft-spoken and chilling. “I have a simple message for you and a simple demand. I don’t know you. I don’t know what happened. But I do know that there is no good reason this case should not be solved – and solved soon.”

JRB’s gaze holds steady on Sergeant Titmarsh, gauging him.

“You should understand that I am not a sentimental man. I am bloody-minded and used to getting what I want. And I want my son’s killer brought to justice. By that, I mean I want to see him hanged by the neck until he’s dead. I will bring all my resources to bear. I will not stop, Sergeant Titmarsh, until the dirty son-of-a-bitch is strung up. Now, tell me everything you know – do not spare any details.”

Sergeant Titmarsh is taken aback. Without considering the propriety, he recounts the specifics of how he had been summoned to the crime scene and describes the minutiae of his observations.

“Droplets of blood were scattered around the scene – extending up to eight feet from where the body was found. What appear to be defensive wounds were found on both the left and right knuckles and right forearm of the victim. The snow around the scene indicated that a struggle had taken place but I was unable to determine from the tracks if more than one person other than the victim was involved.” He pauses and then adds: “I observed that your son, Francis, appeared distraught.”

“Were your boys close, sir?” interjects Liz.

“Of course they were,” replies JRB raising an eyebrow and dismissing her with a flick of his wrist. He shifts his focus back to Sergeant Titmarsh. “Go on,” he says.

Sergeant Titmarsh continues his explanations while JRB pulls out a pipe, and packs and lights it.

“Sir, the method of the murder may be of particular importance. It is troubling – I am very sorry to say that your son was… well he was scalped,” adds Sergeant Titmarsh.

“Yes, I understood that,” replies a blank-faced JRB. “So, it was a savage?” he asks.

“I can’t say for sure, sir. I aim to interview some Indians in Quesnel. But the evidence suggests that the murder was committed in a state of rage.”

Liz interrupts again: “Excuse me sir, what exactly brought your sons to Barkerville – at Christmas – what would be so important as to not be with family at that time of year?”

JRB again raises an eyebrow in Liz’s direction and ignores the question.

“Continue,” he instructs Sergeant Titmarsh.

“So, I have questioned a good number of patrons from The Fashion Saloon where your boys were staying,” says Sergeant Titmarsh.

Liz interjects once again, “Do you know why your sons would have organized a meeting with Joseph Trutch, John Trutch and Robert McGreevy?” she asks JRB. “And is there any reason that they would want to keep this meeting a secret?”

Sergeant Titmarsh’s eyes widen and he gives his sister a desperate look – one that begs her to “Please, shut the hell up.”

JRB pauses before answering – and then clears his throat. He looks directly in the eyes of Sergeant Titmarsh as he speaks.

“I understand that you like the drink. That you awaken in strange places, your trousers drenched. Perhaps this is why your investigation has stalled. Perhaps some changes in local law enforcement are needed.” JRB taps the table with his index finger for emphasis. “I am not used to being addressed in such a bold manner – and certainly not by a woman. Sergeant Titmarsh, your willingness to accept this behaviour speaks to your character.”

“Don’t worry sir, he accepts my behaviour out of confusion, not defiance,” retorts Liz, mimicking JRB’s condescending tone.

Betraying the fury he means to contain, JRB presses his thumb into the orange embers of the bowl of his pipe, rises from his chair, and prepares to depart.

“I expect daily reports on your activities and your progress Sergeant Titmarsh,” he steams. “I, too, will be staying at the Fashion Saloon,” he says as he leans forward through the doorway and departs.

The siblings observe a moment of silence to ensure their guest is beyond earshot.

Then, Liz turns to her brother. “Why was he the one asking questions? You’re the investigator – not him,” she says.

“Why can’t you keep your mouth shut? That man has the connections to get me fired, Liz. Then where would we be?” replies Sergeant Titmarsh.

JRB checks in to The Fashion Saloon

Upon his departure, JRB heads straight to the Fashion Saloon. He has been on the move since receiving the tragic news of his son’s murder. From Montreal, he made his way to New York where he caught the train to San Francisco. From there, he travelled by ship to British Columbia and then took the Cariboo Road to Barkerville. On this night, the normally tireless behemoth cannot wait for an undisturbed slumber.

Checking in at The Fashion Saloon, JRB is offered a suite, but prefers a standard room. The bellboy who carries his bags to the room remarks on his “measly five-cent tip,” and informs him that JRB’s own son, Francis Beech, had tipped him a quarter for the same service.

JRB looks down at the bellboy and replies, “You don’t understand. There’s an important difference. That boy who tipped you so handsomely has a very wealthy father – whereas my dad was weak and my mother died in labour.”

The perplexed bellboy scratches his head, pockets the five cents, and walks away.

More unsolicited advice

Sergeant Titmarsh is an early riser. By 5:30 in the morning, Liz has prepared a breakfast of fried potato pancakes, bacon, and toasted sourdough – drenched in maple syrup. She pours him a cup of coffee. “Where are you off to this morning?” she asks. 

With a mouth full of soggy sourdough, Sergeant Titmarsh replies, “I think I’ll head up to Quesnel – talk to some Indians.”

Liz waits a moment before responding. “I don’t think you should,” she says. “I think staying in Barkerville would be a better use of your time. Find out once and for all why the Beech brothers were in town. You still have no idea what might have motivated someone to scalp that boy. If you don’t even know why they were here – how will you ever know why someone wanted to kill one of them?” she asks.

No matter how much Sergeant Titmarsh resents his sister, he knows from experience that things somehow turn out better when he listens to her.

“Reconstruct Peter Beech’s last moments,” she continues. “Where did he go? Who did he see? And speak again to each person he met on that fateful day.” Liz approaches her brother to be sure he comprehends. “Remember you said that you felt there was something odd about the fellow who works for the Beech’s – Lewis Tichborne is his name. Well, I’ve seen him around at The Fashion Saloon and I agree with you – he makes my blood run cold and I’m convinced he’s completely off his chump. But I think he’s very clever – maybe that’s why he’s so disturbing.”

Liz is on a roll. “I know he’s sharing a room with one of the girls – Greta is her name. Start with him.”

Sergeant Titmarsh does not answer. He is done talking. To explicitly acknowledge that he is going to follow his sister’s instructions might open the door to further humiliation. He leaves his breakfast unfinished, puts on his overcoat, hat, and mitts and heads for The Fashion Saloon.

Sergeant Titmarsh interviews Lewis Tichborne

At the very back of the Fashion Saloon, behind the kitchen, is room number four. Windowless, it has barely enough room for a single bed, nightstand and clotheshorse. It has been home for the past several weeks to Lewis Tichborne and his newest companion, the big-boned Greta Phingerpoakin, a hustling, cigar-smoking dancer from Bavaria by way of San Francisco.

Sergeant Titmarsh awakens the occupants with a firm knock. It takes a minute before a wretched-looking Lewis Tichborne opens the door. As rays of light pour into the room, a musky pot-pourri of cheap tobacco, sweet brandy, and sweat-of-the-loin wafts out. Sergeant Titmarsh struggles to control his gag reflex. He looks around the tight quarters and wonders how the two occupants could possibly squeeze into a single bed.

“Honey, I’m gonna’ need you to skedaddle,” says Lewis Tichborne to Greta Phingerpoakin. “Sergeant Titmarsh here wants to talk.”

His half-naked companion groans and rolls over revealing a tattoo on her breast. “Lew, I’m not fuckin’ going nowhere. I’m gonna’ need you to slide my back down,” she says in her husky, German accent.

Lewis Tichborne shrugs his shoulders and he and Sergeant Titmarsh find an unoccupied corner of the Fashion Saloon kitchen for their exchange.

“How did you meet the Beech Brothers?” asks Sergeant Titmarsh. “Why did you come to Barkerville?” He speaks directly – having decided there’s no time for pleasantries.

Lewis Tichborne processes the questions. He moves slowly and rubs the sleep from his eyes. He observes a slight tremor in the hands of Sergeant Titmarsh.

“Must be plenty of pressure to solve this murder, eh?” he says. “How much time do you think you have? Until they send in someone else to take over the investigation?”

Sergeant Titmarsh glares at him. “Just answer my questions, Tichborne.”

Lewis Tichborne nods, grins, and recounts how he met the Beech brothers at The Bucket of Blood in Owen Sound. He describes their harrowing journey on the ill-fated Algoma and explains how he had been given leave by Edmund and Ruth FitzGerald to join the brothers on the journey west and has now been hired by the Beech Company.

“They run a big business. They never stop. Always on the lookout for opportunities. I’ve never seen anybody work so hard. Barkerville is a good place to let off some steam. It’s got that kind of reputation, you know,” says Lewis Tichborne.

“When did you last see Peter Beech? And tell me everything you remember about the day of the murder,” adds the Sergeant.

“Peter and Frankie were just a couple of wealthy young bucks taking a break, having a good time. Peter was the leader. He was younger – but you could sense it. He had this air about him. It didn’t matter to him how anyone else saw him. His standards came from within.” Lewis Tichborne rises from his chair and looks around the kitchen. “You think there’s a pot of coffee around here?” he asks before spotting one and pouring a cup. “You want one?” he asks Sergeant Titmarsh. “It’s not exactly hot – but it’ll do.”

“No,” replies Sergeant Titmarsh. “Now, come back here and sit down.”

Lewis Tichborne retakes his seat and sips his lukewarm coffee. “You know, there’s a very appealing confidence that comes with that,” he says.

“With what?”

“Not caring how others see you. Peter Beech simply wasn’t affected by it. No weight on his shoulders – at all. I bet you’d like that feeling Sergeant Titmarsh, wouldn’t you?”

Sergeant Titmarsh tilts his head forward. “Answer my questions,” he growls.

“Of course,” replies Lewis Tichborne. “On the day of the murder, I remember the boys had been talking about food and how they missed their mom’s cooking. They decided to purchase a goose – Christmas was coming and they wanted the kitchen staff here at The Fashion Saloon to prepare a feast just for them. They went to the Chinese butcher shop.”

“And did they buy a goose?” asks Sergeant Titmarsh.

“No, I don’t think they did,” replies Lewis Tichborne.

“Why not?”

“I don’t know,” says Lewis Tichborne. “I didn’t see them again until later that evening at the bar – here at the Fashion Saloon. We were all really into the sauce – having a grand old time – I don’t remember much about that night, but I don’t think they came home with a goose.” Lewis Tichborne finishes his coffee. “Look, are we going to be much longer?” he asks. “I’ve actually got an appointment this morning.”

“No, that’ll do for now,” replies Sergeant Titmarsh. “But I expect to be back with further questions, so don’t be leaving town.”

As Sergeant Titmarsh exits through the front door of The Fashion Saloon heading towards the Kwong Lee Wing Butcher Shop, Yee Ah Louie enters through the back door for his extraction and denture-fitting appointment with Lewis Tichborne.

Sergeant Titmarsh interviews Tangia Tura

Tangia Tura answers the door and invites Sergeant Titmarsh to come in. Together, they stand in the shack he shares with Yee Ah Louie.

“Remember when we last spoke on the porch?” asks Sergeant Titmarsh. “You never told me that Peter and Francis Beech had come to the butcher shop on the day of the murder.”

“I didn’t know,” replies a stone-faced Tangia Tura. “And I did not kill that man.”

“But you did tell me that you were here – at the butcher shop – all day. If the Beech brothers were here, how could you not have seen them?”

“I did not see them,” replies Tangia Tura.

“Mind if I look around your place? You live here with how many others?” asks Sergeant Titmarsh.

“One. Yee Ah Louie, the butcher,” says Tangia Tura.

Sergeant Titmarsh observes the war club – Tangia Tura’s tewhatewha – upright in the corner. He moves through the room careful to position his body between Tangia Tura and the weapon. In his mind, he calculates how many seconds it would take the muscular warrior to reach the tewhatewha and put it to use – and, if needed, how many seconds it would take for him to escape through the door. He makes note of what look to be bloodstains on the club.

Sergeant Titmarsh spots a lamp and tar-stained pipe – the tell-tale kit of a dope smoker. “These yours?” he asks Tangia Tura who replies by shaking his head.

He then sees a chest. “Is this yours?”

Tangia Tura nods.

Sergeant Titmarsh opens the chest – among the contents is a necklace of shark’s teeth, two polished wooden bowls, a cloak adorned with loon feathers – and beneath that – a pocket watch.

“Where did you get this?” asks Sergeant Titmarsh.

Tangia Tura shrugs his shoulders.

“You don’t know where you got it? I find that hard to believe. I’d like to take it with me, if you don’t mind,” says Sergeant Titmarsh.

Tangia Tura shrugs once more – a look of resignation on his face.

JRB and Francis Beech break bread

JRB left a message at the front desk the previous night for his son that he wants a briefing over lunch. Francis Beech and Lewis Tichborne wait for him at a table in the Fashion Saloon dining room.

Unsure how long he will be in Barkerville, JRB spends the morning in his room working on correspondence – detailed letters of instructions sent to various direct reports in locations across eastern Canada.

Francis Beech asks Lewis Tichborne to join him and his father for the lunch. “I’m sure he is looking for an update on how the deal. Since you participated – it only makes sense you join us,” he tells him.

As JRB enters the Fashion Saloon’s opulent dining room, Lewis Tichborne notices that patrons and employees cannot help but stop whatever they are doing and stare at this giant crossing the dining room floor. It isn’t simply a question of his size. There is an air about the man that demands recognition. Lewis Tichborne, a keen observer of human behaviour, is thoroughly impressed

Arriving at the table, JRB points at Lewis Tichborne. “Who’s this?” he asks in a disdainful tone.

“Father, this is Lewis Tichborne. I hired him to help with the talks,” says Francis Beech. “He works for us now.”

JRB quickly scans Lewis Tichborne head to toe. “Go away Tichhead. We don’t need you,” he says with a movement of his wrist as though swatting away a gnat.

“Father, it’s Tichborne – and he’s helped a great deal,” says Francis Beech.

“Boy, this is our first meeting since your brother was murdered. Do you really think we should have some shifty-looking person I’ve never met sit in on it?” replies JRB in a frosted tone. He looks back at Lewis Tichborne. “GO, Tichshit.”

Lewis Tichborne is not offended. He appreciates the spectacle. “Yes, sir,” he replies with a smile and then seeks an alternative table in the dining room – far enough away so as not to provoke the patriarch – yet close enough to provide a clear vantage point of what he thinks may be fireworks.

Before father and son can begin their discussion, Sergeant Titmarsh appears at their table.

“Excuse me, sir. I was wondering if I could ask a question,” says the police officer.

JRB looks up. “Make it quick,” he replies.

Sergeant Titmarsh reveals the pocket watch he found in the chest belonging to Tangia Tura. “Do you recognize this?” he asks.

JRB takes the watch. A tear rises in his eye as he turns it over to see the inscription. It reads: “Bull of the Woods. Not good enough – Beeches must be better”

“That’s my brother’s watch!” exclaims Francis Beech. “Where did you get it?”

Sergeant Titmarsh recites the details of his morning visit and provides a background on Tangia Tura. “He’s employed as a thug for the Kwong Lee Wing Company. I think he becomes a suspect with this information.”

With those words, the tear in JRB’s eye evaporates. He stands up.

Sergeant Titmarsh looks up at JRB and notices that his face and ears have turned red.

“A suspect?” simmers JRB. “Are you bloody kidding me? You just explained that he’s a thug for a secret Chinese gang, that there’s blood on his weapon – a tool made for scalping no less – that he was visited by my boy on the day of the murder, and the watch I gave Peter was found in his possession – what more evidence could you possibly need?”

“Sir, he maintains his innocence – and he didn’t say where he got the watch,” says Sergeant Titmarsh, whose every ounce of energy is maintaining his wavering composure.

“Of course, he says he didn’t do it! Don’t just stand there, Sergeant Titmarsh – go arrest the bastard!” shouts JRB.

Sergeant Titmarsh spins around and returns promptly to the shack behind the butcher shop. He enters without knocking to find the chest of Tangia Tura’s belongings wide open. The cloak adorned with loon feathers is laid out upon his bed. The rest of his personal effects have disappeared – and so has Tangia Tura.

Chapter 10 - The Canadian Railroad Toxicity

June 15, 1886 (7 months after the murder)
Railway Construction Site Near Sicamous, British Columbia, Canada

“Open ‘er heart let the life blood flow
Gotta get on our way ‘cause we’re movin’ too slow
… A dollar a day, and a place for my head
A drink to the livin’ and a toast to the dead”
Gordon Lightfoot, Canadian Railroad Trilogy

A hearty meal for the coolie crew

Yee Ah Louie’s hands tremble.

On the verge of panic, he searches high and low rummaging through his supplies until he finally finds the small ball of chandu – smokable opium, the size of a pea.

He steps away from the campsite, slips into the brush and quickly inhales the fumes. He returns to the large pot of stew he is preparing and sits upon a stump before the fire. He is mesmerized in the meditative swirling of the chunky mixture.

Unlike the white navvy, a Chinese coolie does not have much paraphernalia. Yee Ah Louie and his mates trudge through the bush, carry provisions and equipment on their backs and set up their own camp. In doing this, Yee Ah Louie pays particular attention to spot inconspicuous places he can stash his chandu or bottles of bad whiskey.

Medical care for coolies is non-existent – they rely on whatever herbal cures they can scrounge up. Reliable statistics on the deaths of white workers are fastidiously maintained by the CPR Company but no such records are judged necessary for coolies.

The coolie crew is an autonomous team – statistically superior to the white man’s squad in cost and productivity. This particular crew was recruited by the labour contracting branch of the Kwong Lee Wing Company, which was hired by the Beech Company to work on their railway extension line from Sicamous to Okanagan Landing.

The mood among the coolies is improved by the smells emanating from Yee Ah Louie’s pot. The crew’s bookkeeper, Lee Soon, who has followed Lee Ah Louie since his arrival in Gam Saan, is as excited as anyone at the prospect of a hearty meal. He looks over Yee Ah Louie’s shoulders, and inhales deeply. “That smells very good, my friend.”

A break from their diet of rice, dried salmon and tea means that the normally gloomy coolies are all smiles. That morning, Lee Soon snared an eight-pound white-tailed jackrabbit. Yee Ah Louie had stashed some onions, potatoes, mushrooms and carrots for just such an occasion and butchered the jackrabbit as the base of his stew.

Spongy gums, loose teeth, bulging eyes, and crispy hair identify those afflicted by scurvy. Originally a crew of thirty (twenty-eight labourers, one bookkeeper and one cook), sickness has reduced the coolie ranks to twenty-three and Yee Ah Louie’s new pearly whites – courtesy of Lewis Tichborne – are a stark contrast to the crooked, stained teeth of his peers.

Lee Soon regularly measures the crew’s progress in order to keep the records up-to-date. He walks up and down the railway construction line counting his paces – making notes in his journal. His is a unique personality among those of his craft. It is his dependability and intelligence that has him appointed to yet another position of responsibility with the Kwong Lee Wing Company.

While coolie labourers are cheap and expendable, good bookkeepers are rare and pay for themselves many times over. “Track-side cemeteries are full of irreplaceable coolies, but care for a trustworthy bookkeeper as you would your first born,” is the gospel from Kwong Lee Wing Company headquarters.

The typical coolie bookkeeper is an anti-social loner – feared by labourers for tattletale reporting of transgressions – but Lee Soon is different – appreciated for both his discretion and good humour. His popularity with the labourers is an attribute the Kwong Lee Wing Company is prepared to tolerate. “Better to own a diamond with a flaw than to own a perfect pebble,” they say.

It has been a hotter, dryer spring than normal. Forest fires do not usually strike this part of the B.C. interior before late July or early August, but this year is different. A major blaze just north of the crew worksite reached a stockpile of railway ties transforming them into hardwood charcoal. Under pressure from Francis Beech, the Kwong Lee Wing Company directed the crew to avoid delays by doubling the normal track spacing from twenty-one to forty-two inches until replacement ties can arrive.

The Detonation Team

Explosives expert Charlie Connors is an uncomplicated man. He has but three interests in his life: work, church, and dance.

Charlie Connors heads a five-member detonation team of white men and serves as liaison with the Kwong Lee Wing labour contracting division. His crew works along side the coolies on the Beech Company CPR extension line near Sicamous. This morning, Charlie Connors is beside himself after reading an article in the Kamloops News. A practicing Methodist, he learns that his church has decreed “dancing among the amusements indulgence in will be forbidden and to which is attached the penalty of exclusion from her communion.”

For years, Charlie Connors has been tripping the light fantastic in barns and dance halls across the west. Splinters fly from the floor planks as he stomps to fiddle, banjo, and accordion jigs. A witness once remarked, “He becomes a different person. As if a deranged prisoner locked inside is granted an evening pass.”

Charlie Connors has just returned from a meeting with Francis Beech. His blank expression does not hide his apprehension – he is feeling the stress of unrealistic expectations. Observing the coolies’ uncommon, mischievous grins this morning does nothing for his state of mind.

A man of few words and a veteran of railway blasting, Charlie Connors was instructed to increase the speed of construction. Francis Beech was explicit: “A ten-percent bonus to each member of your crew if you complete this stretch by the end of August – everyone’s pay will be docked by fifteen percent if you don’t.”

The detonation team manages the mixing, transportation and setting of the blasting agents necessary to level the track bed. Nitro-glycerine is the product of choice when time is of the essence. Rock cuts crumble under its devastating power. Alternatively, the detonation team also uses black powder – made from saltpeter, charcoal and sulphur. Packed into cakes, it has the advantage of stability but lacks the explosive power of nitro.

The world got its first taste of nitro-glycerine’s lethality in 1866 when, aboard the steamship European in Panama, an accidental explosion completely annihilated fifty souls.

The handling of nitro is not for the faint of heart. Above all else it requires absolute concentration. Since the slightest distraction can lead to disaster, Charlie Connors and his men are coldblooded in their focus. On site, they usually set the fuses themselves. The exception is a risk judged simply too reckless, in which case a coolie is offered danger-pay to set the fuse.

His crew has a high level of turnover – but not from accidental explosions – in this, they are remarkable. Since they began working together, however, it seems every six months or so, a member is absent for medical reasons. Sometimes a sudden, massive heart attack, other times a case of melancholia, or the sprouting of agonizing carbuncles. Charlie Connors has a simple explanation: “While on the job, my team doesn’t crack under pressure… But the body does seem to keep score.”

The Incident

The ritual of the detonation team is to work in silence. ‘You can do your chatting at the end of the day over dinner,” says Charlie Connors. The only daytime exchanges are his sharp directives and short mumbles between other team members.

About sixty feet ahead of where the coolie gang was working on laying track, Veeti Nietroläinen, a blonde-haired Finn who periodically suffered from the vapours, struggles to drill a hole into a four-foot outcropping of rock. A slab of quartzite sprouts from the earth’s surface at a forty-five-degree angle. It is gruelling work in the hot Okanagan sun.

“We don’t have to drill that deep, Veeti,” instructs Charlie Connors. “We’ll be using nitro on this one.” He looks back at the coolie gang and shakes his head. “And what’s with the Chinamen today? They’re all happy-go-lucky. Somebody put dope in the rice?” he asks.

“Don’t know, Boss,” replies Veeti.

Another advantage of nitro is that the hole in the rock does not have to be as deep as one for black powder. Shallower holes mean faster drilling and quicker progress. Veeti takes a break from drilling to clean the bit. A coolie, smiling ear-to-ear, walks past and a wave of anxiety comes over Veeti.

“Why are you laughing at me, Chinaman?” he cries.

The surprised coolie shakes his head and continues on.

“You think I know fuck nothing, don’t you? Well, you’re wrong, Chinaman,” yells the flustered Finn. “I know fuck all!”

When Veeti is finished cleaning the drill bit, he admits to a fellow detonation team member that a feeling of dread overwhelms him. “The Chinamen are up to something. I just know it. And Charlie Connors is like a bear shot in the ass this morning… I think we should be using black powder on this blast – not nitro.”

Uncharacteristically, Charlie Connors calls his team to gather around. “Listen, we’re going to have our wages docked if we don’t pick up the speed,” he says. “We’ll be using nitro more often than not – so I don’t want any breaks in concentration.”

Veeti replies as if on behalf of the team. “If you say so, Boss. Don’t want our pay docked. We’ll work faster.”

“Work faster and smarter,” replies Charlie Connors. “The coolies aren’t respecting the spacing spec’s for the railway ties. This track won’t last two years.”

“Yeah, we saw that – they’re doubling the track spacing. I don’t think they get it – and I don’t think they care. They just want to get their money and disappear – like a fart in the Sahara,” says Veeti.

Charlie Connors helps Veeti insert the nitro into the drilled hole in the quartzite and together, they set the fuse.

“Should we alert the coolies?” asks Veeti.

“They’re far enough away,” replies Charlie Connors.

Veeti lights the fuse and the two men turn to run from the blast point.

In their rush, they fly by the bookkeeper, Lee Soon, who counts steps and writes in his ledger while pacing in the direction of the blast point.

A sudden throbbing shockwave pummels the head and eardrums. Charlie Connors cannot believe how quick the explosion strikes. As he is tossed in the air by the shockwave, Veeti wonders if they made a mistake with the fuse.

A thin slab of quartzite – the size of a bread plate - is sent flying from the blast and strikes Lee Soon above the jaw line. He has just looked up and is smiling as the sharp rock makes impact. Of his grey matter, only the cerebellum is left in place as two-thirds of his skull is clean-shaved off by the velocity of the projectile.

Yee Ah Louie and many of the coolie labourers bear witness to Lee Soon’s pitiful yet still upright form. Their perception of time slows to a crawl as they watch the remnants of Lee Soon take one last pace forward and then stop – as if the poor wretch is struggling to comprehend his new condition. After a pause, what is left of Lee Soon collapses into the dust.

A surge of rage in the coolies is instantly palpable. With hammers and picks in hand, they pursue the members of Charlie Connors’ detonation team who scramble madly off in all directions. Veeti and Charlie Connors run into the Eagle River where they are overwhelmed by the wrathful mob of coolies.

 [NEWS CLIPPING]

The Barkerville Nugget

SUPERINTENDENT SAM STEELE OF THE NWMP INVESTIGATES
RAILWAY CONSTRUCTION EXPLOSION & ALTERCATION
July 4th, 1886 - Sicamous, British Columbia

Hero of the recent rebellion, Superintendent Sam Steele of the North West Mounted Police was summoned to investigate an explosion and fracas on a CPR extension line construction site near Sicamous.  

It is believed that a detonation team failed to give sufficient warning to a Chinese crew working nearby and that a popular member of the coolie gang by the name of Lee Soon was decapitated in the blast.

A violent altercation between coolie and navvy ensued.

Detonation expert Charlie Connors, who is known in some parts for his entertaining jigs, will likely never dance again. In the melee with the coolies, his left hamstring was completely severed. He is currently recuperating at the new Royal Inland Hospital in Kamloops.

Finnish detonation team member, Veeti Nietroläinen, is still missing. Charlie Connors reported to Superintendent Sam Steele that he believes the angry Chinamen tied Nietroläinen to a tree where they had set explosives. NWMP sources confirm that while wood splinters and blood covered the ground around the site of the incident, it was impossible to say where that blood had originated.

This is merely the latest in a litany of misery for the coolie worker. Here in British Columbia along the line of the railways, the Chinese workmen fast disappear under the ground. No medical attention is furnished nor apparently much interest felt for these poor creatures.

The Beech Company of Montreal has the contract for the construction of the extension railway line to Okanagan Landing. Company official, Francis Beech, declined comment stating only that he “refuses to interfere with the operations of the Chinese labour contracting company.”

When contacted, a spokesman for the Kwong Lee Wing Company, based in Victoria, said coolie workers are responsible for their own doctors and medicine.

In order to prevent further uprisings, Superintendent Steele has recommended the disbandment of the coolie crew in question.

Long prior to official action of any kind, the germinal idea of the Canadian Pacific Railway originated with the early explorers who sought a route across the continent for the purpose of facilitating intercourse with China and the East. It would be accurate to say that this intercourse is off to a rough start.

Chapter 11 - Homesteading

September, 1886 (10 months after the murder; 3 months since the railway incident)
The Shuswap, British Columbia, Canada

“When things come to the worst, they generally mend.”
Susanna Moodie, Roughing It in the Bush

Yee Ah Louie arranges tiny jars of Saskatoon berry jam and orange marmalade on a silver tray. Into a small basket he places two scones, a dark pumpernickel roll, and a slice of toasted rye. A stick of chilled butter is tucked into the middle of the basket.

He has been working in the cook car on the CPR for the past months preparing meals for the train’s first-class patrons. The new transcontinental railway is desperate for staff and Yee Ah Louie is equally desperate to move on from the dissolution of his coolie crew due to the “incident” with the detonation team.

This particular passenger train left Dalhousie Station in Montreal six days prior and is scheduled to arrive in Port Moody, B.C. late the following day. Yee Ah Louie is near the end of a twelve-hour shift of collecting used trays, cooking, and cleaning.

In preparation for his downtime, Yee Ah Louie has mastered the art of aggregating the dregs of various unfinished bottles – filtering out the debris – and filling his mickey with the often tobacco-flavoured potions. He downs the dregs and perches himself in his cramped bunk so as to contemplate the scenery through his tiny window.

Yee Ah Louie walks down the aisle and a young man with bright eyes and a mischievous smile gently touches his arm. “Can you get me something stronger than coffee to have with this?” he asks.

Yee Ah Louie nods and brings back a glass of gin and a tumbler of ice.

“Now there’s a more appropriate breakfast libation,” the young man says accepting the glasses from Yee Ah Louie. “Thank you very much, my good man. Please, join me,” he says pointing to the empty bench in front of him.

“Sorry, I can’t sit with passengers,” replies Yee Ah Louie.

“Well, can’t you see I’m bored? Could you at least tell me a story? Like how did you come to work on this transcontinental boondoggle? Here, let’s share a drink,” he says splitting the gin and ice evenly in the two glasses.

Yee Ah Louie cannot resist the young man’s offer and stands beside the cabin answering the questions put to him. He describes his Pacific crossing and gold-panning experiences in California and BC. When he notices a CPR supervisor enter the car, Yee Ah Louie discreetly hands his glass back to the young man, bringing their exchange to an abrupt end.

“Well, thanks for the visit, old chap,” says the young man. “I see you’ve worked very hard. I wish you luck – I’m a great believer in luck and the harder I work the more I seem to have of it. Now, what was the name again of that town where you first panned for gold in California?”

“Mariposa,” replied Yee Ah Louie.

“Mariposa... What a funny name for a town. I’ll have to remember that,” replies the young man.

Yee Ah Louie nods and returns to his duties.

On this day, the train makes an unscheduled stop in a pasture – with mountains in the distance. Dusk is descending upon the Shuswap of British Columbia and the low angle of the sun casts a golden luminescence. The ever-restless Yee Ah Louie, invigorated by gin and the magical light, decides to go for a stroll.

He walks through tall grasses – interspersed with Brown-Eyed Susan’s. Alpine Asters dot the landscape with the season’s last splashes of purple pastel. To the south, there are two dominant mountains that create the horizon’s dramatic backdrop and to the north the Shuswap highlands. He marvels at the cattails, some of which have just burst, sending their fleecy, beige cotton into the breezes that come off the Thompson River.

He sees the humpback profile and hears the hoot of two common loons flying northward in the direction of Little Shuswap Lake.

A silhouette of a man hard at work can be seen in the distance. Yee Ah Louie adjusts his course in the man’s direction. The stilted, graceless movements of the form seem familiar. He sees that the man carries a large knife and appears to be butchering a carcass upon the ground.

“Splitting my fuckin’ ass in half to butcher this bull… I’m having a lot of misery,”* shouts the man.

Yee Ah Louie grins to hear the words and knows at once their origin. He comes upon the chaotic scene while his friend, Henri Quesnel, his head down, struggles to insert a hunting knife into the carcass of an emaciated bull.

“You can’t see, I’m occupied here?” says Henri Quesnel without looking up or knowing whom he is addressing. 

Yee Ah Louie looks around the bloody tableau, says nothing, and strides away with purpose. A moment later, he returns with an armful of wooden posts and goes to work. Henri Quesnel wipes his sweaty face and rubs his eyes. “What are you doing here, Yee Ah?”

Without answering the question, Yee Ah Louie explains to Henri Quesnel that they need a position of leverage, low to the ground, push the bovine on its back and position posts on either side of the rib cage to hold it in place.

“Now we can work,” says Yee Ah Louie.

“What took you so long?” laughs Henri Quesnel.

“Sorry, my train was late,” Yee Ah Louie says not missing a beat. It’s an older, skinny bull and Yee Ah wonders why Henri Quesnel is butchering it here and at this time – not that anything could be done about that now.

“You didn’t cut off the balls, Henri. You must always cut the balls off first – or else the meat tastes funny,” he adds.

After dispensing with the bull’s testes, Yee Ah Louie then demonstrates to Henri Quesnel how the head should be removed – using the hunting knife to cut around the neck always avoiding cutting through the hair of the animal.

“And you try to not let the bull eat on its last day – makes for a clean kill.”

Yee Ah Louie shows him how to carve around the legs. “You pull hard on the skin – lift up and out – cut down with the knife – and we see the ribs cage. This part is important. Cut around the ass carefully – don’t nick it. You don’t want to do this work with a dirty asshole,” says Yee Ah Louie.

Henri Quesnel smiles at his friend. “Kinda’ too late for that, Yee Ah. Don’t you think?” he replies.

A hoard of flies discovers the scene and cavorts upon nearly every part of it.

“You know, you should wait until after fly season is over before you slaughter,” says Yee Ah Louie as he continues to work.

The men hear the whistle of the CPR in the distance.

“Isn’t that your train?” says Henri Quesnel.

“I could stay,” says Yee Ah Louie. And, from his knees, he pulls a mickey from his pocket and offers a swig to Henri Quesnel.

“Oupelaye! Méchante broue! ** What the hell, Yee Ah?” cries Henri Quesnel wiping the thick, dark green concoction from his mouth.

“Good stuff. Drink up,” says Yee Ah Louie.

Henri Quesnel, the struggling homesteader, smiles and looks into the eyes of Yee Ah Louie, his new hired hand. “Good to see you again, old friend.”

Preparing for their first winter as homesteaders & news of Tangia Tura

Later in the Fall, the men work to complete a simple log structure – about twelve feet square – destined to eventually become a storage shed. They’ve also begun the construction of a larger log structure of twenty feet by fifty feet that will become the permanent home. For their first winter, the storage shed will have to do.

Their primary focus, though, is upon preparing for the approaching season – chopping firewood and collecting enough food for the winter.

One evening Henri Quesnel returns from a trip to French Bob’s Hotel, where he purchased some supplies, with a rolled paper in his hand. The men sit at a makeshift table in the cramped quarters of the storage shed. A few candles provide just enough light and cast shadows over their facial features. “You’re going to want to hear this Yee Ah,” he says as he sits and reads the text from the poster:

“FIVE HUNDRED DOLLAR REWARD. The above reward is offered for the capture and return to custody of the North-West Mounted Police, or for information resulting in such capture and return, of Tangia Tura, aka ‘The Head-hunter of Barkerville,’ suspected of murder.

Description: Age, somewhere between 30 and 50 years. Nationality, Polynesian. Comes from The Cook Islands. No known relatives. Known to fraternize with Chinese. Formerly employed as thug by Kwong Lee Wing Company. Figure, erect. Height 6 ft. 3 in. Weight approx. 250 lbs. Complexion, dark. Colour of hair, black. Brown eyes. Straight nose. Facial hair, if any, is thin and sparse. Deep, winding scar on face from chin to forehead. Tattoo of geometric shapes and loon covers back and left arm. Last seen in late January 1886 in Barkerville, British Columbia. May change clothes and disguise himself whenever possible. Persons attempting to arrest Tangia Tura are warned that he is armed with a deadly weapon and that he will not hesitate to use it to escape arrest under all circumstances. Send all information promptly to either Sergeant Dillon Titmarsh, British Columbia Constabulary, Barkerville, or the North-West Mounted Police, Fort Macleod, the undersigned, Sam Steele, Superintendent, North-West Mounted Police.”

The loon story

The next morning, just before dawn, Yee Ah Louie makes his way to the shore of Little Lake Shuswap – a short walk from the homestead. He carries a net and a bucket containing about a dozen snails that he gathered the previous day. A point of land only a few feet wide juts into a small bay and it is here that the loons have made their nest. Yee Ah Louie places the snails around the ground and nesting area of the tiny peninsula. He hides behind a fallen tree and patiently waits.

Every day, the men hear a pair of loons make their distinctive songs on the lake. While they nest on land, they spend little time there following the hatching of their chicks in the early summer. For long periods, the loons are motionless on the glass-like water. From time to time, they might raise a leg out and stretch and extend it into the air.

When feeding, their eerie red eyes gaze below, and they tilt their heads to the left or to the right to identify perch in the shallows or catfish in deep water. Their streamlined form with legs set back on their body make them both sublime swimmers and awkward shufflers on land. They sleep on the water as a safeguard from predators.

From his perch, Yee Ah Louie has a view of the nesting area. Eventually a loon clumsily crawls ashore and cracks open the snail shells with its beak to devour the contents.

Yee Ah Louie leaps from behind the fallen tree and startles the loon who spreads his wings to their full five-foot span. He throws the net up and over the bird and then struggles to contain the powerful wings. In the melee, the loon thrusts his pointed beak at Yee Ah Louie’s face just missing his eye but gouging his upper cheek. A flurry of squawks and grunts ends suddenly with a sharp crack – the struggle is over, and the head of the loon falls to the side.

Later Henri Quesnel finds Yee Ah Louie covered in sweat holding the semi-naked bird – his hands raw from plucking the stubborn plumage.

“What is that?” he asks.

“It’s a loon,” replies Yee Ah Louie.

“We don’t eat loons, Yee Ah.”

“It will taste like goose. It’ll be good,” replies Yee Ah Louie.

“You don’t understand Yee Ah. Loons are different. I hope you killed both of them. Because if you didn’t – you’ll be haunted by the mate. They marry for life, you know,” says Henri Quesnel.

Three days after the capture and killing of the loon, the friends are lying in their beds in the storage shed. The wailing of the surviving loon doesn’t stop. Even from the distance of the cabin, Yee Ah Louie covers his ears but still hears the rising mournful music.

“Can you hear it – the loon?” he asks.

“I hear it, Yee Ah,” replies Henri Quesnel.

“I can’t stand it. It was beautiful before but not anymore,” says Yee Ah Louie.

“The loon gets in your head. I remember a story my mother told me about the loon. We never ate this bird – not just because it’s tough meat and hard to deplume – but loons aren’t like other birds. In the story, a mother treats her son very badly – she does not love him – and it is the loon that helps the boy to see. What becomes of a child that is not loved? You want to hear this story, Yee Ah?” he asks.

“Go ahead,” replies Yee Ah Louie.

“There was once a young boy who was already a great hunter. He lived with his unhappy mother and his sister who was kind and beautiful and wore a necklace of dentalium shells.

His sister loved him very much but his mother resented him and grew weary of having to clean, skin and prepare the meat from his hunting.

The mother’s resentment grew. She felt she never had time to rest because of his hunting and she began to hate her son - to the point where one night she rubbed dirty fat into his eyes while he slept.

In the morning, the boy was blind.

The family went from having more than enough food – good food – to eating squirrels and ptarmigan. The boy was not of much use and his mother fed him only the worst parts of these animals and gave him stale water to drink.

The family grew more miserable through the seasons until one day the boy was sure that he heard the sound of a bear. He grabbed his bow and told his mother to aim the arrow in the right direction. He was sure that he heard the sound of his arrow hitting the target – but his mother insisted that he had missed.

When later that day the boy smelled the bear meat being boiled he was hurt and wondered why his mother lied to him.

The mother fed her boy some squirrel meat that night, but after she had gone to sleep, his sister who was very kind brought him a portion of bear meat.

The boy’s sight never returned and, as the years went by, the family struggled to survive. One night, in the spring, the boy heard the call of the loon and in the darkness he crawled to the shore of the lake and there he found the loon that had cried out.

The loon said, ‘your mother blinded you with dirt – but I can wash your eyes to bring back the light. Lie upon my back as do my chicks and hang on to my neck.’

The boy was not sure that the loon would be big enough to do this – but the loon reassured him. ‘You will see, I will dive deep with you upon my back. When you lose your breath, shake your body and I will know.’

The boy trusted the loon and – sure enough – as it dove, he could feel the loon grow bigger. It pulled him deep into the lake. When he could no longer hold his breath he shook his body and the loon rose to the surface and asked the boy what he saw.

‘I see some light and clouds and mist,’ said the boy.

The loon and the boy repeated the dive two more times and after the third dive, she again asked the boy what he could see.

‘I see everything, he said. I see the trees, the mountains, the animals, I see your sharp beak and your red eyes.’

The boy was grateful and asked the loon what he could give her in return. The loon replied that all she wanted was to have the boy put some fish in the lake every once in a while.

The boy promised that he would do this and returned home.

His mother and sister were still asleep and the boy could not believe the sad state of the home. When his mother awoke, the boy asked for some food and water and when he saw the filth his mother brought him, he threw it back at her in anger.

And his mother then knew that her boy could see again.

His sister was overjoyed and asked her bother how this was. He told her of diving on the back of the loon and she was so happy that she went down to the lake and gave the loon her necklace of dentalium shells that the loon still wears.

The boy returned to his hunting and was again very good. In short time, the family wanted for nothing but he was not happy. He did not sleep. He did not talk. He only hunted.

Until one day he brought his mother and sister hunting to the shore of the big lake and there he brought a harpoon and a rope. When a whale came near, he did not miss. He quickly tied the end of his rope to his mother’s body and she was carried away yelling at him. ‘You are ungrateful. I fed you as a baby. I fed you in your blindness,’ she screamed before being pulled down into the water.

His beautiful sister married and moved to live with her mother-in-law.***

The boy grew into a man who lived alone, did not talk, rarely slept, but had more food than he could ever eat,” recites Henri Quesnel.

“Fuck me,” replies Yee Ah Louie. 

*Two of Henri Quesnel’s French Canadian translations, “a lot of misery” (b’en de la misère) means to struggle with a challenge. “Splitting my ass in half” (se fendre le cul en deux) means to work extremely hard.

** “Wow!” (Oupalaye) is an expression of surprise. “Nasty brew” or “mean concoction” (méchante broue).

*** Adapted from traditional Indigenous folk tales.

Chapter 12 - Women’s Work

June 12, 1901 (15 years later)
Beech Company Boardroom, Montreal, Quebec, Canada

“…But when both love and friendship fail,
We cry for duty, work to do;
Some end to gain beyond the pale
Of self, some height to journey to.

And then, before our task is done,
With sudden weariness oppressed,
We leave the shining goal unwon,
And only ask for rest.”

Edith Wharton, Wants

JRB demands a plan to stop the bleeding – the boardroom meeting

Lewis Tichborne, Francis Beech, and Ruth FitzGerald sit in silence for 20 minutes at the solid oak table in the Beech Company boardroom. It is the first time Ruth FitzGerald has ever set foot in the imposing room. They wait for the arrival of JRB.

Francis Beech rubs his knuckles.

“Your face is blotchy,” says Ruth FitzGerald.

“Please,” Francis Beech says to his colleagues, “when he gets here - don’t speak until I ask you to.”

Ruth FitzGerald admires the black maple walls of the boardroom. She studies the grain and glances up at the stained-glass images on the ceiling. She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes acknowledging the importance of the moment.

Seated at the height-adjusted table, Ruth FitzGerald organizes her notes illustrating the competitive situation at each newspaper she oversees in cities and towns across the country. “If you folks weren’t Protestant – I’d think we were in the Vatican vestibule waiting for an audience,” she mumbles just as the Company patriarch arrives.

“Why do you always bring others along whenever I request a meeting?” asks JRB of his son upon entering the boardroom. “You brought your stenographer?” he adds with a wave of his long arm in Ruth’s direction. “Really? Are we going to have to wait for your solicitor as well?”

“Sir, I don’t know the first thing about shorthand,” states Ruth FitzGerald.

Francis Beech glares at her.

Ruth FitzGerald’s business vision first presented to Francis Beech five years previous

Ruth FitzGerald had a vision for the creation of the nation’s largest and most profitable chain of newspapers. Her plan was a while in the making. The first notions came to her after spending time with the Beech brothers on the doomed ship Algoma. At the time, she explained to her husband, Edmund FitzGerald, how she conceived the plan. “I’ve been thinking about it in my idle moments – in the back of my mind. And then one morning it was suddenly crystal clear. I wanted to bring together these distinct ideas in a new way and I was convinced it would lead to something very special. But I needed a partner with the means to fund my vision.” Her husband mumbled support for his wife’s project despite not really grasping the concept.

Ruth FitzGerald had kept in touch with Francis Beech since the Algoma – sending him periodic letters that included updates on the Owen Sound Times and the papers she and Edmund had acquired in Fort William. Francis Beech read her correspondence with interest especially her teasers about increased profitability. He never forgot how his brother, Peter, had been impressed by Ruth FitzGerald and since their original discussion at The Bucket of Blood, he remained curious about the newspaper business.

When Ruth Fitzgerald proposed they share a train ride from Toronto to Montreal, for what she positioned as “exploratory discussions,” Francis Beech instructed his secretary to make room in his calendar.

In that fateful meeting, five years before this day’s gathering in the Beech boardroom, Ruth FitzGerald sat across from Francis Beech at a table in a first-class cabin to try and convince him to support her vision. Ruth FitzGerald jabbed her index finger into Francis Beech’s chest for emphasis and described her strategy for building the nation-wide network.

“You are a lumber baron family – so I’ll illustrate my story with planks. Each plank represents a part the strategy. First, you must think long term. Look at all the schools that are opening in this country in every village and township – literacy is exploding. This is a generation of newspaper readers. And they will be our readers.” The train slowed as it passed through another village. Ruth FitzGerald pointed to a gathering of children in a school playground. “This first plank, Francis, underpins everything we are going to do,” she said.

“The second plank of our plan is to secure a supply of newsprint. You convince your father to purchase the paper mill in Hull beside the existing Beech Company sawmill and lumberyard. His newsprint will be shipped on the railway lines that now crisscross the country to the cities and towns where we will publish. Do you think you can do that?” asked Ruth FitzGerald. Francis Beech nodded in response. “I think so, maybe.”

“Good,” she replied. “A secure supply of newsprint, as I’ll explain, will be crucial. The third plank is our acquisition strategy – of purchasing struggling, under-valued, but high-readership newspapers from the families that own them – all along the CPR. There are dozens to choose from.”

Ruth paused to size up Francis Beech. She was used to men not following along or paying much attention when she talked business. Not only was he keeping up – he looked at her expectantly and had pulled a pencil and notepad from his pocket. Francis Beech clearly wanted more.

“The fourth plank is the Hoe rotary printing press. It prints both sides of the paper in a single operation at lightning speeds. I’ve been researching it. We’ll negotiate a clause of exclusivity with the manufacturer and pay a premium for the promise that they not sell to anyone else in each of our markets. Our competitors will simply not be able to keep up.” Ruth crossed her arms upon the table and leaned in. Her eyes were bright as she continued.

“In markets with competition – our fifth and final plank will be all out war until there remains only one survivor. That’s what I did in Port Arthur. Single copy prices will not matter. In fact – I’m willing to give copies away – completely flood the market to keep my boot on the throat of competitors.

“With our high-speed presses and supply of newsprint it will be a matter of time. We can print more copies with more pages than our competitors ever could – and they will eventually succumb. We’ll sell our advertising at reduced rates in return for frequency – that way we don’t need to reset the pages – just run the same ad pages over and over. The competition’s last remaining hope will be to sell their damaged assets to the Beech Company – but even in this moment we will be uncompromising.” Ruth uncrosses her arms and thumps her fist upon the table. “In full knowledge of our leverage – they will accept our modest terms or there will be no offer at all.”

She paused, then settled back in her seat, drew a breath, and carried on.

“I’ve learned from the experience in Owen Sound and then in Port Arthur where we effectively put the competition out of business.  With your capital and newsprint supply and my day-to-day leadership, we can build the country’s biggest and most profitable newspaper chain.”

Francis Beech made notes in his booklet while Ruth spoke. He stopped her and reached over to touch her hand. “You are inspiring.”

Ruth wasn’t certain of his motivation but chose to transmit a message to keep her boundaries clear. She gently pulled her hand back and forced a squint and slight turn of her head that said, “let’s stay on topic.”

“I’ll lead the battles for control of each market and after we kill off the other players, we’ll put community-minded publishers in place... I know the profile we are looking for. Men of a certain age – well connected in their communities with local merchants and politicians. Men who like the sound of their own voice, who, in their banalities, can nonetheless convey a certain gravitas.” Ruth stopped a CPR porter who was rushing by and ordered a whisky. “Double, one cube of ice.” The surprised porter looked to Francis Beech as if for confirmation. “You don’t need his approval, man,” Ruth exclaimed. “Are you going to have something?” she asked Francis Beech.

He hesitated. “Uh, yes a brandy, please,” he replied.

Ruth Fitzgerald continued. “We’ll look for men who have sufficient motivation to increase their wealth and may even tell the locals they are the architects of their paper’s rise to dominance. We don’t care. What matters most is that they have neither the depth of intellect nor the free spirit to ever be inspired to rock the boat. After we win the war in each market – these will be shepherds we want – not revolutionaries,” she said.

“Are we not vulnerable from advertiser pressure if advertising is our main revenue stream?” Peter Beech asked. “Won’t they try to influence our newsrooms?”

“Not if we have more than enough of them. Our profitability will be the best shield for editorial independence,” said Ruth.

Their drinks arrived and Francis Beech popped the question. “So, what about Lewis Tichborne? Where does he fit in?”

Ruth FitzGerald remembered his name quite clearly. While she would be the first to admit that he was an incredibly effective salesman, she had not lost sleep over his decision to leave the Owen Sound Times and join the Beech Company.

“What about him?” she asked.

“He’s works as my personal assistant,” explained Francis Beech. “He’s insightful, Ruth. Very smart – and loyal.”

Ruth rubbed her chin. “He can’t be on my team. Lewis Tichborne is a lone wolf and I need to know when I’m working with someone that they’re going to do as they said. With him – nothing is as it seems. I know how bloody smart he is,” she said matter-of-factly. “But he’s always up to something. That’s his nature. You do what you want with him – but I won’t have time to decipher his stories.”

“I’d like to keep him around. He’s been looking for a promotion. Maybe I’ll find some special projects for him to work on,” said Francis Beech lifting his head and looking for approval.

“Francis, you do what you want with him. I question whether he can be loyal to anyone but himself – but that’s for you to figure out. If we are to do this, you need to keep him out of my way.”

Ruth refused to sign a deal with Francis Beech until her terms were met. She knew when she had a live one on the line and wasn’t about to cut him any slack. The Beech Company would purchase the newspapers she owned with her husband Edmund who would remain as publisher of the Owen Sound Times. Despite a robust shipbuilding industry, Ruth had a sense that Owen Sound would soon become a decaying backwater and wanted to monetize the paper while the going was good. Keeping her husband busy as publisher in Owen Sound also dovetailed neatly with her need to be free to realize her ambitions.

The one point they did not resolve was the question of Ruth’s title. On this, Francis Beech remained vague – wary of his father’s reaction. “My shadow will be behind you at every turn, Ruth. You will be like an extension of my own authority,” he said. “And we will run this division separately from the rest of the Beech Company. There is no need for my father’s prying eyes.”

Ruth was realistic about the kind of title a woman could be given and cared only insofar that her authority was clear – she needed people to know that she could close a deal or dismiss them at any moment – and on this, Francis Beech’s promise was one he fully intended to keep.

The original pitch to JRB

Shortly after the meeting on the train, Francis Beech arranged to sit with his father and pitch the newspaper chain strategy. Lewis Tichborne tagged along.

“I like it,” said JRB. “I especially like the margins in the newspaper business and I appreciate the political influence it could give us. Who came up with the plan?”

“A total team effort,” replied Francis Beech.

JRB raised an eyebrow and stared at Lewis Tichborne. “Is this your handiwork, Tickworm?” he asked.

Lewis Tichborne replied: “A plan like this, Sir, is the result of contributions from a wide array of bright and dedicated men.”

“Are you not able to provide a straight response to any question, Tichtwit? JRB said exasperated. “But I do believe this is a worthwhile project,” he continued looking back towards his son. “There isn’t the money to be made that there once was in lumber – this could be the next chapter for the Beech family. Be sure that each transaction is of a manageable size. Do not bet the farm on any one deal.” JRB lit his pipe – and sat back in his chair. Francis Beech beamed.

JRB continued: “Our profits from the railway real estate should be able to fund this adventure – so long as we’re not overextended. I’ll give you the leeway you’re looking for. I want you to run with this. Show me what you’ve got, boy.”

The execution of Ruth’s vision

In the five years since JRB’s blessing of the strategy, although never in the limelight, Ruth FitzGerald acted like a woman possessed. She led the purchase of fifteen newspapers, all along the network of railways, from Orillia and Sudbury in Ontario to Calgary in the North-West, and to the towns of Kamloops and Port Moody in British Columbia. She was in perpetual motion, traveling by train from city to city. She generally did not alert local management of her itinerary – which permitted her to slip in the back door of the local newspaper office and inspect the operation before anyone had a chance to advise staff or spruce things up.

She had a fondness for hats – a growing collection of shapes, feathers, and ribbons that filled an extra suitcase on her travels. The accompanying hatpins were at times used to reinforce her instructions to reticent employees or to convince unruly men that she intended to protect her space. At just under five feet in height, she was neither elegant nor dishevelled – but a work in constant progress – an experiment in colour and fabric combinations that did not quite work – but, could be argued, might be just a little before their time.

At first, most employees had no idea who this nosy woman was as she walked around the offices asking questions. She typically posed questions to those that worked with the local merchants. “Who are your biggest customers? What are their preferences? What makes them happy?” If the advertising clerk was unable to adequately answer, the local management team was in for it.

In time, she became infamous within the chain. Local reporters would share news of her comings and goings with management secretaries. They soon dubbed her with a less than flattering nickname and transmitted telegrams alerting newspaper offices along her path. “Heads up. Ruthy Ice Box on the rampage. Heading West.”

The cost of acquisition of the titles and the purchase of the new Hoe presses had been as Ruth FitzGerald forecasted but the losses during the prolonged wars for dominance in each market had not. The profits from the sale of railway-adjacent real estate were slower to materialize than first imagined and were soon drained. The Beech Company leveraged itself through loans to cover the longer than expected money-losing battles in competitive markets.

Ruth and Francis, the morning before the boardroom meeting

“These publishers are more stubborn than you thought, Ruth,” said Francis Beech. “I have a meeting later today with my father – and I have to explain where we’re at and how we are going to get through this. He wants a plan to stop the bleeding.”

Sitting across from Francis Beech in his Beech Building office, Ruth Fitzgerald held a ledger on her lap and looked directly at him. “In Calgary we are just about there – the competitor is struggling to pay his bills and – as in other markets – he has gone so far as to purchase newsprint from the Beech Company – they’ve been cut off by all the other mills. We will be in control as the population grows in that town. In Sudbury, it’s a similar story – we are giving copies to every citizen – even the illiterate – which to be honest is more than you might have imagined – we’re including more and more illustrations.” She stood and crossed her arms, holding her ledger against her. “The competition can’t keep up. The numbers don’t lie. The strategy is working, Francis. It is taking longer than planned – these publishers are harder to kill off than I imagined – but it will pay off. Remember, it’s the slow-growing trees that yield the best fruit,” explained Ruth.

“My father is getting old,” Francis replied – slumping in his chair. “What little patience he once had is gone. A proverb about slow-growing trees might just cause his head to explode and it’s not the kind of thing I can use to win an argument. Not that I ever could win an argument with him. I sometimes wish he were more like other fathers – the ones who actually mellow with age.” Realizing that he had let his guard down, Francis looked up at Ruth to measure her reaction.

“Are you asking me to attend this meeting with your father?” she said.

“Would you?” asked Francis.

“Does he even know I exist?”

JRB & Beverly on succession before the boardroom meeting

“I wanted there to be a competition between the boys,” JRB lamented to his wife, Beverly. It was well before dawn on the morning of the “meeting to stop the bleeding” with Francis. “I don’t like not having options.”

On this day – as with every other – Beverly laid out an outfit for her colour-blind but always well-dressed husband. Since the death of her son, Peter, Beverly had made few changes in her life. She carried on with her routine and her dedication to the church – the one significant modification was at teatime where she had replaced the traditional cup of Darjeeling with a bottle of Harvey’s Bristol Cream.

Beverly had always been a morning person – never did really enjoy the evening gala circuit frequented by women of her status – and with her new habit was discreetly stewed by dessert time and in bed shortly after eight o’clock. Sensing she was the topic of high-society gossip and fratricidal speculation made sure that socializing in the evening had lost what little lustre it once may have had.

“You can always sell the business, James,” Beverly said now. She called her husband by his first name. “We can retire to the cottage.”

“I’m not selling the bloody business, Bev,” said JRB. “I simply want to be sure that the boy has what it takes to get us through this jeopardy. He lacks judgement and tends to trust the wrong people.”

“A by-product, no doubt, of the constant pressure you put upon him, James. Would you please stand still?” said Beverly reaching up to adjust her husband’s tie. “Francis never wins with you. Never,” she added with a hint of frustration.

“Are you done yet?” he asked with a sigh. JRB knew that his image and reputation were enhanced by Beverly’s work but he was never patient with her primping. “Maybe Francis should have become a Minister. Maybe he’s cut from an entirely different cloth,” he added.

“Why do you think he even flirted with idea?” asked Beverly. “It was a way for him to finally win an argument with you, James. A means of appealing to the only power in the hierarchy that might actually sit above you.”

“I fear this entire newspaper acquisition strategy – that I did endorse – is the brainchild of that rascal Lewis Tichborne,” said JRB. “You can’t build anything solid on shaky ground – and that man’s character is downright gelatinous.”

“Well, I’m sorry the murder of our son threw a wrench into your plans for business succession – such an inconvenience,” said Beverly wishing it wasn’t still morning so that she could calm her nerves with a shot or two of Sherry.

“You don’t understand, Bev. I trusted Francis to run this escapade on his own and I’ve allowed him to leverage us to a precarious point. The lumber business is in decline, our real estate holdings out west aren’t yet what we anticipated, and these newspapers are bleeding cash. All we need is a recession or a rise in interest rates and we’ll lose everything.”

The day’s boardroom meeting

JRB takes his seat at the head of the boardroom table. Francis and Lewis Tichborne sit to his left. Ruth FitzGerald in on his right. “This cannot go on. The wolves are at the door. I need to see the plan to stop the bleeding in each market – we don’t have the luxury of time – the losses must stop within weeks,” he says.

“I understand Father,” replies Francis. “We frankly underestimated the resilience of our adversaries and find ourselves at war on too many fronts – against desperate men who have nothing left to lose and refuse to die.”

“And all we have are pea-shooters,” interjects Lewis Tichborne, earning him a raised eyebrow from Francis Beech.

JRB squints at Lewis Tichborne, “Pea-shooters? Isn’t this your goddamned vision, Stillborne?” JRB’s tone is low-decibel, slow, and terrorizing.

“Not really, Sir,” he replies completely unfazed. “From the beginning, I’ve been investing my energies on risk mitigation. I stated for the record early on – that I would be a team player no matter what – but that we might be taking on too much, too soon.”

“If it wasn’t yours, whose idea was it?” asks a perplexed JRB.

“Sir, as I said, this has been a team effort every step of the way – but the original plan was not mine.”

“Are you pointing the finger at my son?” says a suddenly bemused JRB. “I’m more than a little surprised – where are you going with this?”

“I would never do that, Sir,” Lewis Tichborne replies. “No, not pointing fingers at him or anyone else. Serves no purpose at this stage. If we were to develop a culture of blame in this company it certainly wouldn’t be my fault. The milk is spilled – should we determine whose clumsy hand knocked over the creamer or talk about where we go from here? That some of us may have seen this flawed strategy as overly aggressive from the beginning is, at this point, irrelevant,” says Lewis Tichborne.

Ruth FitzGerald can no longer contain herself. “Sir, we are within days of our enemy’s capitulation in certain markets. They are running out of supplies and running out of options,” she says. “Through different contacts, we have been tracking the accounts payable of our competitors. We know that they’re being cut off by their suppliers. I have been – quite recently – to each and every town where we operate and I have spoken with merchants and other people in the know. We need to hang on just a little longer. Please trust me, we are very close to our objective.”

JRB is gobsmacked. It takes him a moment to comprehend what has just happened.

He looks at Ruth and then he looks at his son, Francis Beech. “I really thought that she was your secretary. I really did. And that – in your timidity – you brought her along to reduce the severity of the chastisement you so richly deserve. But now I finally see that for the past five years you have been playing me for the fool. I was convinced that this strategy was cooked up by your devious, bucktoothed fart-catcher here,” he says pointing at Lewis Tichborne. “But no. You brought me the business plan of a goddamned stenographer – one who doesn’t even know shorthand. When I endorsed this project, I had no idea the bloody thing was dreamed up by some delusional damsel.”

Francis Beech feels his abdomen cramp up. Micro beads of sweat appear on his upper lip.

“This is what concerned me from the beginning,” Lewis Tichborne chimes in. “It takes a man’s personal pugilistic experience to appreciate the hazard of scrapping with multiple foes. This is no longer a theory to be brainlessly debated over tea at a meeting of the Women’s Institute. This is blood and guts reality. But, as a team, we now need to decide how to honourably extricate ourselves from each bout.”

JRB looks at Tichborne with incredulity. “I am speechless,” he says. “What a fucking fiasco. The legacy of our family is on the line and I’m getting a lecture on blood, guts, and honour from the Artful Dodger.”

For a long moment all that can be heard in the boardroom are the pendulums of the case clock in the corner.

“Sir,” interjects Ruth FitzGerald. “There is something that you can do,” she says, garnering her another glare from Francis Beech. “We understand that some of our competitors have actually turned to the Beech Company for newsprint. This is a weapon we have yet to use – an opportunity to complete their extermination.”

JRB pauses, looks at Ruth FitzGerald, and rubs his chin. “Such a devious thought,” he says. “And from a stenographer no less.”

Chapter 13 - You Can Call Me Wilfrid

August 25, 1910 (9 years later)
Kamloops, British Columbia, Canada

“After giving it full consideration, everyone who has looked into the matter must come to the conclusion that this antagonism is based upon ethnical consideration, the difference between the two races. It seems impossible to reconcile them ... There are so many differences of character that it is supposed to be impossible to overcome them.”

Canadian Prime Minister, Sir Wilfrid Laurier on the question of Chinese immigration

The origination of Wilfrid Louie

“I am accused in Québec of having betrayed the French, and in Ontario of having betrayed the English ... In Québec I am attacked as an Imperialist, and in Ontario as an anti-imperialist. I am neither... I am a Canadian. Canada has been the inspiration of my life,” exclaims Canadian Prime Minister, Sir Wilfrid Laurier.

It is a cloudless, sunny afternoon at the train station in Kamloops, British Columbia and hundreds of eager onlookers gather for a glimpse of the dashing and dignified orator. His warm resonant voice and precise elocution – a mild French-Canadian accent seasoned with a hint of the Queen’s English – signal both empathy and great intelligence. Speaking from behind the railing of the CPR caboose, the Prime Minister’s sharp features, impeccable outfit, and salt and pepper mane give him a regal aura.

“I welcome those of our kith and kin from the old land... Those who come at the eleventh hour will receive the same treatment as those who have been in the field for a long time,” he says, the energy in his voice steadily rising. “We want to share with them our lands, our laws, our civilization... Let them become Canadians... and give their heart, their soul, their energy and all their power to Canada,” says the Prime Minister lifting his arms in the air.

His panache and message make an immediate impact upon many in the crowd – none more so than fourteen-year-old Wee Hong Louie, son of Shuswap Valley homesteader, Yee Ah Louie. The square-jawed boy caught the train this morning to deliver a load of strawberries to the market in Kamloops. The shifting back and forth of the train car alternated sunbeams and shadows on the pages of Wee Hong Louie’s book as he sat leaning against an open door. An insatiable reader, the trip had been just long enough for him to finish a tattered copy of John Richardson’s Wacousta.

Upon his arrival in Kamloops, the curious boy spots the gathering crowd at the train station and moves in to get a closer look. His eyes are glued to the Prime Minister and, in the bright sunshine of that August afternoon, he makes a decision.

He would later conclude that perhaps it wasn’t so much a decision – more a realization of something that was always meant to be. From that moment on, he alone determines his identity and he no longer answers to the name Wee Hong.

Just like the refined Prime Minister, he will go by Wilfrid – Wilfrid Louie.

Wilfrid Louie studies the impressive speaker more closely – comparing the Prime Minister’s tasteful jacket and vest to his own burlap-smelling outfit. “This too will change,” he says to himself. The boy smiles and is full to the brim with the kind of certainty that perhaps only a fourteen-year-old ever truly feels. 

Two groups at odds & expecting an audience with the Prime Minister

“You can feel the anger,” mumbles Wilfrid Louie under his breath.

Scanning the crowd gathered around the caboose, he observes that two distinct groups are at odds – each waiting for an audience with the Prime Minister.

The more numerous is made up of homesteaders and led by two spokesmen: Henri Quesnel and Will Riley. They carry a petition requesting an increase in the size of lots made available to settlers from the current forty to 160 acres.

The second group consists of the leaders of the Shuswap, Okanagan and Couteau tribes, Chief Petit Louis, Chief Basil David, and Chief John Chilahitsa respectively. A gristly warrior with a deep facial scar accompanies them. These men also have also brought a document for the Prime Minister that they have prepared with the assistance of a Scottish-born secretary and a French-Canadian priest.

No amount of sunny optimism and inspiring oratory from the leader of the Dominion eases the mistrust stirring between the groups. There is jostling, dirty looks, and the air of a pot about to boil over.

“I want the newspaper articles to be about me and my message. Not about a bloody fracas between Indians and homesteaders,” the Prime Minister turns to say to his handlers during a prolonged ovation. For the benefit of his audience, he maintains a smile but his tone conveys his grave concern. “Keep the peace! Make sure nothing happens.”

Wilfrid Louie moves about the crowd. The Louie family are homesteaders and the boy recognizes many of those gathered. He has met one of the leaders, Henri Quesnel, and knows that he and his father were once close. The Louie family ranch borders the Adams Lake Indian Reserve – and Wilfrid Louie has learned the Secwepemc language.

“Pretty tense, isn’t it? I think you’re the only thing preventing outright violence,” Wilfrid Louie says to the gristly warrior with the scar. The big man does not respond.

When the ovation subsides, the Prime Minister’s handlers escort the spokesmen for the homesteaders inside the caboose. The rest of the settlers and the Indian entourage wait outside in the baking heat of the August sun.

The caboose is ornate with leather wingbacks, velvet drapes, and oak wainscoting. Positioned around a small table, Henri Quesnel and Will Riley lean in, sitting on the edge of their armchair seats, while the Prime Minister sits back, relaxed, one leg draped over the over.

English breakfast tea, lemonade, and molasses cookies are served. After an initial exchange of pleasantries, the Prime Minister, cup and saucer in his left hand and cookie in his right, addresses his guests: “Please, help me better understand the experience of the British Columbia homesteader.”

Henri Quesnel is caught off guard by this open-ended approach – but after a brief pause – he looks at his notes and begins with his prepared statement. “We are a group of homesteaders from the region around Little Shuswap Lake. We have a message for you, Mr. First Minister. The number of acres allotted to pioneers is today fixed at forty. How is a man to build a successful farm on only forty acres – which may be one acre of prairie, nine acres of bush and thirty acres of swamp? A family needs 160 acres to build a life and have the opportunity to flourish,” he says.

The Prime Minister nods. “Go on,” he says.

Henri Quesnel puts down his notes and looks Sir Wilfrid Laurier in the eye.

 “You really want to understand the experience of the homesteader, your eminence? Homesteading is to do the impossible… It is never being in balance. When it rains, there is too much rain. You drink it standing up. When it is dry, there is too much sun – it turns crops to dust. When abundance returns – there’s too much of that – the shit hits the roof – and prices hit the floor.” Henri Quesnel leans forward and illustrates his remarks with dramatic gestures. “Snowdrifts in winter rise above the windows and, God forbid, if someone is sick, you are lucky to find the doctor. And through it all, the homesteader works. Every one of us – from the berceau to the cercueil* – has the work bred into them and we know that the day we fall down dead stiff in the field – there will be still more work to do. That is the experience of the homesteader. Forty acres? Not enough,” he says, sits back, and places his hands flat upon his thighs.

The Prime Minister stops eating his cookie and puts down his saucer and tea.

“We also need to convey to you Mr. Prime Minister,” interjects Will Riley. “How the local Indian population is aggravating the already difficult life of the homesteader.”

Henri Quesnel gives him a look. “Will, we do not agree on this.”

Will Riley disregards Henri Quesnel’s protestation and continues.

“We wish to make you aware of the unsustainable situation we have with the Indians in the Shuswap. I saw outside that some of them are here to see you today. You need to know what we’re dealing with. They regularly set fire to the prairies. Wherever hay is to be harvested, they will be there with their torches,” he says, crossing his arms. “We have a neighbour who was building a home on the Indian side of the river. He and his family were chased away and had their fields set aflame,” adds Will Riley in an unflinching tone.

Henri Quesnel shifts in his seat. “It is not so simple as you say, Will,” he says shaking his head.

“With all due respect, Henri, facts are facts and as a half-breed, you’re not the most objective,” he replies.

“On the contrary, my friend,” says Henri Quesnel.

Sir Wilfrid Laurier uncrosses his legs. “Gentlemen, I would prefer not to have any friction in here,” he says, clearly uncomfortable with the growing tension.

“Well, we’d prefer not to have any friction out there – but that’s not the world we live in,” states Henri Quesnel. “It’s not always so sunny in the Shuswap.”

Will Riley presses on: “The government has surrounded us with their reserves and the Indians, for whom the law means nothing, trespass on our lands, and trample our fences – setting our livestock free. Their wild dogs terrorize our poultry. Our gardens and our fruit trees are looted and every homesteader must lock down his valuable possessions before they disappear.”

Henri Quesnel interrupts and firmly addresses the Prime Minister. “Me, I think it’s normal that the Indians don’t like seeing white men move
into their country to stay and build miles of fences over their land.” He turns to Will Riley and continues, “And you forget, Will, they too are afraid. Afraid they’ll be pushed from their salmon fishing on the Adams River and from streams flowing into Shuswap Lake, streams that in early days had salmon runs as big as the Adams.”

“Henri, we are not here to justify the actions of Indians,” replies Will Riley.

Henri Quesnel rises abruptly from his chair. “No. I thought we were to make sure the First Minister here changes the land grants from forty to 160 acres... And speaking of land grants, when the government made the Indian reserves. You know what they did? They gave twenty acres for each Indian man. And twenty is half of the forty acres that we insist is not nearly enough.” He throws his hands in the air. “How is that supposed to work?”

Sir Wilfrid Laurier raises his arms and motions to the men sit down. “I hear what you are saying,” he says waving his handlers to come forward. “Perhaps some lemonade to cool things down?” he suggests pointing at the ice-filled pitchers. The Prime Minister removes a kerchief from his pocket and wipes his brow. “Gentlemen I think I have heard enough. I will see what we can do about these situations.”

A fracas outside the caboose

Outside the caboose, temperatures rise in the afternoon sun to over ninety degrees and tempers are beginning to fray. Wilfrid Louie wades through the crowd that is packed tightly around the train.

He eventually gets the attention of the gristly warrior with the scar. Wilfrid Louie studies the man’s leathery wrinkles and sinewy brawn. The warrior does a double take upon finally making eye contact with the boy.

Meanwhile, Chief Petit Louis of the Shuswap tribe feels the weight of the world on his aged shoulders – he worries that his delegation might miss their audience. Much is expected of him and the other chiefs who have prepared for the meeting. He pins considerable hope upon its success.

“We have been told that the Prime Minister is in Kamloops for a short time. Why does he spend it all with the settlers? This meeting is important for us,” Chief Petit Louis says to his delegation. He motions that they should push through the throng to be positioned at the entrance to the caboose. The group begins to move ahead navigating through the crowd.

“Circle the wagons, boys! Here come the red men!” yells a homesteader – generating guffaws from those assembled.

Chief Petit Louis is stopped when he moves to squeeze past a stocky Scotsman who refuses to budge and holds his body wide and rigid. The Chief places his hand on the Scotsman’s back to indicate where he means to pass.

“Don’t touch me, you dirty Indian,” growls the Scotsman.

Chief Petit Louis presses on and the man abruptly shoots his right elbow into the chief’s chin – and sends him stumbling backwards.

The gristly warrior reacts. He crouches, spreads his arms straight out and in rapid succession engages three of the closest homesteaders. One after another, he snatches their wrists, twists, and cracks a digit.

His victims tilt their faces towards the heavens with mouths wide and eyes swelled. Howls of pain layer on top of one another in a macabre three-part harmony as they fall to their knees, grip their damaged hands with their good ones, and stare at fingers pointing at odd angles.

The warrior maintains his primed stance and scans the crowd. Wilfrid Louie mumbles under his breath, “I’ve never seen anything like that before.”

The noise of the altercation reaches inside the caboose. Henri Quesnel and Will Riley come running out, followed by the Prime Minister and his handlers. With the standoff scene before them – the warrior on one side and the homesteaders on the other – the blood runs from Henri Quesnel’s face as he recognizes the hulking scar-faced man.

“Everyone calm down! Violence is not the answer! Please come to your senses,” pleads the Prime Minister. He turns towards his handlers and addresses them through clenched teeth. “I told you to keep the peace, imbeciles.”

The homesteaders reluctantly heed Will Riley’s pleas for them to return home and begin to disperse. As they do, the Prime Minister’s handlers escort the Indian chiefs, their secretary and the priest into the caboose.

The warrior with the scar waits outside. There he stands face-to-face with Henri Quesnel and the wide-eyed Wilfrid Louie.

Inside the caboose - the memorial to Sir Wilfrid Laurier

The three chiefs from the delegation sit in armchairs across from the Prime Minister who again dabs the sweat from his brow. Their secretary and the priest stand behind the chiefs. Sir Wilfrid Laurier forces a grin.

Chief Petit Louis of the Shuswap tribe presents a four-page memorial. Chief Basil David, and Chief John Chilahitsa sit on either side of him. Chief Petit Louis politely declines the offer of tea, lemonade and molasses cookies from one of the handlers and makes his address in his language – Secwepemc.

His cadence is disciplined and his tone unyielding. The sun sits low in the sky and now shines through the caboose window, illuminating his crevassed face. He squints in the light, but his eyes do not waver from those of the Prime Minister. The priest translates his words.

“We take this opportunity of your visiting Kamloops to speak a few words to you. We speak to you the more freely because you are a member of the white race with whom we first became acquainted, and which we call in our tongue ‘real whites.’

After the other whites came to this country in 1858 we differentiated them from the first whites as their manners were so much different, and we applied the term “real whites” to the fur-traders
of the Northwest and Hudson Bay companies. As the great majority of the employees were French speaking, the term became applied by us as a designation for the whole French race.

The “real whites” never tried to steal or appropriate our country, nor take our food and life from us. They acknowledged our ownership of the country, and treated our chiefs as men.

Just 52 years ago the other whites came to this country. They found us happy, healthy, strong and numerous. We were friendly and helped these whites also, for had we not learned the first whites had done us no harm?

At first they looked only for gold. We know the latter was our property, but as we did not use it much nor need it to live by we did not object to their searching for it. Soon they saw the country was good, and some of them made up their minds, to settle it.

With us when a person enters our house he becomes our guest, and we must treat him hospitably as long as he shows no hostile intentions. Some of our Chiefs said, “These people wish to be partners with us in our country. We must, therefore, be the same as brothers to them, and live as one family. What is ours will be theirs, and what is theirs will be ours. We will help each other to be great and good.”

What have we received for our good faith, friendliness and patience? Gradually as the whites of this country became more and more powerful, and we less and less powerful, they little by little changed
their policy towards us, and commenced to put restrictions on us.

They laugh at our chiefs and brush them aside. They enforce their own laws one way for the rich white man, one way for the poor white, and yet another for the Indian.

They treat us as less than children and allow us no say in anything. They say the Indians know nothing, and own nothing, yet their power and wealth has come from our belongings. This is how our guests have treated us - the brothers we received hospitably in our house.

Now we sincerely hope you will carefully consider everything we have herewith brought before you and that you will recognize the disadvantages we labour under, and the darkness of the outlook for us if these questions are not speedily settled. Hoping you have had a pleasant sojourn in this country, and wishing you a good journey home.”**

The sun dips below the horizon just as Chief Petit Louis completes the memorial. A single shadow now drapes over him.

Sir Wilfrid Laurier stares at the silhouette as his own face – grey and expressionless – is completely drained of energy. The Prime Minister clears his throat. The Chiefs look at him but do not speak.

After a moment, Sir Wilfrid Laurier speaks slowly – looking down at his feet. “The darkness of the outlook… if these questions are not speedily settled… Speedily settled… Indeed… I hear what you are saying, gentlemen,” he says. “And I will see what we can do about these situations.”

Outside the caboose

While the chiefs are presenting their memorial to the Prime Minister, outside the train the crowds disperse – save Henri Quesnel who stands before the warrior with the scar and young Wilfrid Louie. “What are you doing here?” Henri Quesnel asks the warrior.

“I am waiting for my chief. He’s meeting the Prime Minister,” he replies.

“Your chief? I’m more Indian than you are, Tangia Tura,” says Henri Quesnel. “And why are you here with Yee Ah Louie’s boy?”

“Don’t say my name, Henri,” replies Tangia Tura his eyes wide with alarm. “I just met the boy. But I thought he looks like Yee Ah Louie, doesn’t he? Except this boy is always smiling.”

“I don’t look like my father!” Wilfrid Louie interjects, standing a little taller. His eyes dart from Tangia Tura to Henri Quesnel. “Do I?” he asks.

“What’s your name, boy?” asks Tangia Tura.

“This is Wee Hong. He’s Yee Ah Louie’s youngest boy,” says Henri Quesnel.

“No. My name is Wilfrid. Wilfrid Louie,” the boy insists. “You can call me Wilfrid.”

“What went on out here?” Henri Quesnel asks Tangia Tura.

Wilfrid Louie speaks up. “You should have seen him. He just took on a bunch of angry homesteaders – by himself,” he says excitedly. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Well, then you better not stay here. The police will be asking questions – and they can’t find out who you really are or you’ll be swinging from your neck in no time. Follow me,” says Henri Quesnel.

Tangia Tura hesitates and looks towards the caboose.

“Your chiefs will be fine. The homesteaders are gone. There’s not much time. We need to go,” says Henri Quesnel.

“Can I come?” asks Wilfrid Louie.

“Sure you can,” replies Henri Quesnel.

The Shuswap Valley ranch of Henri and Ginette Quesnel

Tangia Tura, Wilfrid Louie, and Henri Quesnel sit at the kitchen table of the ranch house in the Shuswap Valley that Henri shares with his wife, Ginette Quesnel. Henri Quesnel opens a large bottle of Hudson Bay Whisky. A flat-faced, brown cat strolls around the table inspecting the guests.

“Franklin! Don’t be rude,” says Ginette Quesnel to the unmoved feline.

Ginette Quesnel hails from Saint-Boniface, Manitoba. Her family, she was always told, was originally from Mouillepied on the south shore of Montreal. An educated woman, she lost both parents to consumption when she was sixteen and met the older Henri Quesnel when she travelled west to work in the orchards of the Okanagan.

It was either fruit picking or, had she stayed in Saint-Boniface, a life in the convent. For the adventurous Ginette, it was an easy decision. “I couldn’t get into the habit,” she likes to say. Together she and Henri Quesnel have two children – Mélanie, fifteen, and Jean-François, (known as Jeff.) Today is Jeff’s twelfth birthday.

A tireless partner to Henri, Ginette Quesnel works the land – first helping to clear it – and after cows were obtained, churning butter. To market the butter and the eggs from their family of hens, she walks down the ridge to Little Lake Shuswap, where the produce is sold to a man who operates a boat on the waterway. No matter the weather, on dry footing or treacherous mud, she makes the trip with butter balanced on her head and a pail of eggs in each hand.

To celebrate her son’s birthday, Ginette Quesnel prepares a çipâte for the occasion – a layered meat pie that includes moose, deer, partridge, hare, duck and salted bacon.

“It is the country meat that makes this meal. Delicious and worth the effort,” she tells her husband’s guests. “My ancestors made this dish. They learned the recipe from British sailors who called it ‘Sea-Pie’ – we call it çipâte. And when I was a girl in Saint-Boniface, my mother taught me to make it for special occasions,” says Ginette Quesnel.

Two spotted dogs with mixed eye colours move underfoot as she works in the kitchen. They tilt their heads as she speaks as if deciphering clues until Ginette Quesnel tires of their loitering. “Fraser! Simon!” she calls them. “Allez!” she cries shooshing them out of the kitchen.

Ginette Quesnel cuts the raw meat into cubes, puts these in a dish and mixes them by hand. She trims off and sets aside the salty, curled rind of the bacon. She calls this crunchy delight ‘oreilles de crisse’ or Christ’s ears and uses it later crushed and sprinkled on top of the dish. She then melts the salted bacon in a large roasting pan to accumulate the fat for browning the meat. She adds onions, celery, potatoes, peas, thyme, sage and pepper and covers everything with water. A thick pastry brushed with egg covers the entire roasting pan.

Wilfrid Louie is thrilled to be seated with the men and listens to the discussion between old friends who have not seen each other in ages. The boy has no experience with whisky. After one small glass his face feels warm and his head is swimming.

“I was on the run and it was the Secwepemc*** who took me in,” says Tangia Tura who wears buckskin leggings and moccasins. His shirt is the pullover type made of deer hide with a slit for the neck – and he wears a necklace of dentalia shells.

“The police sergeant from Barkerville – Titmarsh – tracked me like a wolf. It was five years of running and hiding. Not one good sleep. I was tired, hungry and cold. Not far from Kamloops in a snowstorm I knew the end was near. But I was not going to freeze so I dug into the deep snow, put down pine branches and made my final rest. I slept and dreamed of sailing with my father with the sun in our faces – watching sea birds and reading the waves. I was ready to go. But the daughter of the Secwepemc Chief Petit Louis saw the steam from my breath come through the snow. She found me, took pity on me, and brought me to their home.”

Wilfrid Louie’s elbows are on the table. He holds his head in his hands, squints, and studies the scar on Tangia Tura’s face. “It runs beside your nose and up your forehead  –like the railway tracks around the Shuswap,” he says.

Tangia Tura ignores the comment and continues: “The Secwepemc made me their guest and I now have a home. My duty is to give back – to protect them and serve the chief. He is a good man – he konero pono. The Chief hopes the Prime Minister will hear his words. He worries about the young Secwepemc and what will become of them. He goes to church and he prays, and he remembers what his father told him long ago. 

“His father said that before the first white miners, a half-breed – like you Henri – only a fur trader – told him that men in black robes with crosses would visit the Secwepemc. The half-breed told his father that these black robes are like the Coyote – they are tricksters – they can do magic and many good things – but they will do more evil than good.” Tangia Tura pauses and sips his glass of whisky. He lowers his voice as if to share a secret. “The half-breed said that the black robes do not konero pono and if the Secwepemc listen to them they would become sick and poor and lose all that the ‘Old One’ had given them. But if they stayed away from the black robes they would remain healthy and happy. My chief wonders if they should have listened to the half-breed,” says Tangia Tura.

“I tell him that in this land I have found more gold than truth… and that I have found very little gold,” says Tangia Tura. “The Chief says the ‘Old One’ gave the Secwepemc land and language. The ‘Old One’ gave birds to know when to pick foods and gather medicines and crickets to know when the salmon will run.”

Henri Quesnel places his hand on the shoulder of Tangia Tura. “Looks like you have found a home with the Secwepemc,” he says. “After today’s events you must not be seen again, my friend,” he adds gravely. “Go back – and stay there.”

Henri Quesnel gets up from the table and fetches his pouch of tobacco. He looks at Wilfrid Louie as he lights his pipe. Through the cloud of smoke around him, he reaches for the whisky and pours another round.

“Wilfrid! That’s your name, is it?” he says, with a twinkle in his eye. “Well Wilfrid, what is your father, our old friend Yee Ah Louie, up to these days?” he asks.

Wilfrid Louie looks around the home. “Our ranch isn’t far from here. But we don’t do as well as you,” he replies. “Things are different at our house,” he says and turns to Tangia Tura. “Do you know my father?”

“Yes. I know your father,” he replies. “I came to this land with Yee Ah Louie. We mined for gold together for many years. I miss him.” Tangia Tura’s tone is wistful. “How is Yee Ah Louie?”

His inhibitions lessened by drink, Wilfrid Louie opens up. “My father is restless. I think he knows what he should do – but he never does it for very long. I once thought that his restless spirit was poetic, but now I see it as weak-mindedness. Our clothes are made of gunnysacks and our furniture and farm equipment are homemade as far as his skills or sobriety allow – with pieces lying around the ranch in disrepair. When there are dollars to spare, my father goes to Kamloops and buys opium – or if he can’t find that – cheap whisky. Not this stuff,” he says raising his glass. “This is good whisky.”

“You know the difference between good and cheap whisky, do you Wilfrid Louie?” replies Henri Quesnel with a mischievous smile.

Wilfrid Louie shrugs.

“My father loads up on dope and booze – his pupils disappear – and all hell breaks loose. Over days and nights, it builds – he barely sleeps – I listen for the tone – his words become curt and more intense until his self-pity – leads to an avalanche of rage. It’s terrifying.”  Wilfrid Louie squeezes his eyes shut and a shiver shoots through his body. “My mother follows around wailing and begging him to stop. He screams about his dead brother, his absent father, his selfish mother. We stay out of the way while he tosses chairs and whips glasses at the wall.”

Wilfrid Louie goes to take another sip. The tumbler nearly slips from his grip. He continues.

“Eventually he walks away – disappears for a few days. When he returns, mother has moved the furniture around the house – in a new arrangement. She thinks maybe a change of scenery will change the pattern. And he will be calm for a while – several weeks. Then it starts to build all over again.”

Tangia Tura and Henri Quesnel raise a silent toast to Wilfrid Louie – clinking their glasses in solidarity with the boy.

“He doesn’t like it when I find his stash,” adds Wilfrid Louie. “I burn his dope – dump out his bottles. If mother won’t do what’s needed to protect us – I do it myself – because he’s not as bad when he’s straight.”

Tangia Tura and Henri Quesnel in turn recite to Wilfrid Louie stories of their lives with his father. Henri Quesnel speaks of their time together in Barkerville – their evenings of shared meals, drink and stories and how that chapter ended abruptly after the murder of Peter Beech and the ensuing investigation. Tangia Tura tells him of their voyage from Hong Kong across the Pacific and of their years of prospecting.

“Is it true? Did you kill him?” asks a wide-eyed Wilfrid Louie of Tangia Tura.

Tangia Tura raises an eyebrow and gives Wilfrid Louie a terrifying look. “Wilfrid, you are all grizzly – no fox.”

Wilfrid Louie knows enough not pursue the line of questioning.

Henri Quesnel recounts the first season of homesteading that he shared with Yee Ah Louie – how Yee Ah showed him to slaughter a bull and how he eventually obtained his own forty-acre lot – how they started their respective families and, for a time, supported each other.

“What happened?” asks Wilfrid Louie, who has become increasingly intoxicated and maudlin. “Why don’t we see you? Were you not good friends?”

“Were we not good friends? Wilfrid, my boy, the Pope, does he not shit in the woods?” For his profanity, Ginette gives him the hairy eyeball. Henri Quesnel draws a long breath and continues: “Your father got what he asked for. Maybe not what he really wanted – but definitely what he asked for. I love your father – but he has… you know… he has bugs in his head. I can’t fix that – and that’s not for you to fix either, Wilfrid. My door will always be open, but a man has got to own his bugs.”

The boy looks at Henri Quesnel with glassy eyes.

“The last time I was with your father – you were maybe this big,” Henri Quesnel says holding his hand a few feet above the floor. “Yee Ah Louie said I was not a good friend and asked me to leave him alone… forever. He called me selfish. You might have said that was the drink talking – but if you heard him say these things every time you saw him – you got the message. He told me to leave him alone. So that’s what I did.” Henri Quesnel stares out the window and relights his pipe.

Ginette Quesnel has the children set the table. They join the others and share the çipâte. They pass around a dish of what Ginette Quesnel called ketchup maison – a slightly sweet and tangy mix of apples, tomatoes, peppers and onion that accompanies the rich meat pie to perfection.

“Your father is a good cook,” says Tangia Tura to Wilfrid Louie. “And Henri thinks he is a great cook – but Ginette is best,” he adds.

Wilfrid Louie passes out after dinner and sleeps in a chair on the front porch. In the morning, Ginette Quesnel makes him bacon and coffee.

“I’ll take you home,” says Henri Quesnel.

“I’m fine,” replies Wilfrid Louie. “I know the way.”

“No, your parents will be worried. It’s best if I take you.”

Mélanie Quesnel runs down the lane as her father and Wilfrid Louie are leaving. She gives Wilfrid Louie a small package. “It’s donuts we made this morning,” she says smiling.

Wilfrid Louie thanks her and looks up at the porch to see Ginette Quesnel and her son Jeff leaning into her with his mother’s arm wrapped tight around his shoulder.

Henri Quesnel brings Wilfrid Louie Home

Henri Quesnel hitches a wagon to one of his horses and brings Wilfrid Louie home. They park the wagon and walk up towards the front door just as Yee Ah Louie is exiting.

“Why are you here?” asks Yee Ah Louie looking at Henri Quesnel.

Wilfrid Louie clenches his jaw upon hearing the tone of his father’s voice.

“I met your son in Kamloops yesterday. I recognized his face – reminded me of you. He came home with me and spent the night at our ranch. I hope you weren’t too worried, Yee Ah. A fine boy you have here.”

“If I had a face like yours Henri, I’d nail boards over it,” says Yee Ah Louie.

 “OK… No happy reunion here,” replies Henri Quesnel. “I guess you’re welcome, Yee Ah. And you can shovel it up your ass.” He turns, walks away, and steps into the horse-drawn wagon. As he leaves, Henri Quesnel tips his hat in the direction of Wilfrid Louie and rides back up the laneway. 

* Berceau to the cercueil is French for cradle to the grave – (coffin actually.)

** This is an edited excerpt from the Memorial to Sir Wilfrid Laurier as prepared and presented by Chief Petit Louis, Chief Basil David, and Chief John Chilahitsa with the assistance of their secretary, James Teit and Father LeJeune in Kamloops, August 25, 1910.

*** Secwepemc – Pronunciation: She-whep-m. Often anglicised as Shuswap.

Chapter 14 - Love

September 8, 1910 (2 weeks later)
The Shuswap, British Columbia, Canada

“And she showed me her treasures of paper and tin
And we played a game only she could win
And she told me a riddle I'll never forget
Then left with the answer I've never found yet.”
Gordon Lightfoot, Affair On 8th Avenue

Wilfrid Louie arrives early and is seated at his desk in the back row of the one-room schoolhouse. He watches Miriam Chase at the front of the classroom move through her assigned tasks. There’s no one else in the room.

It’s the first day of a new school year and Wilfrid Louie is noticing Miriam. He has long been a friend of her adopted brother, David Chase, and although he hears her name here and there, prior to this moment, he has not taken any real interest. She is three years his elder, a few inches taller, and is busily prepping materials for the pupils of Mrs. Fuke, the rake-thin, nasal-toned teacher at Shuswap Prairies School.

Wilfrid Louie puts his elbows on the desk, holds his head in his hands, and takes her in.

The youngest daughter of homesteaders, Whitfield and Elizabeth Chase, Miriam has green eyes, olive skin, high cheekbones, a sprinkling of freckles, and, on this morning, her black hair is tied back in a ponytail revealing the contours of her face. Having rushed to school after her chores – always in the nick of time – Miriam is dressed in denim overalls and wears reading glasses. Standing at the teachers’ desk, she arranges books, pencils, and notebooks into orderly packages for new and returning students. Each allocation is identical in quality and number. Wilfrid Louie imagines the absence of favouritism and the symmetry of her work reveal an inner elegance to match the one he finds visible.

Miriam’s father, Whitfield Chase, was one of the first and most successful homesteaders in the Shuswap. From New York, he came west for the California gold rush and then headed north to the Cariboo. In both quests he had no success and was destined for ignominy until meeting Miriam’s mother.

Elizabeth Chase is the daughter of the Indian Chief, Synsetia, and saw in Whitfield both a partner for life and a vehicle for ambition. It was on her instructions that they chose the ranch site at Shuswap Prairie to raise cattle and hogs, farm wheat, and plant an orchard. Later, Elizabeth coaxed her husband to construct both a flourmill and a smokehouse. Older than his wife, Whitfield Chase died when Miriam was still a child and at the time of his passing, had amassed 1500 acres of ranch land, over 500 head of cattle and had become the proprietor of French Bob’s Hotel, a popular local establishment. Elizabeth Chase deftly operated the ranch following her husband’s passing and approved when community leaders chose to name the town that had sprouted nearby in his memory.

Unaware of Wilfrid Louie’s captivation, Miriam suddenly stops what she is doing and looks towards the ceiling as if reviewing a mental checklist. She looks down and addresses him. “I am running out of time and still need to clean the chalkboard erasers – can you do that? You just take them outside and pound them against the wall.”

Wilfrid Louie instantly senses that he knows the sound of Miriam’s voice. Despite having no memory of having heard it before, something informs his spirit that her unique intonation already lingers in the back of his mind. It’s the shape of the sound as it is formed within her that moves him – beckons him. He finds the inexplicable familiarity unsettling.

After a frozen moment, Wilfrid Louie loses his stunned look, springs up, and gathers the chalkboard brushes to go outside. “Right-O,” she says watching him exit the class. “Poor lad, he might be a bit slow… but that’s taken care of,” she mumbles.

At the end of that first school day, Miriam stays late to again assist Mrs. Fuke with tidying the classroom and putting away materials. Mrs. Fuke is pole-like, her thighs no broader in circumference than her calves (although neither is visible beneath drape-like skirts).

“Thank you so much,” Mrs. Fuke says to Miriam.

“It’s nothing, really, Mrs. Fuke,” Miriam insists. “I draw great satisfaction from putting things in their proper place.” 

While the rest of the students fly out the room upon dismissal, Wilfrid Louie dilly-dallies preparing his effects. His friend, David Chase, calls to him from outside. “You coming, Old Tillicum?”*

“Go on without me – I’ve got to finish making notes,” he yells back knowing full well his lie will not go undetected.

Wilfrid Louie kills time until Miriam is done in hopes they will walk home together. After she exits the schoolhouse ahead of him, he runs to catch up.

“Are you always so fastidious?” he asks as they enter the prairie.

“What do you mean?” replies Miriam, surprised at the boy’s choice of words.

“The way you organized everyone’s supplies – each pile was identical. There wasn’t a difference in the thickness or position of a single booklet.”

Miriam Chase ponders the question. “Yes, I suppose I am always like that.” 

“I think it means that you have structure and discipline in your head,” says Wilfrid Louie.

“Oh really?” she laughs. “Is that what you think?”

Wilfrid Louie likes the sound of her laugh.

Miriam Chase thinks for a moment.

“On the contrary actually. It’s more a means to compensate for the chaos,” she claims. Pointing to her head, she adds, “My mind isn’t structured at all. Try imagining a cattle auction full of epileptic buyers – run by a stuttering auctioneer. My head is more like that! I try to create outside order to calm what’s going on inside.”

Wilfrid Louie laughs at the image but his admiration for her grows as well. She knows herself.

The Shuswap prairie – at its natural peak in early September – with the sun set lower in the immense blue sky is their late afternoon backdrop. The leaves have yet to turn – but the first hints of the impending transition are detected – the musty whiff of overturned earth as the harvest begins. Wilfrid Louie slows his pace not wanting to rush this moment. In hopes of hearing Miriam laugh once again, he is inspired to pull a slapstick move and so feigns collision with a low-hanging branch and thrusts his head back in dramatic fashion. His awkward execution receives a snort of approval from Miriam – more for effort than result.

As they walk together, they discuss their classmates. They talk about the curriculum and the manner of the supercilious Mrs. Fuke. Wilfrid Louie is not a fan.

“I happen to like her,” says Miriam. “I know she’s hoity-toity, but she means well and works very hard for her students. That said, she may come across like someone who has not once broken wind in her life.”

Wilfrid chuckles. “On the contrary! If you pay close attention, you can tell when she does because her panty hose puff up at the ankles,” he says.

Miriam bursts into laughter. “That’s a good one, Wilfrid!”

Wilfrid Louie follows up with his most earnest impersonation of Mrs. Fuke – trying to capture both the sinussy timbre of her voice and imperial glory of her study plans.

“As they crossed the Saint Lawrence River, General Wolfe read to the soldiers from Gray’s Elegy in a Country Courtyard. ‘The paths of glory lead but to the grave.’ – ‘Gentlemen, I would sooner have written that poem than beat the French tomorrow. But I am duty bound – so, I don my scarlet tunic to shroud any blood that I may shed… And am fitted in mahogany-coloured trousers for similar purposes of cloaking.’”

Miriam shrieks – a cackling, silly laugh. Her outburst makes Wilfrid Louie smile until his cheeks are sore. This is the best sound he has ever heard.

A pattern is set.

They take to walking together every morning and afternoon – debriefing on the day’s events – finding the humour – and over time, conversations about almost every detail of their lives.

Wilfrid is an attentive listener and puts open-ended queries to Miriam in a way that no one else ever does. “Most people just want to tell you about themselves,” she says. “But you ask questions… and you listen to the answers.” Miriam appreciates his sense of humour and grows to trust his counsel.

For his part, while he dare not speak of it, Wilfrid loves everything about Miriam. He loves her cheek bones – her smile – he loves the arc of raven hair that dances in front of her lobe, down her neck and softly touches her shoulder – he loves her movements – her purposeful yet elegant stride – and he especially loves the single blue segment within the green iris of her eye which – at the risk of blindness, like staring at the sun – he can observe for only a fraction of a second at a time.

He longs to hear her laugh – and applies himself to that end – studying and practicing the facial expressions, ironies, and puns that strike a comic chord within her. Yes, it is Miriam’s laugh he loves the most.

* Tillicum – A word in Chinook Jargon for friend. The Chinook Jargon (also known as Chinook Wawa) is a pidgin trade language that evolved in the regions of Oregon and British Columbia and was derived from Indigenous languages, French and English.

Chapter 15 - The Dance At Blind Bay

January 22nd, 1914 (3 years later)
The Shuswap, British Columbia, Canada

“If I could know within my heart
That you were lonely too
I would be happy just to hold the hands I love
Upon this winter night with you”
Gordon Lightfoot, Song For A Winter’s Night

“It’s colder than a witch’s tit!” yells David Chase.

Wilfrid Louie raises his eyebrows.

Miriam Chase shakes her head.

Wilfrid Louie prepares a horse drawn sleigh – with blankets and a fresh layer of hay upon the floor. He rolls a stylish suit he purchased for the occasion into a flour sack and tucks it under the bench. The sleigh sits up high on its smooth runners to ride above drifts of snow and is equipped with bells for night-time travelling.

With not as much work to be done as during the other three seasons, winter is the time for social gatherings in the Shuswap. Wilfrid Louie arranges to pick up Miriam and her brother, David, at the Chase ranch. They travel eastward up Little Shuswap Lake on clear ice and onto the main body of water – the bitter winter has ensured a thickness that easily supports their weight.

“This is the coldest day of the year… by far,” says Miriam Chase. “They had better have found a way to heat up that barn before we get there.”

“We’ll heat ‘er up once we get dancing!” replies David Chase.

The sleigh – designed for two passengers – has a single bench. Miriam Chase appreciates the cosiness of being tucked between her brother and her friend on the three-hour trip to Blind Bay.

Wilfrid Louie feels the warmth generated between the sides of their legs on the bench. It’s a clear winter afternoon with temperatures well below freezing and although not particularly blustery, the wind bites at exposed skin. They wear woollen scarves from nose to chin to prevent frostbite.

A newly constructed barn – yet to be sullied by livestock – is the venue for the festivities. Blazing fires in woodstoves at either end of the sprawling, high-ceilinged structure barely generate sufficient heat until a critical mass of guests arrives. Miriam, Wilfrid, and David rub their hands and kick the snow off their boots as they step in the door. Wilfrid Louie slips behind the barn to change into his dressier outfit.

Folks of all ages and from far afield gather for the dance. Young children run in circles playing tag and cup their hands to whisper in little ears. Old men sit in a corner drinking, smoking, and quipping in contests of sarcastic banter.

The matriarchs – members the Women’s Institute – marshal the resources to complete the setting within the barn. They direct teenaged girls – who discreetly roll their eyes – to position saucers, teacups, utensils, and table runners – admonishing them for the slightest imperfections. Tables, chairs, an area for food service, a pen where the youngest children will be safely corralled upon crashing, and the stage for the musicians are adjusted and readjusted until all is immaculate.

When the music starts, it is a high-tempo blend of folk traditions – Henri Quesnel plays the fiddle, Patrick O’Sullivan, an Irish homesteader, the accordion, and the energetic Kenny Don Lang, a baby-faced, Icelandic mandolin player, who dances around in tight circles during impassioned solos, are the performers for the evening.

Miriam has taken to sharing with Wilfrid Louie her impressions of recent dates – of which there are many. She recites the details of their outings – sometimes to share a laugh at the oafishness – sometimes to seek his genuine feedback. Insofar as he can, Wilfrid Louie provides objective thoughts on each and wonders if Miriam notices that while most are written off in ruthless assessments, he does try to identity qualities in some of the candidates. Not one, however, receives anything close to a ringing endorsement.

There is one suitor who catches her fancy that she brings up several times – the self-effacing Patagonian Welshman, Arthur Cadwallader. The rancher smiles at Miriam upon her entrance into the barn. Wilfrid watches to see if she smiles back.

Indeed, she does and Wilfrid winces.

A chiselled-face, dark haired, strapping widower whose young wife and newborn died tragically during labour, Arthur Cadwallader is courteous and hard working. Over time, he will certainly be more and more successful. His peers are either impressed by his progress in creating a productive ranch or envious of the dumb luck that propelled him to prosperity. Miriam has already admitted to Wilfrid that Arthur Cadwallader has the qualities that any woman should want in a husband.

Arthur Cadwallader stands at the back of the barn with a group of other homesteaders. They talk business – discussing prices and improvements they intend to bring to their respective operations come spring. While Miriam joins a separate gathering of young women – some of whom smile upon seeing her – Wilfrid Louie and David Chase head over to join the group of homesteaders. Arthur Cadwallader walks over to a table and returns with drinks for Wilfrid Louie and David Chase.

“Thanks very much,” says Wilfrid Louie. “Once again, you’re reliably flawless.”

“Cheers,” said David Chase, raising his glass.

“How are things going?” Wilfrid Louie asks Arthur Cadwallader.

“Good, thanks,” he replies. “You?”

“Good,” says Wilfrid Louie.

“Good?” asks David Chase of Arthur Cadwallader.

“Good,” he answers.

“Good,” says David Chase with a grin.

Like all homesteaders, Arthur Cadwallader’s priority upon receiving his land grant was to start felling trees. He was fortunate to trade some of his timber to a mill in return for lumber for his house and barn. The rest of his bush he made into cordwood that he sold to both the Canadian Pacific Railway for its wood-burning locomotives, and to steamboats operating on Shuswap Lake.

Arthur Cadwallader’s game-changing luck, however, came early on when he discovered that deep within the perimeter of his rectangular ranch was a six-acre prairie almost void of trees. “It was a gift from God,” he liked to say. “I would have done well to clear an acre and a half a year. Saved me four years of backbreaking toil.”

He began mixed farming – had a sizeable vegetable garden, planted fruit trees, and saved enough to purchase pigs and dairy cows. After the loss of his wife, he remains a regular at the Presbyterian Church in Notch Hill where even the most pious Shuswap women wait for a glance at his form in his Sunday best – a tight-fitting white shirt and black suspenders.

Much speculation circles around the eventual replacement for Arthur Cadwallader’s dearly departed wife. Some members of the Womens’ Institute allow themselves to fantasize an accident befalling their own sagging partners only to be swept off their feet in their mourning by the virile Welsh widower. Upon cooling off and coming to their senses, these same biddies reluctantly admit that being the most handsome and qualified candidates of their respective sexes, it only makes sense for Arthur Cadwallader and Miriam Chase to be paired.

Miriam’s mother, the discriminating Elizabeth Chase, approves of this man and encourages Miriam to pursue him. “Yes, Ki-7-ce,* he is a good man,” Miriam replies. “But he doesn’t say much. He works hard but I never know what he’s thinking,” she says with a sigh. “I want more than that from a relationship – is it wrong to expect a deeper connection to the person I’m to spend my life with?”

“That’s what girlfriends are for,” replies her mother. “You want a chatty man? I know two kinds of chatty men, Miriam. There’s the ones who need you to praise every little thing they do, who talk about themselves all the time – you always know what they’re thinking. And the ones who drink, chase women, and don’t pay their bills – real good talkers, those ones are,” she says with a grin. “Would you like me to introduce you to a chatty man, Miriam?”

The music, conversation, and laughter reverberate off the beams and high ceilings of the barn. Arthur Cadwallader approaches Wilfrid Louie and asks if he has bells on his sleigh.

“As a matter of fact, I do,” he replies.

“May I borrow them?” 

“Sure, I’ll get them for you,” says Wilfrid Louie.

As a boy, Arthur Cadwallader had been taught the Nantgarw tradition of Welsh Morris dancing. He ties the sleigh bells around his calves, finds a long-handled hoe and devises moves based upon his childhood memories – hopping, skipping and turning in circles. Inspired by his spontaneous performance, the musicians improvise a slower tempo piece. The ringing of the bells with each of his steps and the pounding in time of the hoe on the barn floor bring a crowd around the beaming Welshman.

David Chase stands beside Wilfrid Louie in the widening circle of admirers – enthusiastically clapping to the reverberating folk dance. “Is there anything he can’t do? The hoe! The bells! What a great idea to bring those bells,” he says to Wilfrid Louie who crosses his arms and shakes his head.

“Of course, he can dance,” says Wilfrid Louie.

“What’s that?” yells David Chase leaning over, holding his hand to his ear.

“Nothing,” replies Wilfrid Louie staring at Miriam who stands just across from him in the circle laughing and clapping. She feels a thousand miles away.

As midnight arrives, the band takes a break and a steaming smorgasbord is served. Husky, apron-clad women lift lids and pull away dish clothes to reveal a fragrant feast. The children who have yet to fall asleep are the first to begin snatching items and filling their plates. Sandwiches of all sorts, a roast pig with apple sauce, rabbit stew, an endless variety of pickles, mustards, and preserves, tubs of butter – and a spread of baked goods – including apple, sheep sorrel, and gooseberry pie, butter tarts, and thick crusty loaves of bread are laid out on tables. 

Ginette Quesnel has batches of her husband’s preferred desserts, pets de soeurs, made by baking strips of pastry rolled in brown sugar and poutchine au sac - a Métis dish of fine beef suet, flour, brown sugar, salt, currents, milk and spices. Before coming to the dance, she poured the poutchine into cotton bags and steamed them for hours. When serving at the dance, she generously ladles a warm sauce made of sugar, cornstarch, vanilla, nutmeg, and butter on top of the spongy, sweet, and savoury concoction.

Henri Quesnel waives Wilfrid Louie and David Chase over to his table. Henri and Ginette’s children, Jeff and Mélanie are seated with them. The conversation flows and each has an overflowing plate of food to satisfy an appetite built by a day of travel and an evening of celebrating.

Wilfrid Louie sits back and observes the camaraderie of the Quesnel family. He reflects upon the friendly teasing at the enormity of Jeff’s appetite or at Henri’s fondness for old time recipes – and how it contrasts the eggshell tension that hangs over his own family’s interactions.

“How can you eat that stuff, Papa?” Mélanie asks her father as he shoves another forkful of poutchine into his mouth.

“Dé-li-cieux!” mumbles Henri Quesnel to his daughter through a mouth full of food.

“You are a talented musician Monsieur Quesnel,” says David Chase.

“Thank you,” he replies, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “I guess I should be. My father’s grand-père Joseph Quesnel – like me, he enjoyed spending the night on the clothesline – was a famous composer who wrote operas and music for the church. He was an artist – a man of passions,” explains Henri Quesnel.”

“Really?” replies Wilfrid Louie. “That’s what he did for a living – make music?”

“Oh no. He made a fortune in the slave trade,” replies Henri Quesnel. “But Quesnel family fortunes stay in Montréal – they are not to be shared with country family.”

Wilfrid Louie’s eyebrows rise in surprise. Henri Quesnel winks at him and takes another stab at the poutchine.

Mélanie sits across from Wilfrid and offers him samples of food from her plate. “Try this!” she says dropping a glop of gooseberry pie on his plate and smiling.

Ginette Quesnel sits beside her daughter. “It looks as though Mélanie might be tripping on you, Wilfrid,” she laughs. “Are you tripping on her?”

“No… Uhh, of course… I mean yes, but…” replies a flustered Wilfrid Louie.

He is saved from further interrogation when the barn door flies open. A small-statured man steps in bringing a blast of frosty air with him. An unimpressed member of the Women’s Institute gets up to shut the door behind him.

“We’re not heating the outdoors here!” she says with no small measure of rancour. The man is oblivious to her message.

“How did he get here?” says Wilfrid Louie.

“Who’s he?” asks Mélanie Quesnel.

“That’s Yee Ah Louie,” replies Henri Quesnel.

“That’s your father?” Mélanie asks Wilfrid Louie. He stares for a moment, then slowly nods.

Yee Ah Louie makes a beeline to the closest table serving drinks and fills a tumbler with red wine. He slurps out the top couple of inches – and then fills it again – to the brim. He surveys the barn until he spots his son and the Quesnel family, and heads towards their table. Wilfrid Louie shifts uncomfortably in his chair. He clenches his jaw. The others around the table sense his anxiety.

“Comment ça va? Crosscut saw!” says Yee Ah Louie taking a seat at the head of the table. Jeff Quesnel is on his immediate left and Ginette Quesnel sits to his right.

“C’est bon!” exclaims Yee Ah Louie.

“He’s plastered,” says Wilfrid Louie to Mélanie.

“It’s been a while. How are you, Yee Ah?” asks Henri Quesnel.

“Not long enough,” he replies.

Wilfrid cannot take his eyes off his father’s glass of wine. Yee Ah Louie’s chair is set back from the table. He leans forward with his elbow on his knee and glass in hand. With each shift of his unsteady leg, it spills over the rim and red streaks stream over his fingers and down his wrist.

Wilfrid Louie pushes his chair back from the table.

“Hey, we’re all friends here – don’t go anywhere,” says his father.

“All friends,” he repeats. Then he turns to Jeff Quesnel.

“Do you know what kind of friend your father is?” Yee Ah Louie asks the boy.

“I don’t know... I guess he’s a good friend,” replies Jeff Quesnel.

“A good friend? What is a good friend?” he says with sarcasm pushing his face towards the boy. “Henri! Your boy here says that you are good friend.”

“Leave the boy alone, Yee Ah,” says Henri Quesnel.

Meanwhile, at the other end of the barn, in an unplanned holding of court, Miriam Chase is surrounded by a group of attentive men – both single and married – including Arthur Cadwallader. They listen intently – only interjecting to take turns offering to fetch Miriam a drink or a snack.

The conversation takes a turn. Miriam tells an anecdote about organizing her mother’s kitchen. “Of course, I hang the herbs to dry in alphabetical order,” she said. “Basil, Chives, Dill, Mint, Parsley… if my mother moves one of them around – I run right over to put it back in its place,” she exclaims to a few chuckles

“Can’t have Rosemary come before Basil, can we?” says one of the men with a wink directed at Miriam prompting a chortling roar from the crowd. Miriam Chase is at a loss. Arthur Cadwallader does not laugh – nor does he say anything to those who did – he stands in silence. Miriam ignores the joke and continues her storytelling.

“And there is a specific way to fold sheets – I am always explaining to my mother that her linens must be folded in an exact fashion and returned to the linen chest at the bottom of the pile. First in, first out – a rotation so that they wear in a consistent manner,” she says, demonstrating the technique with her hands.

A particularly chunky hound is inspired to interject: “And you know just how to unfold in the bedroom, right honey?”

Miriam’s face freezes for a moment before she shoots back, “Shut your dirty goddamned mouth.”

Their eyes wide with shock, the herd scatters off. Arthur Cadwallader stays behind. “Did you want me to say something?” he asks.

“No, I didn’t.” Miriam replies.

She gives a curt smile and walks away towards the table where Wilfrid Louie, Yee Ah Louie, and the Quesnel family are seated. Upon arriving she scans Wilfrid Louie and senses the tension.

“Want to go for a walk?” she asks him.

Wilfrid Louie springs up from his seat, grateful for the chance to escape.

“You follow that girl like a puppy. That’s sad, Wee Hong,” Yee Ah Louie says loudly. “What are you planning on doing – her laundry?”

“My name is Wilfrid,” Wilfrid Louie says firmly before he and Miriam leave the table and exit the barn.

They sit outside on a bank of snow looking towards the horizon. The stars are suspended above the black outline of the mountain plateau. The Shuswap air is crisp and their breath is visible in puffs and clouds. “It’s so cold, our words will freeze in the air,” says Wilfrid Louie. “It’ll be a cacophony in the spring when they melt.”

Miriam leans against him. “Why does this happen to me? I’m not one for self-pity,” she says. “But I don’t know why some people are so aggressive. People I have not provoked. And men I barely know – they act as if they can take liberties – as if we have an affinity – and I swear I’ve done nothing to give them that notion.”

“I’m not one for self-pity, but… Miriam, whatever someone says before the ‘but’ is usually hogwash,” replies Wilfrid Louie.

Miriam turns from the horizon and looks at him. “Really? You’re going to take a shot at me when I’m feeling this shitty?” she says.

“It’s usually the case… But I could be wrong.”

He continues:

“Miriam, you don’t get it, do you? Heads turn when you enter any room – people stop what they’re doing. It’s not just because you are beautiful, Miriam – even if you are excruciatingly beautiful. That’s not the point. Beauty - especially amongst the young – is not that special. You, Miriam, are graced with something far more scarce. Your laugh evaporates pools of cynicism that collect in the hearts of men. Exposure to your wit and smile drive them to crave your affection and they can assume that your charisma is somehow directed towards them. I’ve witnessed it. You make them feel things they haven’t felt in years. It’s not your fault – at all. And their behaviour is outrageous. But you need to understand the impact you have.”

Miriam finds Wilfrid Louie’s tone unfamiliar. This is new. He’s not trying to make me laugh or cheer me up. It’s like he’s sharing a secret.

Wilfrid Louie draws a breath and she watches the steam crystalize as he speaks.

“To women - your charms create one of two things: either a kindred spirit or a bitter rival. Miriam, you have a look that says – I see you. I see right through you – it’s not a harsh look – but it is a knowing look – and if the recipient is the least bit awake – they realize that their soul in all its secrets and flaws has been revealed and they stand there naked. The fact that you choose not to expose your talons in that moment of vulnerability either terrifies them or gives an impression of intimacy that makes you all the more alluring.”

Miriam turns her head to look Wilfrid Louie in the eye. He sees the small blue segment within her iris – the patch of blue within the green – and wonders if it is a puncture, a window to her inner puzzles. A wave of fear passes through him. Looking through the rift – what have I revealed?

They again turn towards the horizon and sit without talking. A tear forms and rolls down Miriam’s cheek that Wilfrid Louie fails to see.

“You know Wilfrid, we are nothing alike. We are so different – how is it you know me so well?” says Miriam.

Wilfrid Louie doesn’t know what to say or what to do. He knows he doesn’t want this moment to end, so he sits in silence.

The colour of the sky begins to shift to cyan as the night comes to an end.

Miriam suddenly jumps up. “From a guy who’s always the smartest one in the room. You don’t fool me, Wilfrid Louie – but you might fool everyone else,” she says and re-enters the barn.

Wilfrid Louie remains seated on the snowbank and inhales deeply. I felt something. She must have felt it too. So why did my words just freeze in the air?

In the barn, the remaining food is rearranged and again served so that the partygoers can head home on a full stomach in the chill of early morning – taking their time and doing much visiting en route.

* Ki-7-ce (pronounced kee-kay) is Secwepemc for mother.

Chapter 16 - The Chinese Water Bug

February 14, 1914 (1 month later)
Salmon Arm, British Columbia, Canada 

“Hockey captures the essence of Canadian experience in the New World.
In a land so inescapably and inhospitably cold, hockey is the chance of life,
and an affirmation that despite the deathly chill of winter we are alive.”
Stephen Leacock

They are his prized possessions – and, at long last, they fit snug. After three years of wearing multiple pairs of socks or stuffing the toes with newsprint, Wilfrid Louie has grown into his precious Tackaberry skates.

It shows on the ice.

In the absolute stillness of a winter morning, the etching sound of steel blade on frozen surface echoes for miles. From initial tentative steps to graceful, effortless strides, the ability to throw his body to either side, back and forth, once, twice, three times, whatever is needed to deke his opponents – this trademark agility leads Wilfrid Louie to being nicknamed “The Chinese Water Bug.”

He first laid claim to the Tackaberry’s when he was fourteen years old. His father, Yee Ah Louie, came home late one evening reeking of booze after collecting an overdue balance from a Kamloops fruit wholesaler. Wilfrid Louie’s mother, Shirley, sobbed as soon as her husband emptied his pockets and a lint-covered coin fell on the kitchen table and rolled onto the floor.

Yee Ah Louie gave her a glassy-eyed look and awkwardly spun around. He went back outside and returned with a bulging burlap bag that he lifted over his head and dumped the contents on the floor. Clothes, boots, pots, utensils, a doll, and a pair of hockey skates fell in a pile. Wilfrid’s sister, Lilly, pounced on the doll. Wilfrid threw himself upon the skates.

In his exuberance, the blade of one of the skates caught him upon the chin. It took a few hours before the bleeding stopped and left Wilfrid with a lifelong scar. He didn’t care about the cut – ‘scars aren’t so bad’ – and whatever the case, he now had a pair of Tackaberry’s.

George Tackaberry was a pioneer. In 1905, bruising hockey player Joe Hall complained to his Brandon, Manitoba shoemaker neighbour that his skates never withstood the violence of a full season. George Tackaberry accepted the challenge and went to work. Combining the strength and stability of kangaroo leather with a reinforced toe, he crafted a skate that Joe Hall would wear for the rest of his career – one that included three Stanley Cup championships. In short time, puck lovers from coast to coast – professional and amateur – fell in love with George Tackaberry’s creation. *

Wilfrid Louie has an unorthodox style of skating – leaning forward and bent over.

Like most kids who take up the winter pastime, up until the night of the dumping of the burlap bag, he tied leather-strapped steel blades to his boots. The support of the Tackaberry’s – even three sizes too big – provides him the confidence to try bold new moves.

Violence is not a side effect of hockey. It’s the very substratum of the game. Hockey is winter warfare with no out-of-bounds – nowhere to escape high-speed collisions. Every yard of ice must be earned by brute force, feint or speed. Neither are there substitutions in the hour-long battle of attrition where participants are armed with a three-pound weapon made of a single stick of hornbeam – also known as ironwood.

But in parts of the west the sport is, at least, evolving.

The game played in the Okanagan Hockey League on Lakes McGuire and Shuswap by teams from Salmon Arm, Enderby, Sicamous, and the Shuswap is distinct from that of the Pacific Coast Hockey Association or, worse yet, the blood sport practiced back east. A plodding skater who can read the play, anticipate angles and possessed by a nasty streak remains a consequential player in those leagues – whereas the Okanagan game is differentiated by its speed and creativity. The Okanagan’s are the originators of the neutral zone forward pass that accelerates the pace of the game and forces many a local sluggish and thuggish skater to hang up his blades.

It’s Miriam Chase who comes up with the nickname for the Shuswap hockey team - The Crazy Loons. She attends most games and on more than one occasion a fellow player incredulously asks Wilfrid Louie, “She’s not your girlfriend, is she?”

“The name fits us to a ‘T’!” says the chain smoking, handlebar moustached, playing coach Al Nicolson who demands his skaters master a speedy, creative game. Coach Al, who doubles as goalie for the Crazy Loons, insists his team be faster, fitter, and more unpredictable. His practices are legendary for their sweat-soaked duration and his furious tantrums at any hint of “lackadaisicalness.”

Taking the coach’s creative philosophy to its logical conclusion, Wilfrid Louie argues during practice – once to the point of ejection – that set plays are based on false assumptions.

“The opposition can’t be controlled or predicted – variables are in constant motion,” he insists. “The poetry of hockey is instinct charged by changing circumstance. My mind is consumed by the exhilaration of taking a stride, shifting my balance, reading eyes, torsos and sticks… How can your plan be of any use?”

Coach Al just shakes his head. “Fuck y’er poetry Waterbug – get back on the ice and do the drill like everyone else.”

But even the hard-ass coach admits there is something in the way Wilfrid Louie plays the game that makes him different.

“He has a sixth sense about being hit. Guys take runs at him all the time, but somehow he sees ‘em coming and rolls off. They never hit him square,” he says to rink rats and spectators who come watch the Chinese Waterbug.

The thousands of hours spent dipsy-doodling on frozen lakes allows Wilfrid Louie to turn a natural gift into a unique skill. He wears palm-less lacrosse gloves that allow for a better grip. He decides the improved feel for the puck more than offsets the increased risk of injury. “There are great skaters and then there are great stick handlers. Rare as papal feces is the player who does it all at top speed,” says Coach Al. “But the Chinese Water Bug is one of them. Sky’s the limit for this guy. You could see his name on the Cup someday.”

“You know, when you’re on the ice – I don’t even think of you as being Chinese,” he says to Wilfrid Louie. “You seem just like one of us.”

Although never credited for the invention, Coach Al also designed the first ever “B” shaped hockey net. ** In actuality, he never called it “B” shaped. He claimed the design was meant to resemble a curvaceous rear.

“Boys, it’s what the game is all about – it’s why you act like maniacs on the ice. I’m the goalie – I protect her from you horny sons’o’bitches. You –” he says, pointing a finger at the team, “You’re a bunch o’ dogs aiming to score – willing to put your life on the line just for a chance to slip it in.”

Another innovation of the Okanagan League is the freedom offered to goaltenders to stop the puck by any means necessary. Other hockey organizations forbid goalies from even dropping to their knees. Accidental stumbling is given a pass by the referee, and some shameless backstoppers master this deception, but in the east “floppers” are viewed with derision. The line between bravery and madness is blurred by Coach Al and other Okanagan goalies throwing their bodies and unprotected mugs in front of flailing sticks, sharp blades, and frozen flying discs.

In the first game of the current season, Wilfrid Louie witnesses one such risk when a teammate skates by the outstretched opposition goalie, swings at a loose puck – misses it entirely - and instead strikes the forehead of the prone netminder. The victim instantly bounces up and grabs his head with both hands. Blood trickles and flows between his fingers leaving a trail as he wobbles off the ice. Teammates support the goalie by the shoulders to escort him to the bench.

Upon seeing the volume of blood, Wilfrid Louie’s vision darkens, his knees buckle, and he collapses – like a rag doll on the ice. It’s a humiliating experience. While the injured goalie has his laceration rinsed with whisky and holds still for a fan with steady hands to stitch his brow, Coach Al and his Crazy Loon teammates rub salt in Wilfrid Louie’s wounded pride.

After the game, when Miriam asks him what happened, Wilfrid Louie can’t explain.

“I don’t know,” he tells her. “It’s when I saw the blood. I’m not the one who’s hurt but I’m the one who passes out. It’s embarrassing, Miriam. And the guys are not going to let it go.”

For Wilfrid Louie, the only way to change the subject was by means of his on-ice performance. Much to the delight of his teammates and to the rage of opponents and their fans, he dominates the play in the next series of matches.

On Valentine’s Day in Salmon Arm, Wilfrid Louie is on fire and plays the game of his life.

An experienced Salmon Arm defender somersaults backwards trying to follow his rubber band feints. Wilfrid Louie tauntingly bounces the puck off the poor fellow’s skate blade in order to regain control after dancing around the hulking defenseman.

Later in the game, Wilfrid Louie’s mind is a flash of creative potential when, head-manning the puck, he spots an opening along the boards. A flurry of sequences follow. A deke, a stride towards the net, a drop pass, an unexpected lateral return pass, and a tap-in goal as the netminder, caught helplessly out of position, watches the puck slide beyond his reach.

When the execution resembles the mental flash, or better yet improves upon it with an additional pass or feint, this is the drug The Chinese Water Bug craves: To share a fleeting wavelength with his teammates in a spontaneous interpenetration of past, present, and future.

The crowd reaction is split. The small group from the Shuswap, including David and Miriam Chase, look at one another in amazement and cheer while the locals heckle their team in frustration.

One fan from Salmon Arm taunts Wilfrid Louie for the entire game. He places his palms on his temples and pulls up the skin of his face to mimic “slanted eyes.” Wilfrid Louie has seen this before and he ignores it. This partisan ratchets up the ridicule by pinching the air with a pair of chopsticks that he proudly displays to the laughing crowd, and shouting “Come on! Hit the fuckin’ chink!”

“You’re on fire! Keep it up, kid,” says Coach Al to Wilfird Louie during the intermission. “You’re making the players around you better.”

Wilfrid Louie, very seriously, turns to him and replies. “We can escape the laws of this world in lightning flashes. Brief moments when everything stands still – pure intuition. That’s when we’re capable of the supernatural.”

Coach Al shakes his head. “Not sure what y’er talkin’ about there, Waterbug. But whatever it is, I’d say it’s working.”

He instructs his Crazy Loons to aggressively forecheck and stymie the breakout attempts of the exhausted Salmon Arm skaters whose fans grow more restless with their team’s ineffectiveness. Waves of jeers erupt and the most discouraged attendees pack up their things and leave. Late in the game, which is well in hand, Wilfrid Louie accelerates up the wing with a defender on his tail. He suddenly loses his footing and flies into the boards – headfirst – immediately losing consciousness.

The Salmon Arm ice conditions are flawless – the crowd murmurs in wonder at how such an exceptional skater could suddenly fall. Coach Al skates from his net and grabs the defender who was pursuing Wilfrid Louie.

“I didn’t touch him!” insists the player trying to break loose of Coach Al’s fearsome grip.

David Chase witnesses it all.

The Salmon Arm fan tossed his chopsticks just in front of Wilfrid Louie’s path. When his right skate blade hits the thin piece of wood, Wilfrid Louie loses control and takes flight – an ungoverned projectile aimed at unforgiving boards.

“Good heavens! That looks terrible,” cries Miriam. She jumps the barrier and shuffles unsteadily towards him, balancing speed against caution on the slippery ice.

His body is twisted in an unnatural position – more than one onlooker is nauseated at the sight.

A pool of blood forms on the ice. Wilfrid Louie twitches three times.

For a moment, his breathing is laboured. Then it appears to stop altogether. Blood runs into his eyes and the red puddle on the ice expands.

Despite the violence of the impact and grotesque position in which he lies, Wilfrid Louie is peaceful. He feels the winter sun on his face. The noises around him – the referee, his teammates, the crowd – blend into a muffled background. In a few seconds that feel to him more like minutes, he sees his mother, his sister, his friend David Chase, his father, and he hears a crazy laugh. His facial muscles do not budge – but in his mind he smiles.

“He’s not breathing! Get a doctor!” roars Miriam leaning over Wilfrid and holding her hand up to his mouth and nose.

* Upon the passing of George Tackaberry in 1937, his wife sold the business to the sporting goods manufacturer, CCM, and the skates have since been marketed as “CCM Tacks.”

** Hockey player Art Ross is credited with the invention of the “B” shaped hockey net with the claim that the design trapped shots from most any angle within the contraption.

Chapter 17 - Gavrilo Princip Ruins The Perfect Summer

February 24, 1914 (10 days later)
The Shuswap, British Columbia, Canada 

“There were young girls everywhere
On the summer side of life
They talked all night
To the young men that they knew
On the summer side of life
Goin’ off to fight”
Gordon Lightfoot, Summer Side Of Life

The Chase Weekly

Wilfrid Louie is in a makeshift bed in the corner of the house. He has been comatose for ten days since the collision. His forehead is swollen – due to thirty-three stitches just below his hairline. Coach Al calls in a favour from a Kamloops doctor who agrees to pay a visit.

The doctor completes his assessment in short order. He’s not particularly optimistic. “Sometimes people wake up from these things before they whither away. But more often they don’t.”

Wilfrid’s sister, Lilly, checks in on him regularly, washes him, turns him, and squeezes drops of water from a washcloth into his open mouth. Lilly is all business in her benevolence and – unlike her brother – short on words. Lilly conveys most messages with a piercing look. Together, the siblings are survivors – bonded by shared ordeal.

On the tenth day, tired of third-hand accounts of his condition, Miriam Chase comes to see for herself. She stands on the porch and speaks with Lilly who prefers not to invite her into the modest family home.

“Don’t know what to say,” says Lilly. “He sleeps.”

“It was such a horrible accident. I can’t stop thinking about it,” says Miriam, tearing up as she looks over Lilly’s shoulder to spy Wilfrid, motionless.

When Lilly checks on Wilfrid later that evening his pupils adjust to the light for the first time. A moment later he moves his eyes and tries to speak but his throat is too parched. He gestures for water.

Lilly gives the news to her parents. “He’s coming to.”

Yee Ah Louie walks over and pats his son’s head. Wilfrid Louie’s mother, Shirley, squeezes his hand. The parents depart the room leaving the children alone.

“Those expressions of emotion must have tapped them out,” Lilly says lifting a cup of water to Wilfrid’s mouth.

Wilfrid swallows a few sips. “Is Miriam here?” he asks.

“No,” replies Lilly shaking her head.

“I thought I heard her voice.”

Lilly sits on the side of Wilfrid’s bed and sighs. “She was here earlier. You’re out of it for ten days, and it’s that girl’s voice that wakes you up? Why would you set your sights on her? She’s only going to break your heart.”

Wilfrid Louie looks away and does not answer.

Lilly sighs and straightens her skirt.

“When mother got news of your accident, she had fits. We had to drop everything. But looking at that hand squeeze,” says Lilly. “And a pat on the head from father?”

Wilfrid gives a weak smile. He is ruminating upon his sister’s warning regarding Miriam Chase.

Summer in the Shuswap

For weeks, Wilfrid Louie has intense headaches and an aversion to light. The ongoing visible effects of the impact are limited to a scar from the stitches and periodic fits of blinking of his left eye.

When he has enough of his wits about him, Miriam Chase comes again to visit. Lilly prepares a chair for Wilfrid on the front porch. Miriam hands him a copy of The Chase Weekly newspaper and Wilfrid is startled to see her by-line on the front page.

“How do you go from Shuswap debutante to newspaper columnist?”

“Good question,” Miriam replies, her eyes bright with excitement. “The short answer? It’s thanks to a volume-drinking contest.”

Wilfrid is energized by Miriam’s presence. He confides the thoughts he had when lying upon the ice. “You might think I’d be terrified – the prospect of death at my age – but reflecting on it – I realize that terror was the last thing I was feeling. I can’t explain it, Miriam. But for once I wasn’t afraid of anything – and then I heard you laughing.”

“Wilfrid, I can guarantee you, I was not laughing,” insists Miriam.

“I know you weren’t. But I heard you.”

“Ha!” replies Miriam. “Well I’m glad you pulled through. I don’t know what I would do without your company,” she adds opening her crocheted handbag. “Here, I brought you carrots from my Auntie’s farm in Saskatchewan and some tea I blended myself.”

“Thank you, Miriam. Tea and Saskatchewan carrots – that’ll have me back on my feet in no time,” replies Wilfrid Louie. “You know, the first thing I remember after your laugh is you at the doorway speaking with my sister… I’m pretty sure your voice is what woke me up.”

Miriam is moved and a little embarrassed. She smiles at Wilfrid. “My voice can be a bit grating can’t it? Well then,” she says. “Shall I go inside and boil some water?” Miriam enters the Louie family home and notices the spartan surroundings, chipped dishes, threadbare dishtowel, and dirt floor kitchen. She puts the kettle on the woodstove and soon returns with two steaming cups of her blend.

Wilfrid sips the tea. “You still haven’t answered my question – I thought Mrs. Edna Handcock would be writing her Chase Weekly column ‘til the cows come home. How did you steal her job?”

Miriam displays a devilish grin.

“Well,” she says. “The truth is, if Mrs. Edna Handcock had her way – she would never have taken a leave of absence.”

“Tell me more,” says Wilfrid looking intently at Miriam.

“Mrs. Edna Handcock received news that her mother-in-law in Garafraxa, Ontario had taken ill. Her husband’s ‘deadbeat brother’ – who would normally step in – was in a Toronto jail cell, and his ‘feeble-minded sister’ had taken off with – get this – a traveling carnival contortionist.” The whites of Miriam’s eyes gleam as she leans forward. “You can’t make this stuff up. So it meant that her father-in-law had to step up and take care of his stricken wife.”

“That makes sense so far,” says Wilfrid Louie.

“BUT! Doesn’t he go and win a volume drinking contest – against the biggest boozers in Garafraxa - only to suddenly drop dead… the prestige of his triumph lasting mere seconds before falling face first and leaving one angry Mrs. Edna Handcock with no choice but to pack her bags, head east, and care for her now widowed mother-in-law,” explains Miriam leaping out of her chair.

“I pity the soul seated next to her for that train ride to Ontario,” says Wilfrid Louie.

It was true - there were no other options. The Shuswap Handcock family ranch can’t operate without her husband. ‘You know, it’s not as if I don’t have much going on in my life!” declared Mrs. Edna Handcock, slamming the door in her husband’s face upon her departure.

Mrs. Edna Handcock’s 1000-word column had become required reading in the Shuswap and, due to its popularity, was moved from page 6 of The Chase Weekly to its prime position above the fold on page 1. To say she has her finger on the pulse of the Shuswap is an understatement. The star of the newspaper, her ‘Comings and Goings’ column is jam-packed with details on quilting bees, church basement meetings and the hobnobbing of Shuswap gentry.

In his panicked search for a successor, Publisher of The Chase Weekly, Glenn Verdun, a man whose pants come up to his chest, whose face is mostly forehead, and eyes far too close together, reaches out to Mrs. Fuke, the Shuswap Prairie schoolmistress.

She pens a response so beautifully articulated that it may, in fact, have been a subtle job application – but if so, it passes right over the head of the recipient. Mrs. Fuke’s letter praises the writing talent of Miriam Chase and Wilfrid Louie but also contains a warning regarding Wilfrid’s tendency for ‘devious drollery’ that she graciously points out is ‘not wilful but most likely driven by an ethnic instinct beyond his control.’

Publisher Glenn Verdun sees himself as a progressive. “I believe that women deserve equal opportunity – that’s why I hire so many of them,” he likes to boast. The fact he pays a woman half a man’s wage to do the same job is secondary. “They don’t have families to support.”

“That’s how I find myself writing the most important piece of Shuswap journalism. All those mornings cleaning the chalkboard brushes have paid off. Thank you, Mrs. Fuke!” says Miriam Chase.

“Don’t forget to thank Edna Handcock’s father-in-law for his power drinking!” interjects Wilfrid Louie.

“Of course!” replies Miriam. “You know, I’m really enjoying the column. Glenn Verdun doesn’t seem to mind me inserting my own personality – either that or he hasn’t taken notice.”

Not only a progressive, Publisher Glenn Verdun also fancies himself a bit of a visionary whose mental frameworks can unleash ‘a field of infinite possibilities,’ among those fortunate enough to be in his employ. And, he has no time for anyone whose viewpoint might carry a whiff of the negative.

“Don’t talk to me about problems,” he cries to his bewildered staff. “Talk to me about opportunities!” When later his employees lament that they can find no solutions to their opportunities, Glenn Verdun spins on his heels, slams his office door, and ponders his next inspiration.

“I don’t want my readers getting older with every year that passes. I want a younging-up strategy! Young blood is what I need. Fresh faces! The next generation needs to see itself in the pages of my newspaper,” he exclaims to his ever-more confused personnel.

Miriam reports on the gatherings and the social meanderings of both the contenders and pretenders of Shuswap society. She has a knack for rooting out the irony – a gift for playfully teasing – and getting away with it. She employs enough subtlety and charm that the subject takes either no notice or no offense.

When Wilfrid Louie is sufficiently back to normal, he makes a move to join Miriam at The Chase Weekly with his pitch to Glenn Verdun.

“I’ll be your hardest working reporter,” Wilfrid pleads.

“That may be,” he replies. “But, I’m not convinced a Chinaman can do the job of a reporter – and I’m certainly not going to run the risk of offending my readers by hiring one.” Glenn Verdun sits back in his chair, his arms up, and fingers interlaced behind his head.

“To be clear, though, I am against all forms of discrimination and it just so happens that I’m in need of a backup Linotype operator. I’ll give you the opportunity to sit beside my Typographer and see if you can’t learn the craft. Those nimble oriental hands must be good for something.”

The labyrinthine Linotype machine revolutionized newspaper production with a 90-character keyboard and complex sets of tracks and trajectories, effectively mechanizing Johann Gutenberg’s moveable type. The genius of the clanging contraption is the combination of the casting and setting of type in one process, by one operator, dramatically accelerating the creation of columns and pages.

“The deal is simple – if in four weeks – and to be clear, that’s four weeks of unpaid training – you prove to me that you can run the Linotype at speed and without errors – then you’re hired – a woman’s wage of course – you being a Chinaman and all.”

The Chase Weekly Linotype operator is tasked with training Wilfrid Louie. A jovial French-Canadian who, after two pilsners, rhymes off countless irrelevant facts to anyone within earshot, he’s a seasoned newspaperman, steeped in the traditions and skills of the trade.

“There’s no cushion – no inventory. It’s a brand new paper every time. Deadlines are like making breakfast for angry lumberjacks. Some mornings, things go wrong – you get the eggs from the icebox, and they fall on the floor. Most walk in circles around the broken eggs, they look at the lumberjacks. They say, who can I blame?” he says while applying oil to the multitudinous Linotype lubrication points. “Real newspaper people – they yell, Boys, we’re making toast! The deadline for me – it’s chocolat. I can’t get enough. What will it be for you?” the man asks, pointing his oilcan in Wilfrid Louie’s face.

Wilfrid Louie looks up from the oil can and winks. “Double, double toil and truffle… I guess it better be chocolat for me, too.”

And with that, Wilfrid Louie’s ambitions for the summer of 1914 become more plausible. He applies himself to the challenge of mastering the Linotype and shows promise from the start. “You might get good at this,” says the operator beaming with pride at the progress of his apprentice.

Wilfrid Louie gradually regains his strength. He and Miriam work together and walk together – every day to the offices of The Chase Weekly. Their shared experiences provide new fodder for banter, and again they laugh with Publisher Glenn Verdun a favourite topic of derision.

“Have you noticed how close his eyes are together?” Miriam asks Wilfrid in a tone just louder than a whisper while walking home after work.

“I have! He must struggle with depth perception… like a Cyclopes… no peripheral vision. If you ever want to hide – take a step to either side and ‘poof’ you disappear.”

Folks across the Shuswap remark at how often they spot Miriam in Wilfrid Louie’s company. Even the self-assured Arthur Cadwallader – whom Miriam continues to see – is prompted to ask, “Is there something you want to tell me about your feelings toward Wilfrid Louie? You spend a lot of time with him – and even when you’re not together – you talk about him an awful lot,” he says.

“Don’t be silly, Arthur. And of all men – I never took you to be the jealous type.”

On a particular Shuswap summer scorcher, temperatures soar into the nineties. Miriam suggests she and Wilfrid make a detour to a nearby swimming hole on their way home after work.

It’s a secluded spring-fed pond surrounded by hawthorn trees. The summer air is hazy and beams of sunshine traverse gaps between leaves and reflect upon the water. Miriam and Wilfrid are the only ones there.

“Turn around, Wilfrid,” says Miriam all business-like.

Wilfrid does as instructed and a moment later hears a splash. 

Miriam’s wet hair is pulled tight down her neck accentuating the symmetry of her face. Looking at her head and shoulders bobbing in the water, a notion comes to Wilfrid – no one could possibly love her more than me.

“Your turn!” cries Miriam as she turns in the water to face the opposite direction while Wilfrid undresses and jumps in to join her.

“You didn’t check for leaches!” he yells as he cannonballs into the water.

“Wilfrid, don’t joke about leeches!” cries Miriam.

“You know I’m only kidding.”

“Thank God,” she says.

“No leeches in here – not since the two-headed snakes* ate them all,” says Wilfrid trying to keep a straight face.

Miriam’s face drains of blood and she makes a sound – that originates from deep inside. It starts as a growl, becomes a scream, and ends in fits of teary laughter.

“Don’t do that! You know there is nothing I hate more than snakes,”

“Miriam, there aren’t any snakes,” says Wilfrid. “I’m teasing.”

Their film of sweat washes away, and their bodies are cooled as they tread water facing one another. Miriam’s imagination prevents her from remaining in the swimming hole much longer. Each brush with floating debris represents an imminent attack.

They exit the pond in different directions. As Wilfrid kneels to pick up his clothes, from the corner of his eye, he sees the line from Miriam’s calf up to her shoulder. Though the glance is unintentional, the frame is seared into his memory. 

Refreshed from the dip, they walk home – first the Chase ranch where Miriam has her afternoon chores. “See you tomorrow,” she says turning up the long laneway.

“See you,” Wilfrid replies and continues towards his family homestead. Walking alone, he runs through scenarios on how to express his thoughts. Each passing day – the time they share – the laughter – can only add to the likelihood of a positive outcome. He concludes he has no need to rush things.

On his way home, Wilfrid Louie stops at French Bob’s Hotel – which also serves as the Shuswap post office. Daughter of Henri Quesnel, Mélanie, works the front counter.

“What can I get for you, Wilfrid?” she asks with a smile.

“Has a package come in for me?”

“I haven’t seen anything, let me look around,” replies Mélanie. “Come visit. Sit with me while I search,” she says and pulls up a chair behind the counter.

Wilfrid complies. Mélanie returns a moment later and plops herself down beside him. “Sorry Wilfrid, there’s nothing here addressed to you, but please stay for a few minutes.”

Wilfrid stays and visits.

At the Louie family ranch

Upon arriving home in the evening, his sister Lilly is outside and Wilfrid can hear his father’s angry voice in the distance.

“Are they fighting again?” he asks Lilly.

“No. Mother’s inside. He’s in the outhouse – talking to himself – been there a while.”

“It’s the dope. It plugs him up,” explains Wilfrid Louie.

Portions of Yee Ah Louie’s bitter rambling can be discerned from outside the latrine.

“That’s it. Piss on the old man… where did he put the fuckin’ bottle this time… Don’t play games with me, boy… you and Henri can laugh all you want… some friend… where did you hide it?” he grumbles.

“He’s going downhill,” suggests Lilly. “You think he might harm himself?” she asks.

“You mean suicide?”

“Yah, I suppose.”

“No, he would never do that.”

“Why so sure?” asks Lilly.

“It would mean accepting that he’s not going to fix all the things he’s promised to fix,” replies Wilfrid Louie. “And he’ll never admit that.”

The outhouse door flies open and Yee Ah Louie rolls out backwards in an awkward summersault – his face in the dirt, his pants around his ankles.

Wilfrid Louie turns to face his sister.

“You’re right. He is getting worse.”

For King and country

While producing the July 2nd, 1914 edition of The Chase Weekly, including Miriam’s column: Humidity, Fluidity and Fruit Flies Fail to Dampen Spirits – Strawberry & Ice Cream Social at Blind Hill Cemetery – Wilfrid Louie is taken aback by the next article he pounds into the Linotype. This is not going to end well.

“Sarajevo, Bosnia, June 30 - Archduke Franz Ferdinand, heir to the Austria-Hungarian throne, and the Duchess of Hohenberg, his morganatic wife, were shot dead yesterday by Gavrilo Princip, a student, on the main street of the Bosnia capital, a short time after they had escaped death from a bomb hurled at the royal automobile. They were slain while passing through the city on their annual visit to the annexed provinces of Bosnia and Herzegovina.”

“Why should that matter to us?” asks Miriam. “Seriously, it’s worlds away from here – Archdukes, rebel students, Duchesses – that’s none of our business – it’s summer in the Shuswap, Wilfrid!”

“I’m not saying that it should matter to us, Miriam, but I fear it will,” replies Wilfrid Louie who devours every newspaper can get his hands on and is up-to-date on rising European tensions.

“And just who in the world is Gavrilo Princip and why should he throw our lives into chaos?” pleads Miriam. “I feel like life could not be going much better and this is about to derail everything.”

Weeks later, for the August 6th edition, Wilfrid Louie sets by hand the 120 point headline all in uppercase, ‘Britain and Germany Finally At War.’

Wilfrid inputs the accompanying story into the Linotype. The last line reads: ‘An appeal is made to all single Britons between 18 and 30 years of age to join the army. Your King and country need you.’

Around the Chase family dining room table the discussion is animated. David and Miriam Chase, their mother, Elizabeth, and guest, Wilfrid Louie, share a meal of roast lamb with mint sauce and roots of glacier lily cooked golden brown. It’s served with scalloped potatoes, and a tray of asparagus, stacked high and coated in butter.

“I don’t want you enlisting, David,” says his mother. “I don’t see why we should send our boys to fight this war.”

“We’re British subjects, Ki-7-ce, when Britain is at war, we’re at war. We are Britons,” David Chase says, a hint of rebellion in his voice.

“Are we? What makes us Britons?” his mother asks.

Miriam speaks up. “I think David is right – like it or not, we’re at war. I have trouble understanding how the assassination of a blue blood so far away – in a part of the world that has nothing to do with us – should matter. What if boys from the Shuswap were to go over there and actually be wounded or die in combat? We would be asking ourselves why?” Her voice rises and her eyes dart back and forth at those around the table. “What are we fighting for? All I’ve heard so far is ‘King and country.’ Maybe that’s a good answer – but if that’s the only answer – then it will be hard to accept those kinds of sacrifices.” 

David Chase shakes his head.

“Well, I think it is the right thing to do. They’re saying it will all be over in a matter of weeks. Probably before any of us even have the chance to fight. A lot of the boys are signing up and I’m not going to be the one to shirk my duty,” says David Chase.

“Wilfrid, do you consider yourself a Briton?” asks Elizabeth Chase.

“I don’t see why not,” he replies. “I know that Sir Wilfrid Laurier said, ‘When Britain is at war, Canada is at war.’”

“Well for one, this country won’t even allow you to vote,” says Elizabeth Chase taking a forkful of lamb and staring at Wilfrid Louie as she chews.

A send-off

A few days later, David and Miriam Chase and Wilfrid Louie meet for a send-off on the banks of the Thompson River. David Chase brings two bottles of wine. Wilfrid Louie makes a fire.

Miriam pours a glass for each. They toast David.

“Just return safe and sound,” says Miriam.

“Just don’t do anything stupid,” says Wilfrid.

“I’ll be back in no time,” David Chase assures them.

They clink their glasses.

“What about you, Wilfrid? Are you going to enlist?” asks David Chase after swallowing a mouthful of wine.

There is a pause and before Wilfrid can answer, the fire casts yellow shadows on a figure that appears above them.

“Your mother said I would find you here,” says a rich Welsh accented voice.

“Arthur, what are you doing here?” says Miriam who takes a step back in surprise.

“I need a word with you, if I may.”

“You’re certainly not a man of many words, Cadwallader,” says David Chase.

Miriam gets up and she and Arthur Cadwallader walk several paces from the campfire. They stand close together at the base of a hawthorn tree.

Wilfrid Louie watches the shadows from the campfire dance upon their forms. He stops talking but with the crackling of the fire, cannot make out what is said.

Arthur holds Miriam’s arms at the elbows and looks into her eyes.

“I’m enlisting tomorrow, Miriam. I need to ask. Will you wait for me? Will you be here for me when I return?”

Miriam looks up – ‘my God he’s good looking,’ she thinks, taking her time to appreciate his broad shoulders and the dimple on his chin.

“No, Arthur,” she says. “But I’m not waiting for anyone else, either. I’m not going to spend my life waiting for anyone or anything. I’m not a character in someone else’s book – I’m writing my own story,” she says.

Arthur Cadwallader is crestfallen.

“Fair enough,” he says the hope having left his voice. “But, I’ll tell you this much, Miriam Chase, you are worth waiting for.” He holds her gaze. “In every conceivable way.”

Miriam smiles sweetly at her suitor.

“Come, have a drink with us, Arthur,” she says and leads him by the hand back to the fire.

Wilfrid observes the position and tension of her fingers as they clasp those of Arthur Cadwallader. He pays attention to how long the contact lingers.

David Chase offers Arthur Cadwaller a glass of wine and refills the others.

The following day, a group of Shuswap boys including David Chase and Arthur Cadwallader make their way to Kamloops to the enlistment office. They soon board the CPR and are shipped to the Valcartier base outside Quebec City for basic training.

Apoplexy

Wilfrid Louie arrives home late in the evening. He has again stopped at French Bob’s Hotel on his way home from work. Upon his arrival, his sister informs him of their father’s disappearance.

“Where you been? He’s gone,” says Lilly.

“He probably went to town. His stash must be running low,” replies Wilfrid offhandedly.

“Horses are still here. You think he would have walked?”

Wilfrid shakes his head. His father would definitely not have walked to town – he struggles enough around the ranch these days - his gait reduced to a shuffle.

“Did you check the outhouse?” he asks.

“No,” says Lilly. “Usually hear him in there.”

Wilfrid Louie opens the outhouse door and finds his father crumpled in the corner. His face sags to one side. A line of drool runs down his jowl and neck.

Wilfrid carries his father to the same makeshift bed that had been his perch only months before. He cleans him and positions Yee Ah Louie to be as comfortable as possible.

“You are a good son, Wee Hong,” says his father – his speech slow and slurred. “Do you hear the loon?” he mumbles.

“I’ve told you – Wilfrid is my name.”

“I hear the loon – it won’t leave me alone,” says Yee Ah Louie. “You think Henri is good – Tangia Tura is good. Am I good?”

Wilfrid Louie wipes the dried saliva from his father’s face.

He takes a box from his pocket and opens it to reveal folded wax paper.

Yee Ah Louie’s eyes open wide.

“I know that smell,” he says.

“It’s lokum,” says Wilfrid Louie revealing a square of Turkish delight dusted in icing sugar.

Yee Ah Louie’s weathered face takes on a boyish look of wonder. “Where did this come from?” he asks.

“You told Lilly and me – how you used to steal it when you were a boy. I had this shipped from Victoria – picked it up today at the post office,” explains Wilfrid Louie who pulls off a corner of the delicacy and places it in his father’s mouth.

“I put it like this… behind my teeth… and it lasts. The lokum put a black hole in my teeth… But I bought these, from a sei gweilo** in Barkerville,” he says pointing to his stained but sturdy dentures.

“Yes, you told us that story. Many times. Very nice teeth,” says Wilfrid Louie.

Yee Ah Louie looks as if in a trance with eyes half closed savouring the Turkish delight.

“No more dope. No more drinking. I won’t die now,” says Yee Ah Louie.

He pulls on Wilfrid’s collar, draws his son’s head close, and speaks in his ear.

“You think your father is a fool, Wilfrid, but I see my brother – Ah Chu – in you,” he whispers. “He carried the problems of others and it ate him up. Wilfrid, you must not be like him. Don’t make other people’s problems your problems. My brother thought he could give without end. But his body knew better. His body kept score.”

Wilfrid Louie places a blanket on his father and pillow under his head.

“I need to tell you more,” mumbles Yee Ah Louie. “I had a better brother than Ah Chu ever did. A friend, Wilfrid, does not let a friend pay for his sin,” and deep into the night he spends his remaining energy recounting stories his son has not heard before.

In the morning, Wilfrid contacts Coach Al to see if he can’t convince his doctor friend to pay one more visit.

The following day the doctor confirms what is suspected. “It’s an apoplexy. There will be more,” he announces.

Wilfrid Louie and his sister Lilly stay home for the next few days to care for their father – who when sufficiently lucid – tells another story to his son.

“You can only give what you have been given,” are the last words Wilfrid Louie can decipher.

Two letters and the return of Mrs. Edna Handcock

Mrs. Edna Hancock has her suitcases with her – one in each hand – she hasn’t even gone home to the family ranch since the train ride west – and heads straight to the offices of The Chase Weekly. “I’m baaaaack!” she says swinging open the front door.

“Great news!” exclaims Glenn Verdun. “Welcome back Mrs. Handcock! I take it this means your mother-in-law has recovered!”

“Oh no, not at all. She’s dead. Completely dead,” replies Mrs. Edna Hancock who drops her suitcases and strides to the desk where Miriam Chase is seated. “Thanks for holding down the fort, darling. I’ll be taking over now.”

Miriam is at a loss for words. She looks at Glenn Verdun who is notorious for his avoidance of conflict – especially any that might involve women. He looks up at the ceiling.

Miriam gathers her papers and correspondence. “Welcome back, Mrs. Edna Hancock,” she says, surrendering the desk.

From his perch in front of the Linotype, Wilfrid witnesses the scene.

He and Miriam leave the office early to walk home without saying a word to Glenn Verdun. Miriam has her final pay envelope and an unopened letter addressed to her care of The Chase Weekly. Wilfrid also had a letter, sent to the newspaper offices to his attention. It looks to be from David Chase.

“I am devastated,” confides Miriam. “I loved that column. And people – from all over the Shuswap – tell me that they love my writing. Wilfrid, this summer started off with such promise. Now, there’s a war. David and Arthur are gone – and thanks to that damned lam’-mi-eh*** my newspaper career is over – just as it was starting, ” she cries.

“I wish I could do something,” says Wilfrid Louie.

Miriam stops and turns towards him. Wilfrid Louie wipes away a tear that rolls over her cheek.

“I’ll read you my letter if you read me yours,” says Wilfrid. “You go first.”

“Wilfrid, what does it matter? It’s probably from some depraved widower.”

“Open it,” says Wilfrid. “At least it will give us something to laugh about.”

“OK, fine.”

She reads the letter aloud.

Miss Miriam Chase,

Your work has come to my attention.

I like your energy.

I like your style.

And I want you to come work at our newest British Columbia acquisition, The Vancouver Sun.

You may already be aware of this, Miss Chase, but The Vancouver Sun is an appallingly dull newspaper. I believe your presence may jolt some badly needed energy into the newsroom.

I will be in Vancouver at the offices of The Sun until September 23rd.

Carpe Diem, Miss Chase.

Yours Sincerely,

Ruth FitzGerald

The Beech Company – Newspaper Division

“Wilfrid! Can you believe it? Isn’t this the bee’s knees? What timing! Vancouver Sun, here I come!”

“I love how your face lights up reading that letter,” he says. “But talk about bittersweet. I’m joyful and sad all at once.”

“Oh Wilfrid, this summer might end on a high note after all! Now read me your letter! Wouldn’t a few laughs from David be just what the doctor ordered?”

“OK, here goes,” says Wilfrid ripping open the envelope.

Old Tillicum,

It’s colder than a well digger’s arse up here in Valcartier. We took the train to Quebec City from Montreal but then had to hike the rest of the way from there. The base is a city of tents, packed with boys from BC to Nova Scotia, with no heating and it gets bitter at night. There’s pretty girls in the village with whom I’d like to warm up. Haven’t been so lucky just yet. I need to polish my French a bit. Where’s Henri Quesnel when you need him?

They’re doing their best to turn us into real soldiers, Wilfrid. We’re up early marching on the parade grounds, digging holes, doing musketry drills, and enfilading with the bayonet. I hear they’re making Arthur Cadwallader an officer. No bars or stripes for this squaddie. I got my Ross Rifle today – and the Sergeant told me that this baby will be my best friend on the battlefield.

What are you doing in the Shuswap? Still hammering away at the newspaper? When are you going to enlist anyways? Can you imagine the day your kids ask you, ‘Daddy, what did you do for King and country during the War?’ What are you going to answer? ‘Oh my darlings, why I [Wilfrid skips over reading aloud the remainder of this paragraph.] played stinkfinger with Mélanie behind the counter at French Bob’s Hotel.’ That will sure be something to be proud of!

[Wilfrid picks up on his reading at this point.] Well, Old Tillicum, gotta’ go. Be sure to say hi to sis.’ Another army meal being served. No one’s quite sure what it is.

Your loyal friend,

David Chase

“Give that to me, Wilfrid,” says Miriam. “I want to read it. I told you he would be good for a laugh!”

Wilfrid holds the letter out of her reach.

“You scallywag! You skipped a part, didn’t you!” she laughs reaching for the letter. “What? Is it too bawdy for me? Let me read it, Wilfrid!”

Miriam gets a hand on the letter but Wilfrid refuses to let go. In the scuffle they find themselves face to face and Wilfrid sees the surprise in Miriam’s eyes. She isn’t laughing anymore.

He releases his grip and Miriam reads the letter.

Yee Ah Louie’s fortune

It’s raining.

Wilfrid Louie contacted Henri Quesnel who reached out to Tangia Tura.

They travel with Yee Ah Louie’s body to Kamloops. Shirley Louie wants him buried in the Chinese cemetery behind the cannery in the north end of the town.

The small gathering stands around a hole where the plain casket is positioned. 

Lilly Louie holds her mother who weeps from behind a black veil.

The slightly stooped but still imposing Tangia Tura says a few words. “Yee Ah Louie was my partner and my friend. He taught me to look for gold. I protected us from others. I did not protect him from himself.”

Henri Quesnel steps forward. “Yee Ah Louie had a crotte sur le coeur. **** I loved him. He had a good heart – but a bitter one,” he says.

Tangia Tura places a tiny gold nugget on the casket.

Wilfrid Louie spots a man in the distance observing the ceremony.

“Do you know who that is?” he asks Henri Quesnel.

“He looks familiar.”

“I know who it is,” says Tangia Tura. “It’s Sergeant Titmarsh.”

“Then we’d better quit this camp,” says Henri Quesnel. “Tangia, you come with me.”

Lilly Louie holds her mother’s arm and they walk over to Wilfrid.

Aren’t you coming home with us?” asks Shirley Louie of her son.

“No. I’m staying here in Kamloops,” replies Wilfrid Louie. “I’m enlisting. I’ll send money.”

His mother glances down – sees only rocks and mud – and thinks better of it.

Kamloops enlistment office

“No room for Chinamen in this man’s army,” says a chunky, moustached enlistment officer with a Yorkshire accent.

“I was born in this country,” replies Wilfrid Louie.

“I’ll admit, you don’t sound very Chinese. But we aren’t so desperate as to need your kind,”

“I’ve spent my life in British Columbia,” explains Wilfrid. “Every season.”

The enlistment officer looks closely at Wilfrid’s face.

“You do look familiar, boy. Where have I seen you before?”

“Unless you come up to the Shuswap, I’m not sure. The only travelling I’ve done is with the Crazy Loons.”

“That’s it! You’re the Chinese Waterbug, aren’t you? I watched you play against Salmon Arm – My Gawd you can skate, boy! I heard you got dinged up – touch and go there for a while. But you look to have recovered fine.”

“Yeah, just some blinking of my eye,” replies Wilfrid Louie.

“I saw you score a goal where you picked up the puck behind y’er own goal and lugged it up the ice. You danced around the entire Salmon Arm team – twice! You had’em completely paggered and then you deked the goaltender and backhanded it over his shoulder. I must say, I’ve never seen a prettier goal.”

“Thanks,’ says Wilfrid Louie, a little embarrassed at the adulation.

“OK,” says the enlistment officer grabbing a form from the pile. “What’s your real name, Waterbug?”

“Wilfrid,” he replies. “Wilfrid Louie.”

“Let’s get you signed up.”

The next day Wilfrid Louie is on the CPR heading east. When the train stops in Winnipeg he stretches his legs, and posts this letter to Miriam Chase c/o The Vancouver Sun.

our shuswap summer
uncle joe said
’summer is a weekend’
june is friday night
saturday is july
august is a melancholy sunday afternoon
september is monday morning
strolls in short-sleeves,
fireflies, shooting stars
mother nature’s travelling caravan
packed up and leaving town
homesteaders sharpen blades
for work to come
dogs stretch
from a season of front porch slumbers
summer sets upon our shuswap
mystic paradise of books, brooks
and rolling golden hills
shuts up shop
thick morning dew
ushers us to the exit
one last time barefoot
across the peppermint meadow
cool grass between our toes
cold morning air
twists the life
from the last blossom
a year of strangled
passion under my belt
had all season to tell you
but Gavrilo put a stop to that
before you know it
the war will be over
i will be back to tell you everything
when summer next comes to the Shuswap
the sun will be just like that
your gentle honey cheek
will carry a vessel of lemonade tear
i will capture it
upon the tip of my finger
until the tension breaks
and the bead of our silent wavelength
is finally spoken

* The creepiest of British Columbian snakes, the Rubber Boa is commonly referred to as the “Two Headed Snake.” Rubber Boas are thick-bodied, grey in colour, have very small eyes, and no neck, making it nearly impossible to discern head from tail. 

** Sei Gweilo is Cantonese for White Devil.

*** Lam’mi-eh is Chinook Jargon for ‘old woman.’

**** One of Henri Quesnel’s French Canadian expressions, ‘avoir une crotte sur le coeur’ (to have a shit on one’s heart).

Chapter 18 - Putting The Paper To Bed

November, 1914 (3 months later)
Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada 

“Many a man in love with a dimple
makes the mistake of marrying
the whole girl.”
Stephen Leacock

Lewis Tichborne licks his palms and smooths over his luxurious mane. He confidently strides up to Miriam Chase, who is sitting at her desk, and places his business card beside her typewriter. “Senior Vice President, Special Projects, Newspaper Division, The Beech Company,” reads the title.

“Just promoted to senior vice president – only one in the whole division. I report directly to Frankie. That’s Francis Beech, or rather, Mister Beech to you – he’s the owner. Well, not the owner but the owner’s son. And, for your information, the owner’s no spring chicken. So, Frankie’s the soon-to-be owner. Whatever the case, senior vice president, makes me the highest-ranking executive in the newspaper division,” explains Lewis Tichborne.

Miriam Chase looks up from her typing.

“I’m kind of busy right now,” she says.

“You’re new – I can show you around – protect you from these predators in the newsroom,” he says with a wave of his arm. “I’m the one who purchased this newspaper, you know. Well, it’s not my money – but I treat it as if it were. That’s why Frankie trusts me. He sent me to do the deal,” Lewis Tichborne explains.

“That’s funny,” replies Miriam Chase. “Looks to me like Ruth FitzGerald is the one calling the shots around here.”

“Her?” Lewis Tichborne replies, plopping himself down on Miriam Chase’s desk. “I’m gonna’ fill you in on The Beech Company. It’s like religion. Think back to Sunday school, darlin’ – why I suspect a sweet thing like you even taught the lesson – you remember the Holy Trinity? How there’s God the Father – obviously JRB. There’s the Son of God – that would be Francis. And then there’s me – I’m the Holy Ghost. And in this celestial realm, the Virgin Ruth isn’t seated at the left- or right-hand side of anybody. A she-devil – with a heart of stone. Ruthy Ice-box is what they call her, you know. I’m the one who hired her. I saw her once stand in front of a hostile press hall and dismiss every single one of them brutes – without flinching – without a bodyguard. But don’t worry your little head. I’ll protect you from her frosty clutches,” he says leaning down towards Miriam’s face, and flashing a toothy grin.

“Say, I’ve got an idea. Why don’t you join me for dinner tonight?” adds Lewis Tichborne in his creamiest tone. “I’m staying in a suite at the Hotel Vancouver. The chef there is a pal of mine. He’ll make us something real special.”

Miriam Chase ignores him and keeps typing.

Lewis Tichborne gets up. “Think about it,” he says and walks away. At sufficient distance, he mumbles under his breath: “It’s a goddamned shame… fifty percent of the population controlling one hundred percent of the pussy.”

The Beech Company – Newspaper Division

Working late into the evening in the business office at the Vancouver Sun, Ruth FitzGerald opens her ledger book – the one that never leaves her side. She calls it her ‘Bible.’ Newly transferred from Montreal, her Director of Finance, Robert Rust, reads off a list of numbers that Ruth FitzGerald records in the ledger.

She maintains the book with the assistance of her network of finance directors. Forty-two lines – one for each Beech Company newspaper – and eight columns, reported monthly. It is by means of these eight indicators that Ruth FitzGerald has insight into the health of each Beech Company newspaper.

Ruth prioritizes her time by targeting the outliers. A newspaper that stands out from the others in any category – by outperforming or – god forbid – underperforming warrants a visit and deeper examination.

“Ignore Ruth’s calculations at your peril!” warns one Beech newspaper publisher to his peers. “You don’t want Ruthy Ice-box conducting a rectal exam of your operations. She dunks her hand in ice water prior to penetration.” 

The Vancouver Sun stands out in Ruth FitzGerald’s ‘Bible’… in every way. “We’ve got a lot of work to do here, Robert,” she says to the new Director of Finance. “This won’t be easy,” she adds with a grin. 

“I’ve never known anyone who loved the work as much as you do, Mrs. FitzGerald,” says Robert Rust.

Robert Rust has long been her trusted partner at The Montreal Gazette. “Any stuffed shirt with a bit of charm and a baritone voice can be Publisher. But to manage the money, I need someone both canny and credible,” Ruth FitzGerald has maintained.

Robert Rust is tall and thin. He wears small oval glasses over his observant, darting eyes and works endless hours in his first months in Vancouver auditing every aspect of the operation. Cash handling is his immediate focus. The monies that flow into the classified ad department and those collected by circulation are the first areas he tackles.

Over years of experience, Robert Rust has developed a few quick and easy techniques to identify potential spillage.

For the ladies in the classified ad department who take in wads of cash from the public: “Check their feet and their shoulders. Ornate Mary Jane style shoes with fancy heels – especially ones decorated in rhinestones – worthy of an investigation,” says Robert Rust. “Likewise, a mink stole is highly suspicious. No classified ad girl should be able to afford such luxuries.”

For the burly circulation managers – Robert Rust keeps an eye out for automobile purchases and hints of a gambling habit. While in Montreal, he paid a mole at Blue Bonnets raceway to inform him should a Montreal Gazette employee become a frequent attendee. During his first week in Vancouver, he put a clerk at Hastings Park racecourse on the payroll.

Robert Rust explains to Ruth FitzGerald how his most lucrative innovation at The Montreal Gazette would soon be deployed at The Vancouver Sun. The classified ad section, where private parties and businesses pay handsome prices for each column line of words, is the community’s marketplace. The section is studied – or at least browsed – by all – for everything from appliances to window washing.

The liner ads within each category of goods and services are sorted alphabetically – leading to a preponderance and repetition of the letter “A” in efforts to appear at the beginning of any given category. While at The Montreal Gazette, Robert Rust observed this trend and had nothing short of a commercial epiphany. For the classified ad category ‘All Specialized Services’ – a euphemism for the ages if there ever was one – he changed the standard alphabetical sortation of ad order.

It took some time working out the logistics with the typographers who assembled the pages, but for this particular category only, it was structured so that the longest ad – the one with the most high-income column lines – ran first – regardless of alphabet. Subsequent ads in the category ran from longest to shortest.

The competitive streaks of Montreal’s finest flesh mongers came to the surface. Dressed in sack suits and flashy felt derby hats, they lined up before the classified ad counter to recite their verse – describing the profile and salacious menu of techniques offered by the members of their respective stables. Each day a new record was set for the longest (and most expensive) ad. Robert Rust demanded the pimps pay cash prior to publication.

Within a matter of weeks, ‘All Specialized Services’ became the most lucrative category in the section. “It’s going to work here too, Mrs. FitzGerald. I’m sure of it,” insists Robert Rust.

“I suspect our Vancouver readers are a wee bit more prudish than those in Montreal, Robert,” says Ruth FitzGerald. “You’ll need to train the classified ad girls – develop a lexicon of words we will allow – and a list of those we won’t - make it easy for them,” she adds.

“Will do,” he replies.

“Robert, your mandate for the upcoming union negotiations is to focus on quality, on-time delivery, rooting out the bad apples – notions that people can get behind – nothing too controversial. Start winning over the union reps by whatever means necessary – use the slush fund for that – and then sign long-term deals. Aim for five years with minimal wage increases.” Ruth FitzGerald pauses to light a cigarette. She glances at her notes and continues. “When the Vancouver Sun is the number one newspaper in the market – our employees will be paid as such. But we need labour peace to get there. Any stoppages now would be major distractions. And remind the union reps that the country is at war – this community will have little patience for pressure tactics. Keep the peace and we will reward them later when we move ahead of our competitors.”

Ruth FitzGerald reviews her list of priorities for Robert Rust one last time. “This ‘ill be tricky,” she says handing it to him. “We’re bound to face some surprises, but I’ve got your back.”

“I know you do, Mrs. FitzGerald,” he replies.

“Okay, I’m off. Heading back east,” Ruth exclaims, gathering her belongings. “We’ll review where we stand on each of these upon my return,”

Ruth FitzGerald meets Francis Beech at Vancouver train station

On her way out of town, Ruth crosses paths with Francis Beech at the Vancouver train station. The CPR porter that carries her bags recognizes her. “Good morning, Mrs. FitzGerald,” he says. “Please, allow me to take those.”

“The porters know you by name,” remarks Francis Beech. “Must spend a fortune on train tickets.”

“When you travel as much as me, it comes with the territory,” Ruth FitzGerald replies.

“How are things coming along out here?” Francis Beech asks.

Ruth FitzGerald is a little perturbed. She tilts her head to the side and looks at Francis Beech. He doesn’t get it. But I suppose he is the heir apparent. No harm in playing along with his charade.

She smiles with just a hint of impatience. “I’d say things are coming along nicely… the plan’s in place. Robert Rust, knows what to do. It’s going to take some time – but we’ll get there.” That wasn’t so bad. But I should fire a quick shot across his bow. “By the way, Francis, what exactly is Lewis Tichborne doing here in Vancouver? The last thing I need is for him to put his nose where it doesn’t belong,” she says firmly.

“Oh, father has asked that we meet a fellow – don’t worry, it’s got nothing to do with newspapers,” he replies. “And then Tichborne and I thought we might look for the next acquisition. What do you think of Victoria?”

Victoria? Enough of that nonsense. You’re not calling any shots here. “We’re not ready to gobble up another one just yet. The Vancouver Sun will take some time to digest,” says Ruth. “Let’s get a few consecutive quarters of profitability under our belts and then I’ll let you know when we’re ready to look at the next target.” I answer to your father and I’m not about to start taking direction from you.

“Right. That makes sense,” says Francis Beech. He bends over to speak into Ruth’s ear as if not wanting to be overheard. “You’re doing a smashing job, you know. I could not be more pleased. Anything I should keep an eye on while I’m here?” he asks.

God forbid anyone hear you say such praise out loud. “Well, thank you,” says Ruth FitzGerald. “Since you mention it, you can keep Lewis Tichborne out of my business. And as for yourself, please try to refrain from dipping your plume in the company inkwell, Francis. We don’t need another complaint from a pretty young thing about you locking her in your office to ogle her ample breast,” she says with a jab of her finger into his lapel.

“Ok… message received,” replies a startled Francis Beech. “Safe travels back east. You won’t be seeing my father, by any chance, will you?”

“Oh, you never know,” replies Ruth FitzGerald as she walks up the stairs of the first-class CPR car. Indeed, she is on her way to Ottawa at the request of JRB. “Ta-ta!” she cries with a wave to Francis Beech and disappears into the train.

JRB and Ruth FitzGerald in Ottawa

“You did this,” JRB says to Ruth FitzGerald.

James Randolph Beech is dressed in a black evening suit with tails and white waistcoat – complete with boutonniere. He and Ruth FitzGerald have just left Parliament Hill after the swearing-in ceremony.

They are seated at a small table in a secluded corner of the newly constructed Château Laurier, located at the edge of Parliament Hill, and known for its French Gothic Revival architecture, red velvet chairs, and Tiffany stained-glass windows. They are a study in contrasts: The colourful, compact Ruth FitzGerald and the soaring, bearded JRB in formal wear – nearly two feet taller. JRB has his glass of Thomas Street Irish Whiskey. Ruth has a tumbler of Canadian Club – one ice cube. As always, she has her ‘Bible’ on hand ready to review results. They share a bowl of exotic nuts, salted.

Every quarter, Ruth FitzGerald has a discreet one-on-one meeting with JRB. These are scheduled to take place a few days prior to the official company board meetings – to which Ruth is not invited. She uses these meetings to brief JRB on the newspaper division’s strategy and performance.

At his mother’s insistence, Francis Beech remains the face and spokesman for the Beech Newspapers at board gatherings. The independent board members – each man selected personally by JRB for his combination of status and malleability – are duly impressed by the results of the newspaper division and Francis Beech’s evident acumen.

“We’ve got some time before we head over to Rideau Hall, so I’ll bring you up-to-date. It’s a steadily-improving company, James,” says Ruth FitzGerald. “And there’s so much more to do. Vancouver’s not going to be easy. It’s a dog’s breakfast. We’ve got to make peace with the unions – at least long enough to get our house in order. I’m heading back out west first thing tomorrow. I’ll make a few stops along the way – but there’s quite a bit of dead wood at the Sun. For years, they didn’t get rid of anyone who stopped contributing. They simply gave them a new title and put them on a shelf in the newsroom,” she explains.

“Please go on,” says JRB squinting intently at Ruth.

“That newsroom! It is jam-packed with cynical men dressed in gravy-stained cardigans who spend their days bickering about punctuation and the use of upper case – without once asking what their audience might actually want to read. Now, I have hired one young woman – it’s just a start – she’s a real firecracker. I’ve asked that she write an advice column. It will be controversial – even a little racy. But we need to send a message to the staff and the community that things are changing at The Sun,” says Ruth.

“You work all the time,” replies JRB. “You don’t stop thinking about the business. I’ve never met a woman like you. Instead of curtsying to men’s ideas, you come back with your own. And Ruth, yours are better. I was destined to be a washed-up hewer of wood – condemned to manage the decline of my lumber business. Today, every Cabinet Minister returns my call within minutes.”

“It’s not just me. We’ve got leaders across the division,” interjects Ruth FitzGerald.

“Of course,” says JRB. “But you don’t understand what I’m trying to say. I’m respected for publishing serious newspapers from coast to coast, not for operating sawmills. And, as of today, they call me Senator Beech. I know I’ve said it before, but the only smart thing my boy ever did was listen to you. And the smartest thing I ever did was get over myself and decide to work with you. At the time, I suppose, I had little other choice,” he says with a rare smile as he fills his pipe with tobacco.

The rise of the Beech Company News Division

It is true. The rise of the Beech Company Newspaper Division from its near-death experience has been remarkable.

In 1902, when the company was most in peril, following the fateful meeting in the Beech Company boardroom, JRB and Ruth FitzGerald began executing a survival strategy with obsessive determination. They set up a war room within the Beech Building in Montreal and tracked their competitive situation with charts on walls and maps on the table – black pins representing each Beech newspaper with positive cash flow, red for those that were negative and yellow pins for competitors. JRB had a special phone line installed in the war room and paid an employee at the Western Union Montreal office to call him directly and read the telegraph messages from Ruth FitzGerald who travelled from town to town.

They involved a small group in their scheming – ‘the inner-sanctum’ Ruth FitzGerald called it – which included the Beech Company treasurer, who tracked bank balances on a daily basis, and three regional sales representatives of the Beech Company Newsprint Division. The latter were sworn to secrecy, given need-to-know directives, and promises of generous bonuses when the project was complete.

Francis Beech and Lewis Tichborne were left out. Humiliated, Francis pleaded with JRB for a role in the survival strategy. “I can’t teach you to fight while I’ve got a knife to my own throat,” the patriarch brusquely replied.

Ruth and JRB targeted their most important newspaper adversaries with a bait and switch – promising excellent price, credit terms, and delivery dates for Beech Company newsprint and then failing to deliver the essential substrate on time. The newsprint sales representatives were directed to blame bad luck, bad weather, and mechanical failure. When the newsprint finally was delivered – it was rife with slime holes* – making it nearly useless for printing.

The impact was devastating. Newspapers, already cash-strapped, without newsprint, could not publish. Angry advertisers and subscribers demanded reimbursement. The affected publishers cried foul and word got around – but not before bankruptcies shuttered a half dozen Beech newspaper competitors.

Demands for an investigation into what was dubbed “The Beech Paper Affair” went nowhere. JRB leveraged his connections in Quebec City, the home of then Attorney General, Charles Fitzpatrick, to ensure no resources were assigned to the probe.

With each victory, Beech Company cash flow improved. On the war room maps, red pins were replaced by black. Ruth and JRB turned their focus to the next priorities. In some markets, they chose to retreat but not before selling the Beech property and reducing debt load. It was in these days that Ruth developed the first version of her ‘Bible’ ledger. Seated around the table in the war room and working late into the evening, JRB recalled his own work in his father’s general store and was delighted when she showed off her analyses.

“You should have been born a Beech. We’re clearly cut from the same cloth,” he said upon his examination of her ledger. “I’ve learned to recognize a certain ruthless quality in others – a willingness to do anything to achieve goals. My boy, Peter – he had that quality,” said JRB is a wistful tone. “And you have it too, Ruth.”

“I hope you’re wrong about that,” replied Ruth glancing up from a sip of whisky.

“I play to win, but I’d like to think that I draw the line – there are places I will not go.”

JRB tugged on his beard. “Francis doesn’t have it. He’s not his brother. You need to teach him, Ruth.”

“If I may… Francis does have it. What he lacks is the courage to be direct about it.” Sensing that she had crossed a line, Ruth sat back in her chair. She briefly thought about backtracking. No, that’s not me. He respects brutal honesty and that’s what I do best. She continued. “After every chat with Francis, one needs to read between the lines to decipher what he’s really thinking and planning. Why do you think he keeps that jackal Lewis Tichborne around?”

“I know what you mean. I’ve seen it too, Ruth,” replied JRB – a hint of sadness in his voice. “But he is my son. The only one I have left.”

Within a year, every Beech Company newspaper was cash flow positive and JRB’s bankers were satisfied. Within two years, Ruth FitzGerald had begun a new spree of newspaper acquisitions.

Senator Beech

This day’s events are a culmination of their efforts.

“This is what I’ve always wanted for the family,” says JRB raising his glass to Ruth. “I used to sit and wait in the vestibules of private clubs while ‘old money’ families deliberated. When they deemed it appropriate to invite me in – they snickered at the nicks and calluses on my lumberjack hands. Who’s snickering now, Ruth?” His grin spreads from ear to ear across his spirited, wrinkled face. “We’ve taken our rightful place. I hoped our railway project in the Okanagan would get us here – but we had such trouble with the Chinese coolies. Today though, all we need do is drop a few hints on an editorial page and we have their undivided attention. Thank you, Ruth. Not only for the business you’ve built, but for joining me here today. We’re headed to Rideau Hall for the reception. You are going to meet our Governor General, Prince Arthur – a son of Queen Victoria no less,” he says taking another sip.

“Thank you, James,” replies Ruth FitzGerald. “May I ask… why is Mrs. Beech not accompanying you on such an occasion?”

JRB raises an eyebrow. “I need never wonder what you’re thinking, Ruth,” he replies. “Mrs. Beech is not fond of social events. Truth is, she’s become more withdrawn over the years since our boy was murdered. The family dining room table has had an untouched place setting as a constant reminder. And, between us, Bev’s fondness for sherry makes any public appearance after four p.m. rather dicey.”

“Understood,” says Ruth FitzGerald putting her glass down. “I was going to mention, as I was leaving Vancouver, I ran into Francis.”

“Did you now?”

“Yes. May I ask what your son and Lewis Tichborne are doing out there? He said that you had sent them on some business not related to newspapers.”

“Of course,” replies JRB. “It has to do with my boy, Peter. His killer was never caught and I recently received a letter from the investigating officer saying he had new information.”

“Well, that’s good news, isn’t it?” asks Ruth.

“Perhaps. But the officer is an inept boozer – who couldn’t stay dry. I gave him every motivation to capture my son’s killer – both carrot and stick. And since he’s made a mockery of the investigation and apprehension, I have made certain that he pays the price,” says JRB.

“That must be a burden. Not knowing who killed your son. Or why,” replies Ruth.

“Oh, no. I know who did it. As to why, well he’s a savage from some Pacific island. A race that chops skulls with the ease we slice bread. That boob of a police officer missed his chance to nab him – and the head-hunter’s been on the lam ever since.”

“And you have punished the police officer for this?” she asks.

“Ruth my dear, what purpose does memory serve, if you can’t hold a grudge?” replies JRB.

“I’m not sure I share your mantra, but from you, James, truer words have never been spoken.” Ruth takes a moment and then reaches for her ‘Bible.’ “Now, let’s get back to business. We’re ahead of plan. Stable results in most markets. With the onset of war, labour unrest has all but disappeared – that’s helpful to us, no disruptions – but advertising is soft.”

“Very good, Ruth. Thank you, again. I do hope Francis expresses his appreciation for all you’ve done. Thanks to you, the independent board members consider him something of a genius.” JRB swirls the whiskey in his glass and looks steadily at his companion. “But he needs to be pushed, Ruth.”

“James, I would have to say that Little Lord Fauntleroy has been as over-the-top with praise for my efforts in private as he has been deafening in his silence in public,” replies Ruth FitzGerald.

“Figures,” replies JRB downing his glass of whiskey. Ruth FitzGerald does likewise.

Francis Beech and Lewis Tichborne meet Sergeant Titmarsh

Francis Beech and Lewis Tichborne can actually smell their guest before they can see him. The maître d of the Hotel Vancouver wonders whether to let him in before Francis Beech intervenes.

Sergeant Titmarsh looks thoroughly beaten, his face void of energy and emotion. From head to toe, he is shades of grey with a hint of yellow – the same saffron hue that appears on the feathers of a sickly chicken before the other hens peck it to death.

“Holy shit, you stink to high heaven,” exclaims Lewis Tichborne. “Is there a carcass under your coat?”

Sergeant Titmarsh takes his seat at their table. 

“What have you got for us?” asks Francis Beech.

“Before we start, I could really use a drink,” replies Sergeant Titmarsh.

“You could really use a bath,” shoots back Lewis Tichborne. “What is that? Are you rotting from the inside? Seriously, I think I might vomit.”

Francis Beech has the waiter bring over a large glass of draught beer, filled to the brim. Sergeant Titmarsh uses both hands to painstakingly lift the ale. It spills over the sides and rinses grime from his fingers and runs down the side of his pint glass.

“Oh my God,” says Lewis Tichborne observing the spectacle. “This is like witnessing a train wreck. It’s a complete calamity and I can’t stop watching.”

Finally, Sergeant Titmarsh presses the glass to his lower lip and slurps the entire contents. Lines of amber run down his chin and his begrimed neck.

“Thank God,” cries Lewis Tichborne.

“So, Titmarsh, tell us what you know,” says Francis Beech.

The drink lubricates some seized facial muscles, and Sergeant Titmarsh begins to speak. “A number of weeks ago, I learned that the long-time associate of the suspect, a Chinaman named Yee Ah Louie, had died at his home in the Shuswap. Knowing that the Chinese in those parts tend to be buried at a certain cemetery in Kamloops, I made my way there, camped out, and waited.” He wipes his mouth with his sleeve. “And that’s where I saw him, the Head-Hunter – Tangia Tura,” he explains.

“Well, he can’t still be there,” retorts Francis Beech, his voice rising. “Why are you telling us this now? Have you simply let him get away once again?”

“If I am to bring him to you, your father must first pull the strings to have my rank of Sergeant reinstated with the British Columbia Provincial Police Force and my full pension restored – with my sister Liz** as my surviving beneficiary,” replies Sergeant Titmarsh. “I do know where to find the suspect. But until I see in black and white that my conditions have been met, I will do nothing.”

“What kind of game are you playing?” asks Lewis Tichborne pointing his finger in Sergeant Titmarsh’s face. “You do realize the power of the Beech family?”

“Look at me. I appreciate that power more than you will ever understand,” replies Sergeant Titmarsh. “But I have nothing to lose. What more can you do to me? There’s a reason the suspect hasn’t been found. He has been hiding. But now I know where to look.”

Francis Beech sits back in his chair and rubs his chin.

“We’ll meet your demands, Titmarsh,” he says. “But remember, if you fail once more, my father can have that pension disappear and ensure your sister’s remaining years are destitute.”

Miriam Chase meets Francis Beech

Lewis Tichborne is once again seated on Miriam Chase’s desk, his legs crossed, cup of coffee in his hand. His expansive smile fills the room.

“What’s it gonna take to get you to join me for dinner?”

“Not gonna happen, Mr. Tichborne,” she replies.

“There must be some scenario that would appeal to you,” he pleads to Miriam Chase who, not missing a beat, answers his questions while continuing to compose her advice column.

 “How about this?” she says without looking up at him. “If there were a famine and desperate people began eating their family pets to survive – and the only condition for me to sit down to a gourmet meal was that I had to share it with you… well let’s just say that I’d prefer poor old Fido,” she says with a carriage return and emphatic ring of the bell.

The smile disappears from Lewis Tichborne’s face. “You do remember me telling you how I can protect you. You remember that?” His voice takes on a threatening edge. “Well, the opposite is true as well. I can allow nasty things happen to you – protection comes with a price.”

At the other end of the newsroom stands Francis Beech. He watches the exchange between Lewis Tichborne and Miriam Chase.

Miriam notices how reporters and editors stop their chit chatting as Francis Beech, tall and distinguished, crosses the floor in their direction.

Lewis Tichborne stands up from Miriam’s desk.

“What are you doing here, Tichborne?” asks Francis Beech.

“Oh, hi Frankie, just checking in on the new staff – making sure she’s fitting in,” replies Lewis Tichborne.

“I’m sorry, Miss,” says Francis Beech to Miriam Chase. “He won’t bother you anymore.”

“We can pick this up later,” Lewis Tichborne says offhandedly to Miriam Chase as he glides away.

“Lewis Tichborne can be a bit of a cad, but he’s harmless,” Francis Beech says. He extends his hand to his new employee. “My name is Francis Beech. Welcome to the Vancouver Sun.” 

“Thank you. I’m Miriam Chase,” she replies, shaking his hand with a firm grip. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Miss Chase. If there is ever anything I can do to be of assistance, do not hesitate to ask. My office is in the corner. You are welcome to drop by anytime. I wish you a very pleasant day.”

With that, Francis Beech turns and leaves.

A little surprised, Miriam Chase raises her eyebrows and smiles. She is used to men hanging around, flirting, talking her up. For some reason, Francis Beech did none of that. She is curious.

A few days later walking by Francis Beech’s open office door, she spots him at his desk, smoking a cigarette.

On the spur of the moment, she pokes her head in his office.

“Miss Chase, how are you today?” says Francis Beech.

“I’m well, thank you, Mr. Beech,” replies Miriam Chase.

“Please, come in. Call me Francis.”

“Well, that might take some getting used to, but… I was thinking. Would you like to have dinner sometime… Francis?” asks Miriam Chase.

“I was not expecting that question, Miss Chase,” he replies extinguishing his cigarette in the ashtray on his desk. “Of course, I would. But I’m scheduled to head back east in two days. You wouldn’t be free tomorrow, would you?” he asks.

“I could be,” replies Miriam Chase.

“Splendid. I’ll send a car to pick you up. At seven?”

“Perfect. I’ll see you then, Francis,” says Miriam Chase, spinning away and returning to her desk.

Francis Beech sits in silence for a minute.

“She approached me,” he mutters to himself, looking down at his desk. “This is not the same. She came to me… And she is so confident… and so gorgeous. Father would be impressed.”

* The manufacturing process of newsprint can generate undesirable microorganisms such as bacteria and slime, the growth of which causes quality problems. Slime lumps create holes and breaks in newsprint, decreasing runnability.

** Liz Titmarsh, the Sergeant’s sister, is leading the war charge on the home front. She not only orchestrates the Barkerville Wool Fund, but also leads local Red Cross Society efforts to send parcels of food, clothing and other goods to Canadian soldiers overseas.

Chapter 19 - Dugouts and Funkholes

Summer 1915 (8 months later)
Shorncliffe Army Camp, Kent County, England 

“It’s so nice to meet an old friend and pass the time of day
And talk about the hometown a million miles away
Is the ice still in the river, are the old folks still the same
And by the way, did she mention my name
Gordon Lightfoot, Did She Mention My Name

With orchards, rolling hills, and conical hop oasts dotting the landscape, Wilfrid Louie has the impression he’s marching into a Mrs. Fuke reading of Tennyson’s The Lady of Shalott:

“On either side the river lie, Long fields of barley and of rye, That clothe the wold and meet the sky; And through the field and road runs by, To many towered Camelot.”

The Shorncliffe army camp, home to the Canadian Expeditionary Force, is nestled in the bucolic beauty of Kent County. Wilfrid Louie finds himself amongst hundreds of fresh recruits on foot and horseback heading towards Shorncliffe.

It has been a long, exhausting day of travel for the young soldiers. Wilfrid Louie looks up. He watches the clouds shift and hide the setting sun as the horizon darkens. That’s a nasty looking sky.

Sheets of rain fall upon the column. A clap of thunder is heard and branches of lightning shoot across the sky. A few paces in front of Wilfrid Louie a horse gives a sharp cry, rears up, and throws its rider violently to the ground.

A tragic, grotesque scene ensues…

Reunited with old friends

The next morning, from his position atop a hill in the centre of Shorncliffe, and still shaken by the drama of the previous evening, Wilfrid Louie completes a bayonet drill.

He steps up to the edge of the hill, wipes sweat from his brow, and takes in the army camp orchestration. Down to his left, he watches a platoon frantically dig in at the base of the hill. On his right, he hears instructors pelt insults at a squad that assaults a simulated pillbox made of wooden palettes. Between these, a mass of soldiers shifts like a murmuration of swallows in a synchronized dance over the meadow.

He catches his breath and turns back to face the sacks of straw – simulating torsos – that hang from poles and are marked with chalk to indicate where best to gore the enemy.

“Good work, Wilfrid. You’ll get the hang of this,” says a familiar accented voice from behind. “Get the bayonet stuck between two ribs though – and your enemy may die – but the seconds spent extracting the blade could be fatal for you as well.”

It’s Arthur Cadwallader, or rather Captain Cadwallader, back from the front in France where, two months earlier at Ypres, he and David Chase faced the war’s first chlorine gas attack. Both are newly transferred to the 29th battalion – the same as Pte Wilfrid Louie.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say so many words at once, Cadwallader,” says a surprised Wilfrid Louie.

“It’s good to see you,” replies the Captain. “You’ll want to be comfortable with the bayonet. In the rain and mud – the Ross Rifle can’t be relied upon – but the bayonet doesn’t jam. It kills – even when filthy dirty.”

“It does feel familiar,” says Wilfrid Louie. “Sort of like spearing someone with your hockey stick, and I’ve been doing that since I was a kid.”

Arthur Cadwallader places his hand on Wilfrid Louie’s shoulder and pulls him away from the bayonet drill structure. He leans in and speaks in his ear. “Did you see Miriam Chase before leaving Canada? Did she mention my name?”

Wilfrid Louie is again surprised. “Yes – I saw her, Arthur,” he replies. “But you know, when Miriam and I chat – we talk about everybody. It doesn’t make you special if your name comes up.”

“So it did come up. She did talk about me. How is she?” pleads Captain Cadwallader.

“How is she? Well, Miriam’s in Vancouver – where she’s becoming the talk of the town. What would you expect? A strikingly beautiful, single woman writing a racy column in The Vancouver Sun. I’d say she’s doing just fine, thank you.”

“You love her too, don’t you Wilfrid?” says Arthur Cadwallader.

Wilfrid Louie is taken further aback. “Uhhh… what happened to you? Miriam and I are friends, Arthur. Good friends,” he says – a bewildered look on his face. “You know, I think I preferred it when you didn’t talk so much, Cadwallader. War’s made you a strange conversationalist.”

“War’s made me aware of what matters,” he replies. “I have no trouble admitting my affection for her. When this is over and I get home, I’m asking her to marry me. In Ypres, when the clouds of gas came rolling in – and pooled in the trenches – the French and Algerians ran for their lives – we were ordered to hold our ground – and Miriam Chase was the only thing on my mind.”

“You and David Chase were gassed? I didn’t know that,” replies a shocked Wilfrid Louie. “Is David all right? What was that like?”

“No words to describe it,” replies Captain Cadwallader. “Sort of smells like pepper and pineapple… but I’ll say this: Fighting Fritzie has been one helluva lot easier since. Hatred will do that. We didn’t get the worst of it. David’s here now – at the camp hospital. You should go see him at the end of the day.”

Tent Hospital, St. Martin’s Plain, Shorncliffe Army Camp

Wilfrid Louie enters the Shorncliffe Tent Hospital at St. Martin’s Plain and chokes on the smell. A nurse walks past and, without stopping, hands him a cotton towel. “Cover your nose and mouth,” she says. Wilfrid Louie holds the fabric to his face and looks up to see never-ending rows of beds. The odours are from abdominal wounds and appendage amputations – some freshly dressed – others seeping through layers of gauze.

Searching for his friend, he navigates around nurses, doctors, and orderlies who exchange information with chilling efficiency.  They talk over the sound of squeaking carts and constant groans and moans. Out of nowhere, a patient bolts up and startles Wilfrid Louie. The man has no left cheek – just a black crater. He mutters. Wilfrid Louie stops and looks closely. No, that’s not David. Thank God, that’s not David.

He stops an orderly, asks for assistance, and is directed to yet another tent full of beds. Wilfrid Louie finally finds himself standing adjacent to David Chase – whose eyes are closed. His face has good colour. He looks peaceful.  “How you doing Old Tillicum?” Wilfrid Louie asks placing his hand upon his friend’s arm. “You’re looking much better than I feared. How’s your breathing?”

David Chase opens and rubs his eyes. “My breathing’s just fine,” he mumbles. “Wow. Didn’t expect to wake up to your face, but my it’s good to see you, Wilfrid.”

A Canadian army doctor interrupts the reunion.  “Excuse me soldier, I need to speak with my patient,” he says to Wilfrid Louie, brushing him aside. A nurse, pushing a metal cart filled with devices and medications, closely follows the doctor. “Another dose of mercury for you, Private Chase,” says the doctor, reaching for a tube of ointment on the cart. “And I’m officially advising that you’re under stoppage of pay – fifty cents per diem – while you remain in hospital. Here, you can apply this yourself,” he adds, squeezing a portion of the creamy concoction into David Chase’s hand.

“That sounds harsh,” says Wilfrid Louie standing behind the doctor. “Docking the pay of a wounded soldier?”

“What business is it of yours, Chinaman?” replies the doctor turning around. “You think we should pay soldiers for self-inflicted wounds? That’d be quite an army,” he says walking away towards his next patient.

“Self-inflicted?” asks Wilfrid Louie. “David! What’s going on? How do you gas yourself?”

David Chase smiles sheepishly. “It’s not the chlorine they’re treating me for anymore, Wilfrid,” he says. “You know what they say, a minute with Venus gets you a year with Mercury.”

Wilfrid Louie gives his friend a confused look.

“I’ve got a… I’ve got a little case of the clap,” whispers David Chase.*

Wilfrid Louie laughs out loud. “Then it’s not entirely self-inflicted, is it?”

David Chase guffaws. “No, I guess not,” he says. “Don’t laugh out loud in here – they’ll think we’re nuts.”

“After last night they already think I’m off my rocker,” replies Wilfrid Louie.

“Why’s that?”

“On our way into camp last evening, the storm that came out of nowhere. Well, the thunder spooked a horse in our column – just in front of me. The rider had no idea. I didn’t know him. The horse went up in the air and the poor fellow was thrown and fell in the mud.”

“That’s too bad. Was he hurt?”

“I’d say,” replies Wilfrid Louie. “The next horse in line steps on the poor bugger’s head. Tore his face right from his skull. There was blood everywhere. It was right in front of me – horrifying.”

“My God, I’m sure it was,” says David Chase.

“He screamed for a moment but, choking on his own blood, it didn’t last long. It was a freak accident. And I must have been in shock, David. Because then, quite selfishly, it dawned on me that I didn’t pass out… you know, since I enlisted, I’ve been afraid. What if I faint at the first sign of blood? You remember how my hockey teammates ridiculed me? Can you imagine if I see blood in the heat of battle and drop like a rag doll?” says Wilfrid Louie.

“I get it, Wilfrid. But why do you think people have the impression you’re bonkers?” asks David Chase.

“Because when it dawns on me that I didn’t faint at the sight of blood – I smile – a really big, stupid smile. They must think I’m some sort of maniac with my blinking eye and my smile. And then I skip a little. Can you believe it, David? What kind of person smiles and skips at witnessing such horror? What’s wrong with me?”

David Chase looks his friend in the eye. “Don’t worry about it, Wilfrid. Soon enough you’ll see far worse – and trust me – there won’t be any skipping and smiling.”

Major General Sam Steele inspects the troops

Within weeks the 29th Battalion has been trained to the point that it is considered ready for a high-profile inspection. The troops are lined up, standing at attention, in the Shorncliffe parade grounds. It is a bright, sunny day – unusually hot for Kent County.

Major General Sam Steele (formerly of the North West Mounted Police), decked out in his finest parade dress, slowly and deliberately walks up and down the lines periodically stopping to engage with a soldier. Captain Arthur Cadwallader follows him closely.

The eyes of Major General Sam Steele burrow into Private David Chase. “I’m told you were with Captain Cadwallader at Ypres when the bastard Huns used chlorine gas,” he says. “And you’ve fully recovered and are ready for active duty?” 

“Oh, yes Sir,” replies David Chase. “Me and Captain Cads go way back. He was a pain in my ass long before Ypres. All of my wounds have healed, haven’t they Captain Cads?” he says with a smile.

Major General Sam Steele furrows his brow – his thick moustache twitches. He turns away, and continues his inspection before stopping in front of Private Wilfrid Louie.

“What’s a member of the Chinese Labour Corps doing here – and why is he wearing a Canadian uniform? Wait a minute… is he winking at me?”

Captain Cadwallader intercedes. “Sir, this is Private Wilfrid Louie. And he’s not from the Chinese Labour Corps. He’s a member of the 29th Battalion. Pay no mind to the blinking, Sir. It’s a tick – from a hockey injury.”

At the end of the inspection, Major General Sam Steele, visibly perturbed, turns his attention to Captain Cadwallader. His voice reverberates and is overheard by members of the 29th after their dismissal.

“I observed inappropriate levels of camaraderie today, Captain Cadwallader. It is not for reasons of nostalgia that we discourage fraternization with enlisted men,” stammers the red-faced Major General. “There is a battlefield necessity that gave birth to this tradition. It’s about discipline.” Captain Cadwallader can feel tiny droplets of Sam Steele’s spittle land upon his face. “For an officer to order his troops into life-threatening situations, he must have the respect, the reverence, or the fear of his subordinates. Fraternization, or any undue familiarity, is an impediment. Put distance between yourself and the soldiers under your command – immediately!”

“Yes, Sir,” replies the Captain.

Winter, 1916 – near Arras, France

Wilfrid Louie and David Chase are relieved to see the rations party finally arrive with dinner.

They’re more than an hour late and the boys are exhausted and famished.

Prepared a few miles behind the front lines, the meals are packed in empty sand bags and delivered to distribution points closer to the action. From here, rations parties from various units pick up and transport their portions.

To deliver the meals, they trudge in knee-deep mud through communication trenches that link the front lines to those behind. The rations party unpacks their cart and distributes meals of weak tea, dry bread, tins of beef from Canada, water in repurposed gasoline tanks, and liquid courage – in the form of one gallon jars of eighty-six-proof Jamaican rum – enough for the daily ration of two ounces per soldier.

“At least this grub’s in good condition – bread’s not soaking wet or stinking of petrol,” says David Chase to Wilfrid Louie as they sit down to eat.

“Don’t talk too fast,” replies Wilfrid Louie, who, with his teeth, extracts a string of jute from his hunk of bread and spits it into the mud. A common occurrence, flying shrapnel had driven strands from the sandbag into the loaf.

The mail crew follows the rations party closely behind and hands out letters and parcels from home. “This is turning into a good day,” says David Chase upon receiving a care package from his mother in the Shuswap.

He opens the carton – about the size of a shoebox – to reveal items wrapped in tissue paper. “It’s a regular friggin’ Christmas morning!” One by one he painstakingly unwraps the treasures: three cans of pacific salmon; a pack of dried pemmican; one copy of The Chase Weekly with news from home; two copies of The Vancouver Sun with his sister’s columns; a box of Mackintosh toffee; and four tins of Player’s Navy Cut cigarettes.

The mood in the trench improves as the soldiers of the squad share their goodies. A man who chooses not to divvy up his care package is soon ostracized – not a good thing on the battlefield.

David Chase finishes unpacking, opens the cans of salmon with his bayonet, and passes the items around.

“You could almost forget you’re stuck over here. Give me the empty box,” says Wilfrid Louie placing it over his face and inhaling deeply. “I can smell the Shuswap,” he says before grabbing copies of The Vancouver Sun to devour Miriam Chase’s columns.

“Don’t hog’em. Read them aloud,” says David Chase, chewing on a strip of pemmican.

Wilfrid Louie opens a copy of The Vancouver Sun, recognizes the familiar odour of ink on newsprint and scans the pages. He notes a headline on the release of the movie, The Birth of a Nation, hailed as the 8th wonder of the world. He reads another headline on initiatives to prohibit the hiring of white women by Chinese-owned businesses.

He eventually finds her byline and a nearby group of soldiers listens as Wilfrid Louie reads the “Dear Miss Chase” advice column. In it, Miriam applies her wit and sensibilities to queries addressed to her by readers of The Vancouver Sun. Her topics range from courtship and romance to side dishes and place settings. Without exception, Miriam Chase’s replies are pearls of humour and contemporary common sense – a welcome departure from oppressive Victorian traditions.

“That girl sure has a way with words,” says one of the soldiers.

“What a funny broad,” another observes. “Is she your honey or something?” he asks with a grin.

Wilfrid Louie turns to David Chase. “Can you hear Miriam’s voice when I read her column?” he asks.

“I guess I do,” replies David Chase. His tone is more question than answer.

“I hear it,” says Wilfrid Louie. “I can just imagine her laughing out loud as she reads the letters and comes up with her replies.”

After the shared meal and reading time, the men, who had saved their rum ration for last, solemnly toast those who would never make it home.

David Chase strikes a match to light a fresh Player’s cigarette; he uses the same match to then light one for Wilfrid Louie. A recently arrived replacement rushes up to light his cigarette from the same match – only for David Chase to abruptly wave his wrist and extinguish the flame in his face.

“Where you from, kid?” asks David Chase.

“Port Moody,” he replies.

“Trust me, Moody, you don’t want to be the third man to light up from a match. In the dark, the flame can be spotted from two hundred yards away. Hun snipers take five seconds to see, aim and fire – the same five seconds it takes to light a third cigarette from a single match,” says David Chase who then tosses the bewildered recruit his box of matches. “Give’em back when you’re done, Moody. That’s my last box.”

Holding the nubs between their thumbs and index fingers, they extract every last puff from their cigarettes and then the soldiers go back to work. Captain Cadwallader is leading Wilfrid Louie, David Chase and the new recruit from Port Moody on a nighttime raid into no-man’s land. In pairs, they silently paint each other’s face – in black – to blend in with the blighted landscape.

When the face painting is complete, the men prepare their tools for melee warfare. Tomahawk-inspired trench clubs – designed for smashing faces and cracking skulls – are methodically inspected.

“Where did you get that?” the new recruit asks Wilfrid Louie pointing at a wooden club he doctors.

“This, my friend, is a sawed-off hornwood hockey stick – I’ve added features just for Fritzy,” he says pointing to a cluster of thick, sharp nails protruding from the end.

In their final rite before battle, David Chase leads the process of mutual inspections by the members of the raiding party. They shed any equipment or apparel that might hinder movement, identify their unit, or reflect light. Toques replace helmets. Pins, flashes and badges are removed. Grenades are packed in pockets and pouches. Wilfrid Louie shoves blackened wire cutters down the front of his jacket in case of barbed wire.

“It’s a good night,” says David Chase to Wilfrid Louie. “No moon.” 

“The goal is to destabilize – erode the enemy’s morale – and let’s see if we can’t bring back a prisoner to spill the beans on what the Huns have been up to,” says Captain Cadwallader. “Now let’s move out. Remember to stay low.”

“You hear that, Moody?” whispers David Chase stepping on the first rung of the ladder and turning to face the boy behind him. “Captain Cads wants us to fuck with Fritzie.”

The soldiers follow Captain Cadwallader, crawling out of the trench, over the parapet and into the slime and cesspools of no-man’s land. They hug the earth, slithering over soggy pockmarked soil and around the remnants of splintered trees towards the German position. Moments later, in total silence, they eventually arrive adjacent to their objective – the German trench. Captain Cadwallader motions to his men to stop, ready their weapons, and wait. He then tosses a grenade. A moment later – an explosion, followed by screams.

Captain Cadwallader gives the signal and the Canadians howl as they charge into the smoke and darkness of the German position.

Rapid pops of gunfire ring out.

The boy from Port Moody feels wetness on his neck. He drops his weapon and discovers a leak in his throat that he plugs with his fingers. His oesophagus is crushed and his aorta sliced by a hollow bullet. For a second he thinks his fingers might succeed in plugging the flow. Then he realizes they won’t. He falls backwards.

The moon peaks out from behind a cloud and a faint light shines upon a figure in the German trench. Wilfrid Louie sees terror in his eyes and his peach fuzz face. Boy doesn’t shave, he says to himself as he fires the pistol he holds in his left hand three times into the head and chest of the German who has just killed Moody.

The battle descends into a series of obscured flashes and macabre images as the soldiers engage in primal hand-to-hand combat.

Wilfrid Louie finds himself face to face with a German soldier – older – with grey whiskers – screaming in rage. Gripping his sawed-off hockey stick in his right hand, he is ready. Wilfrid Louie swings it – roundhouse fashion – for maximum velocity into the grey whiskers – stopping the scream and tearing flesh from the cheek of the gristled soldier who tumbles onto his knees in the paralysing mud. Wilfrid Louie follows with a fatal uppercut under the German’s chin.

A remaining, terrified German soldier drops his weapon and holds his arms high. He is tall, thin, blond haired, mud on his face. He looks adolescent.

David Chase hears German soldiers from further up the trench line. “More Fritzie’s around the corner, Captain,” he says through clenched teeth.

“Let’s get the out hell of here. Bring the prisoner,” replies Captain Cadwallader motioning to Wilfrid Louie and David Chase who scurry out of the German trench and crawl back towards their own with the young German in tow.

Captain Cadwallader is the last to leave the enemy trench. He tosses two more grenades – well timed and positioned – to hamper the German response.

The clouds part and beams of moonlight fall upon the retreating raiding party. They crawl as quickly as they can – trying to strike a balance between speed and maintaining a low profile. Wilfrid Louie feels like the moon is a spotlight upon his ass. The Germans fire at the squad. Wilfrid Louie senses the whistle of bullets fly by.

They tumble into a shell hole dragging the German prisoner. “Where’s Cadwallader?” asks David Chase. “I don’t know,” replies Wilfrid Louie. “I lost track of him.”

A German machine gun joins the party. “Ok, this is a shit show,” says David Chase trying to squish his body into the shell hole. Bullets thud the mud around them. They shift around but portions of their shoulders, legs or head are inevitably exposed to enemy fire. ‘This fucking shell hole isn’t deep enough,” cries David Chase. The young prisoner lies between the men – his eyes darting – he does not move or say a word.

“Enough of this bullshit,” says Wilfrid Louie. He rises to his knees, exposing himself to enemy fire and whacks the prisoner in the temple with his club. Wilfrid Louie then pushes the stunned boy to the edge of the shell hole to face the German line. Bullets strike the prisoner in the leg and chest. Wilfrid Louie slides back down into the shell hole beside David Chase. “German sand bag,” he says.

They look up at the sky and notice more clouds moving towards the moon. “This is our only chance,” says David Chase.

Wilfrid Louie searches the pockets of the German prisoner. “Just a second,” he says. “Dry, woollen socks!” he whispers to David Chase, shoving them into his pocket.

When the darkness returns they again embrace the mud and drag themselves over no-man’s land back to the Canadian lines. Wilfrid Louie and David Chase climb over the parapet, and slide face-first down the wall of the trench. They look up, and are relieved to find Captain Cadwallader sitting on a wooden crate, smoking another of David’s fresh Player’s Navy Cut.

Captain Cadwallader tosses them the tin of tobacco.

“Moody didn’t last long,” says David Chase getting up to light his smoke from the end of Captain Cadwallader’s cigarette.

“Not at all,” mumbles Wilfrid Louie.

“Unlucky bastard,” says David Chase. “He had my last box of matches.”

Jack Johnson drops in for a visit, Passchendaele, Belgium, November 1917

The stench of rot and mildew hangs in the air.

“We’ve been in water up to our ankles for nearly a week,” says David Chase looking down. He and Wilfrid Louie are standing in eight inches of runny mud and everything – their faces, uniforms, and supplies – is covered in the same sticky, grey clay.

“I can handle the exhaustion of trudging through the mud of Passchendaele – it’s our senseless existence that’s getting to me,” says Wilfrid Louie. Stepping over bodies and pieces of bodies – exposed by shells and rain – back and forth – charging and retreating. “What the hell am I doing here?” he asks – not expecting an answer.

Their company has moved back from the front to a reserve trench. The 400-yard trek through flooded communication trenches has taken nearly three hours to complete in the sucking mud.

Wilfrid Louie and David Chase are at the head of the company and are pleased to discover a dugout. “You can tell Fritzie built this one,” says David Chase slapping a wooden beam. “Gotta’ hand it to them. They build stuff to last.” The dugout is several feet below the surface, supported by timber, has a small stove, and benches covered in dust and debris around the perimeter that are – most importantly – dry.

Wilfrid Louie and David Chase perch themselves on the bench – their feet up – and remove their boots and socks. They light soggy cigarettes, and painstakingly apply whale oil to their clammy feet, forcing the grease between each toe.

“Maybe trench foot would be a blessing,” says David Chase, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. He rubs his feet and ankles, keeping one eye closed – to protect it from hot cigarette smoke.

“I’d sacrifice a toe to get out of here,” replies Wilfrid Louie.

Moments later, Captain Cadwallader enters the dugout and as his eyes adjust to the darkness, he looks around. This will do nicely, he says to himself. He notices movement in the shadows, squints, and recognizes his old friends sitting up on the bench.

“I didn’t see you there. You two better move along,” he says.

“It’s pouring out there, at least let us dry up, Captain Cads,” pleads David Chase.

“You worried we might not sufficiently revere you if we stay?” pokes Wilfrid Louie.

“Guys, dugouts are for officers. You know that. And we’re setting up the continuous wave radio in here. It needs to stay dry. Look,” he adds in a less formal tone. “I’ll get in shit if I let you stay. Just go to your trench posts, please.”

Two operators follow Captain Cadwallader carrying the continuous wave radio. Faster and more reliable than telephone lines that are constantly snapped by exploding shells, the radio is used to communicate with artillery units further behind the lines. “Set it up on the bench,” he says to the operators. “And you two get going,” he adds to David Chase and Wilfrid Louie.

Wilfrid Louie clears a spot for the radio by wiping the debris from the bench with his sleeve. “Here you go, boys.” He then squeezes what remaining moisture he can from his socks, puts them and his boots back on, and assists the operators with the continuous wave. “Let me help you guys,” he says and kneels in front of the contraption studying its wires and dials.

“We don’t need any help,” replies one of the operators.

The lid of the portable unit has a schematic drawing tacked inside. Wilfrid Louie leans in to get a closer look. The operators step back and look towards Captain Cadwallader who clears his throat. “Times up, guys,” he says to David Chase and Wilfrid Louie. “Move along to your post.”

“For fuck’s sakes Cads, you’re something else,” says David Chase shaking his head.

“Just one more minute,” replies Wilfrid Louie as he continues to inspect the radio. “If that’s alright with you, Captain?”

Captain Cadwallader takes a seat on the bench. A moment later, the operators confirm to him that the continuous wave is operational.

“You’re out of time, boys,” says the Captain to his old friends.

David Chase and Wilfrid Louie gather their things and head out towards the main trench.

“Drop dead,” mumbles David Chase – barely audible – as they leave. The shocked radio operators look up, fully expecting fireworks, but Captain Cadwallader pretends not to hear.

David Chase and Wilfrid Louie trudge along. The rain continues and with each step the mud grips their feet and ankles. Long duckboards, used to provide stability on the waterlogged surface, are few and far between.

“Holy shit,” exclaims Wilfrid Louie. “Lookee here.” He moves some vertical, splintered duckboards away from the side of the trench to reveal an empty funk hole. Built into the wall of a trench, a few feet above the floor, the funk hole is a refuge nook for soaked soldiers.

They climb in and hang their rain capes – that double as ground-cover sheets – like curtains over the entrance of the funk hole. Once more, David Chase and Wilfrid Louie are out of the rain.

“It’s no dugout – and we’re crammed in like sardines,” complains Wilfrid Louie, facing his friend – his knees bent up to his chin.

“Maybe so - but it’s one helluva lot better than standing out there,” replies David Chase.

“True.”

Wilfrid Louie finally gets the tobacco to glow with a deep drag upon a damp cigarette. He passes it to his friend.

“Thanks, Old Tillicum,” says David Chase taking a puff. “Wilfrid,” he asks. “What will you do when you get home? Go back to the newspaper?”

“I haven’t thought about that much,” replies Wilfrid Louie. “What I’m going to do for work. I’ve thought about being dry - about skating for hours on the lake. And I’ve thought about Miriam. I think about her a lot, David.”

“I know you do,” says David Chase. “I know you do.”

The German bombardment recommences – snapping the boys out of their momentary reveries.

“More of Fritzie’s fuckin’ whizz bangs,” says Wilfrid Louie. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to reassemble the image of Miriam he held in his mind only a moment ago.

The Germans throw everything they have at the Canadian lines.

Shells, designed to explode in the air, spray deadly hot shrapnel embedding in flesh and tearing limbs from torsos. Other – bigger projectiles – explode on impact, tearing apart barbed wire and smashing defences.

The most feared German shell is nicknamed the Jack Johnson, named after the world heavyweight-boxing champion, an African-American known for his devastating punch. The Jack Johnson is seventeen inches in diameter and leaves craters up to twenty feet deep.

“I’ll never get used to this,” says David Chase during a momentary lull as the intensity of the bombardment builds.

“I don’t even say to myself ‘I wish it would end’ anymore,” replies Wilfrid Louie. “I just go somewhere else in the back of my head – try to turn it off – I go to a dream where I’m stickhandling on Little Lake Shuswap.”

Wilfrid Louie feels his skin tighten – the air is sucked out of the trench by a nearby explosion.

Their eyes pulsate. Percussions are soon all around them, in every direction.

“I wish we were in that dugout, right now,” yells David Chase.

The consistent cadence of the deafening explosions gives the waves a physical dimension. Wilfrid Louie reaches out from behind the curtain of the funk hole. He raises his hand and can actually sense the fabric of the sonic reverberations.

The earth shakes so that Wilfrid Louie loses his balance and tumbles from the funk hole face first into the mud. He tastes the earth, oil, munitions, and rotting flesh. He spits out a mouthful of ooze. The shelling continues all around.

“Get back in here,” yells David Chase.

Wilfrid Louie takes a few steps on a floating duckboard.

“Have you lost it? Get back in here!” again cries David Chase.

Wilfrid Louie does not hear a word.

It is at this moment that Jack Johnson strikes.

The shock wave propels Wilfrid Louie backwards and embeds him into the wall of the trench. Mud and splinters fly in all directions. A multitude of slivers and shards strike Wilfrid Louie. He registers no pain.

The epicentre of the massive blast is around the corner from where the funk hole is located.

David Chase – stunned but conscious – exits the funk hole and finds his friend pressed into the wall of the trench. “Tillicum, are you alright?” cries David Chase. Wilfrid Louie opens his eyes but does not respond.

Continuing up the trench and around the corner, David Chase realizes that the Jack Johnson has fallen ten yards further up. Smoke and debris surround him as he enters what is left of the dugout.

Apart from fragments of metal and glass, the continuous wave radio is no more.

David Chase looks down and through the smoke spots Captain Cadwallader whose eyes are wide.

“Captain Cads!”

Captain Cadwallader opens his mouth but no sound is formed.

The dust settles some more and David Chase scans the area.

He spots a duffle bag, grabs it, and picks up pieces of Arthur Cadwallader. A short portion of spine attached to a pelvis, a leg from the knee down still sporting a puttee, a hand minus a thumb. He delicately places each in the duffle bag, tears streaming down his face.

He kneels down in front of Captain Cadwallader. “I think I’ve got it all, Sir. I’ll get you to the field hospital.”

Captain Arthur Cadwallader’s eyes no longer move.

Canadian Field Hospital, Ypres, Flanders

Wilfrid Louie is carried on a stretcher by medics to a field hospital further behind the lines. David Chase and other walking wounded stumble along behind.

They arrive late at night and are quickly triaged. A nurse locates adjacent beds for them inside a hospital tent where – warm and dry – they sleep for untold hours.

When David Chase awakens, he feels a light breeze on his face and sees thin streams of sunlight sneak through openings in the tent. As he comes to his senses, the whites of his eyes are accentuated and he darts his gaze around the room. He turns over and spots Wilfrid Louie in the gurney bedside him. Ever so slightly, Wilfrid Louie is grinning.

“Are you losing it?” David Chase asks. “What’s wrong with you?”

Wilfrid Louie catches himself in thought. Arthur Cadwallader won’t be asking Miriam Chase to marry him – and for this, I am relieved. It’s the most heartless thought I’ve ever had. But I won’t lie. I fought alongside Captain Cadwallader and I loved him. But some day this war will be over and now he won’t be a rival for the person that matters most in the world – to both of us.

“The man was just blown to shreds!” yells David Chase.

* Hospital Pay Stoppages were intended to act as a deterrent on the spread of venereal diseases among the troops. During the war there were more than four hundred thousand hospital admissions among British Empire soldiers due to gonorrhoea and syphilis. Bed rest, doses of mercury and vaccines were the most common treatments.

Chapter 20 - A Punch in the Gut

April 1919 (18 months later)
Windsor Station, Montréal, Québec, Canada 

“Well I look over yonder across the plain
The big drive wheels are poundin' along the ground
Gonna get on board and I'll be homeward bound
Now I ain't had a home cooked meal
And Lord I need one now
And the big steel rail
Gonna carry me home to the one I love”

Gordon Lightfoot, Big Steel Rail

The train carrying David Chase and Wilfrid Louie slows to a crawl. Pulling into Montreal’s Windsor Station, they’ve been travelling for weeks, having boarded a transport from Liverpool to Halifax where they boarded the CPR for the long ride home.

Looking out the train window, Wilfrid Louie is transfixed by the buzzing city – outfits, colours, shapes, sounds, and so many people - moving madly off in all directions.

“Isn’t Montreal grand?” he says to David Chase.

A swirling cauldron of business, religion, gastronomy, music, politics and especially language, post-war Montreal teems with humanity struggling with the transition to peacetime. Discharged soldiers, estranged from families that no longer recognize them, wander the streets, frequenting jazz bars and brothels. Unappeasable Francophone labour leaders inspire and intimidate their brothers and sisters to new levels of militancy – demanding a bigger slice of the pie from their Anglophone employers. And astute priests, who clearly foresee the changing times as a threat to their dominance, tighten the screws upon their flocks.

The train comes to a stop in Windsor Station, releasing a blast of steam is released. A single-toothed porter approaches David Chase and Wilfrid Louie - explaining it will be a while before the trek continues. “A couple of hours for supplies and crew change,” he lisps. 

“Hey, let’s explore!” says Wilfrid Louie. “Gotta’ stretch these legs, Old Tillicum.”

“I don’t feel like it. You go ahead,” replies David Chase, arms crossed and head down.

“Come on. It’ll be a hoot.”

“No thanks.”

Wilfrid Louie looks around. Across the aisle is a big man, well dressed. He smokes a thin cigar and reads the Blue Bonnets Horse Racing Form tucked inside a copy of Le Devoir.

“Excuse me, Sir. Would you mind just keeping an eye on my buddy? He’ll be no trouble.”

The man responds in a deep voice and French accent. “Of course – pas de problème.”

“Thanks, my name’s Wilfrid. If he does get up – please remind him that I’ll be back soon.”

“Wilfrid? As in Sir Wilfrid Laurier?” asks the man.

“Yes, I suppose I did.”

“Well, I try not to hold that against you. My name is Charley. Charley Trudeau.”

“Thanks very much, Charley. I won’t be too long,” says Wilfrid Louie who turns to his friend and leans over to look him in the eyes. “David, this is Charley. If you need anything – he’s right here across from us. I’m going out to explore and get us a few things. I won’t be long.”

David Chase looks straight ahead – right through Wilfrid - who gets up to go.

“You sure he’s okay?” asks Charley Trudeau.

“Oh yeah. Ever since Passchendaele he gets that thousand-yard stare every now and then. He’s trapped in his own head. It ’ill pass.”

Wilfrid returns with treats and stories

The train whistle blows three times.

The steel wheels budge.

Wilfrid Louie runs with his arms full – barely maintaining his balance as he boards the train.

He walks up the aisle and finds David Chase and Charley Trudeau smoking cigarillos.

“Thanks again, Charley,” says Wilfrid Louie – a little winded. “No problems, I trust?”

“Not at all,” replies Charley Trudeau. “You know in French we have this expression: ‘grand parleur – petit faiseur.’ Someone who talks a big game usually doesn’t play so good. Well, I’d say your friend is the contrary. He doesn’t talk much – but I get the sense he’s done a lot.”

“Yup, you nailed it, Charley,” Wilfrid Louie replies. “He used to talk more.”

Wilfrid Louie takes his seat beside David Chase and places his bags and parcels on the bench between them.

“I got excited. You really should have come. I walked around the station with its grey limestone arches. And the people – hundreds of them – dropping off, picking up. I stood there and watched the faces of sorrow with departures and joy with arrivals. And then, through the crowd I thought I saw Miriam. It was the strangest thing. I said to myself – ‘That can’t be her. What would Miriam be doing in Montreal?’ But I thought I spotted her again – from a distance – I saw her cheek and her hair pulled back and I thought, ‘There can’t be two women in the world who look like that.’ So, I ran after her – pushing people out of the way,” Wilfrid Louie’s eyes light up and he puts his hand on David’s shoulder. “I followed her out the station, up the street, and called her name. I felt kind of stupid. How could it be her? And then I lost her in the crowd. It couldn’t really have been Miriam – but David, it sure felt like it.”

David Chase continues to look straight ahead – expressionless.

“I kept exploring – and it was a good thing. You’re in for a treat. Look what I’ve got!” says Wilfrid Louie pointing to the bags and parcels on the bench between them.

“I wandered – looking around - up and down – I took it all in. I explored the markets. Would you believe I found a Chinese neighbourhood?” He shakes his head as if in disbelief. “Laundries. Restaurants. In my uniform, I got strange looks from Cantonese-speaking Montrealer’s – I guess they were surprised to see one of their own in uniform. I turned up a street and smelled something so delicious that I had to follow it.” Wilfrid Louie closes his eyes and inhales through his nose. “I found a little bakery with a big brick oven, and I see these men plopping rings of dough into boiling water. I’m curious and they tell me the water is sweetened with honey. They put the boiled rings of dough on a long wooden paddle and slide it into the oven.”

Wilfrid Louie grabs a paper bag from the pile beside him. “You’ve got to try this. It’s still warm,” he says. He pulls something from the bag, breaks off a piece, and hands it to his friend.

David Chase takes a bit, and his eyebrows go up as he chews. He nods in approval.

“They’re called bagels – a little crispy on the outside but with a chewiness inside. And that’s not all.”

Wilfrid Louie flattens a paper bag on the section of bench between them and with his penknife prepares a meal.

“You’ve never tasted smoked salmon like this before, David. They smoke it cold. It’s not dry at all,’ he says layering a few pieces on the rest of the bagel.

David Chase samples the smoked salmon and nods some more.

Wilfrid then unwraps some wax paper revealing a chunk of nippy cheddar that he carves into thin, brittle slices. “The cheese is excellent, too.”

“But this is the pièce de résistance,” Wilfrid says, unlatching the lid of a jar. “An old French woman let me taste it before I bought the jar – a charming lady – didn’t speak a word of English – so I used a few words I learned in France and we worked it out – no problem. She said it’s called les cretons. Try it!” Wilfrid Louie spreads a thick dollop of grey-coloured spread on another chunk of bagel and hands it to his friend.

David Chase places it in his mouth. The creamy, savoury flavour of the pork spread is comforting. David Chase adds a piece of the sharp cheddar and makes happy eye contact with Wilfrid Louie as he chews. “It’s heavenly.”

“Isn’t it? Apparently, the secret ingredient is ‘waffle nails’ – at least that’s what I understood the old woman to say. ‘Clous de gir-waffles.’ I have no idea what waffle nails are – but my God they’re fit for a King!”

“Cloves,” says Charley Trudeau from across the aisle, looking up from his concealed racing form.

“What’s that?” replies Wilfrid Louie, his mouth full.

“Cloves – that’s her secret ingredient. Clous de girolfes is French for cloves.”

“Oh, I get it. Thanks, Charley. Would you like to try some?”

Wilfrid Louie hands Charley Trudeau a half bagel smothered in cretons.

“Very nice. I think she added a pinch of cinnamon too.”

Wilfrid Louie makes two bagel sandwiches – stacking the cheddar, sliced pickled onions, and a thick layer of cretons – and cuts them in half with his penknife.

He pulls the last item from his bag – a one-quart bottle of Molson’s ale. He and David Chase share swigs of beer and delight in their feast – the floating crumbs of bagel wash-back do not bother them in the least.

“David, I searched the newsstand - no The Vancouver Sun. But I did nab a copy of The Montreal Gazette. Want me to read to you?”

David Chase nods in approval.

Wilfrid Louie scans the front page, his expression changing from delight to despair. 

“This is terrible!” he exclaims. “No Stanley Cup this year. And – Bad Joe Hall is dead. Jeez. He was such a fierce competitor.” He pauses for a moment and takes another swig of beer.

“I’ll read you this one, David,” Wilfrid Louie says.

Stanley Cup Series is Off

‘BAD’ JOE HALL DIES OF PNEUMONIA

4 Canadiens are very ill with influenza

TEMPERATURES OF 101 TO 105

Seattle, April 6, 1919 – Montreal Canadiens star defenseman, ‘Bad’ Joe Hall, has died of pneumonia at age 37 and four members of the Montreal Canadiens hockey team are seriously ill with influenza. The deciding game for the Stanley Cup with the Seattle Metropolitans will not be played.

Each team had won two games in the hard-fought Stanley Cup final series.

“It will be a few weeks before the visiting boys will be able to suit up again. So consequently, the deciding game is called off,” said a spokesman for the Seattle arena.

Under the rules, with the Flying Frenchmen unable to ice a line up, the Cup should have been forfeited to the Seattle Metropolitans. Al Nicholson, the Mets’ playing coach and goaltender, however, flatly rejected this option.

“They’re a formidable opponent and the Seattle Metropolitans mourn with the Canadiens and their fans in their loss. For us to accept the Stanley Cup under these circumstances would betray the spirit of the game. We hope the rest of the team recovers, returns to form, and we can face them again next year,” said Nicholson.

The games had been a clash of styles with the Seattle team at times prevailing with their superior execution of the forward pass and, at other times, the Canadiens, led by ‘Bad’ Joe Hall, dominating the physical contest.

Some observers believe it was the unprecedented pace of the game that led to the illnesses. The attrition on both sides was merciless as even these superhuman workhorses are not used to playing an entire sixty minutes at such a tempo.

Four players of the Canadiens remain in hospital with temperatures ranging from 101 to 105 degrees.

“Imagine that,” says Wilfrid Louie. “I’d say my old buddy Coach Al did the honourable thing. Don’t you think?”

David Chase nods in agreement.

Wilfrid Louie continues reading of The Gazette. His jaw drops when he comes to the centrespread of the newspaper.

It’s a special feature on a heart-stopping story: a two-page spread complete with map and photographs.

“You’re gonna’ want to hear this one too, David. I don’t believe it. This is unreal.”

‘The Head-Hunter of Barkerville’ DIES IN HAIL OF BULLETS

AFTER MORE THAN 30 YEARS, THE MOUNTIES FINALLY GET THEIR MAN

KILLER OF SENATOR BEECH’S SON BROUGHT TO JUSTICE

[BEECH NEWSPAPERS PRESS Service Special Report] KAMLOOPS, BRITISH COLUMBIA – APRIL 9, 1919 - In a hail of bullets, in the Cariboo mountain range of British Columbia, the Royal North West Mounted Police (RNWMP) ended the decades-long hunt for the fugitive, Tangia Tura.

The demented killer, nicknamed by newspapers ‘The Head-Hunter of Barkerville’ due to his Polynesian background and barbaric killing method, was wanted for the 1885 murder of Peter Beech, son of Senator James Randolph Beech and heir to the Beech Company newspaper, lumber, and newsprint Empire.

The manhunt was resurrected in January 1919 when the RNWMP formed a special task force of thirty-three men to track down ‘The Head-hunter.’

Dillon Titmarsh, who was a Sergeant with the British Columbia Constabulary at the time of the murder, led the original investigation in December 1885 that ended in humiliation. The suspect disappeared in January of the following year and after fruitless searching all leads eventually grew cold. It was assumed that ‘The Head-hunter’ had either died on the lam or escaped to his native South Pacific islands.

HOW DID THE MANHUNT RESTART?

Hope for the long-forgotten case was re-kindled when a new lead emerged.

The disgraced officer, Dillon Titmarsh, spotted a man dressed in Indian garb fitting the description of Tangia Tura including a unique facial scar. He appealed to the Beech family for the chance to redeem himself and spent the war years visiting the Indian reserves of British Columbia searching for the suspect – and receiving little cooperation.

Finally, in November of 1918, at the Adams Lake Shuswap Reserve near the town of Chase BC, he found evidence that the tribe had adopted the fugitive and for years had treacherously hid him from authorities.

‘The Head-hunter’ was once again on the run and Dillon Titmarsh was granted a special temporary rank with the RNWMP and authorized to bring the cutthroat to justice.

NO EXPENSE WAS SPARED - THE MOUNTIES WERE determined to get their man

Aided by a special contribution from Senator Beech, a task force of thirty-three men and more than fifty dogs was formed under the leadership of Special Constable Dillon Titmarsh.

When the Cariboo lake waters began to open up in the spring, Senator James Randolph Beech also sent an aircraft, the Curtiss HS-DL Flying Boat, to assist in the manhunt.

The Flying Boat is a bush plane that takes off and lands on open water and is used by the Beech Company to spot forest fires in their vast timber tracts. For the purposes of the search, Senator Beech equipped the airplane with radio technology to allow it to communicate with the task force on the ground.

The fugitive was tracked into the Cariboo Mountains but again proved elusive. Attempts to follow his movements through the snow were ineffective. Reconnaissance flights of the Flying Boat revealed his trails running in circles or disappearing entirely. It was later discovered that he cleverly removed his snowshoes and walked in the tracks of caribou herds to lose both human and canine trackers.

THE AVALANCHE

The ‘Head-hunter’ temporarily turned the tables on the task force while they slept in an encampment. Undetected, he stole food provisions, a rifle, ammunition, and sticks of dynamite. “He was like a ghost,” said Inspector Dale Thompson, a member of the RNWMP task force. “We sensed his presence – but we couldn’t see him. Not even the dogs spotted him skulking around.”

The stolen dynamite was later used by the ‘Head-hunter’ to set off an avalanche that swept away twelve members of the task force and a good number of their dogs. “He set a trap for us. That’s for sure. Two of the men were never found. But we got all the dogs back. And they’re no worse for wear. So, there’s that at least,” added Inspector Dale Thompson.

Special Constable Dillon Titmarsh was among those carried down the mountainside and into a river by the sheets of ice and snow. He remains in hospital in Kamloops. Doctors are unsure as to his prognosis.

WHO WAS THE HEAD-HUNTER OF BARKERVILLE?

Not much is known about the killer. As is the case for so many other undesirables, the gold rush was what first brought him to British Columbia.

His real name was Tangia Tura and he hailed from The Cook Islands. He had a deep, winding scar from chin to forehead of unknown origin and a tattoo of a loon and geometric shapes on his back and left arm.

In Barkerville, the Kwong Lee Wing Company, a shadowy Oriental organization, employed him as a thug.

He shared his last known Barkerville residence with a Chinese butcher named Yee Ah Louie and he was known to associate with the half-breed, Henri Quesnel, a one-time restaurateur and now Shuswap Valley homesteader.

Long time Barkerville residents recall the ‘Head-hunter’s’ weapon, an exotic hardwood pole that he wielded with devastating impact. Dillon Titmarsh insisted that this was the murder weapon used on Peter Beech.

WHY DID HE KILL PETER BEECH?

The motive is shrouded in mystery as well. The body of Peter Beech was found by his brother, Francis Beech, at the edge of Barkerville, the victim of a brutal scalping. “A motive for the original murder was never established. We hypothesize that the Polynesian race may be pre-disposed to these expressions of violence, which could also explain how the ‘Head-hunter’ was able to integrate into Indian society,” explained Inspector Dale Thompson.

HOW DID IT END?

The ‘Head-hunter’ was eventually surrounded in an old fur trapper log cabin in a remote section of the Cariboo Mountains. “We knew we had him but we wanted to be sure we weren’t outgunned so we sent for two Vickers machine guns and extra ammunition from the Armoury in Kamloops. It took a few days for that to arrive,” said Inspector Dale Thompson.

“Those were the toughest nights,” added the Inspector. “The men were sure that he was worming his way around the camp and rifling through their kits.”

‘NEVER HEARD OR SEEN A GREATER HAIL OF BULLETS’

The machine guns were placed at angles for maximum damage. The rest of the task force, armed with Colt pistols and Lee Enfield rifles, took their positions as well. “Every one of us fired our weapons until we could fire no more,” said Inspector Dale Thompson. “The log cabin was decrepit and the timbers blew apart like papier-mâché. The Northwest has never heard or seen a greater hail of bullets.”

“Some second-guessers have suggested we should have known that this bedlam might cause a second avalanche – but we were focused on the fugitive. And we were fortunate, because, although there was an avalanche, it was a relatively small. Some of the men were buried in the snow for a few hours. But the dogs all got out of the way,” Inspector Dale Thompson said.

WAS THERE AN ACCOMPLICE?

The body found in the pulverized cabin is thought to be that of Tangia Tura. Tracks exiting the rear of the cabin and running through a valley to the south were discovered in the aftermath raising the possibility of the existence of an accomplice.

Inspector Dale Thompson was non-committal on the possibility that another aided the ‘Head-hunter’. “Maybe, maybe not. We may never know.”

Westward on the CPR

Wilfrid Louie keeps the precious surviving letters from Miriam Chase in an inside pocket of his combat jacket – protected by an envelope of waxed paper. He learned to be cautious – a few of the notes disintegrated entirely in the muck of Passchendaele.

As he had done in reserve trenches, he re-reads the letters from Miriam returning to a line she dangled at the end of an elegant, concise missive: “Wilfrid, you have a very finely wrought soul.”

“In the end, she didn’t send too many,” he says to David Chase. “Not as many as I would have liked.” He carefully re-folds one of the letters, replaces it in the original envelope and tucks it back into his inside pocket. “Miriam writes tight. Every word is there for a reason. She includes clippings of her columns too – and each of those is a pearl.”

The friends disembark at the Shuswap train station on a sunny afternoon. 

“We’re home and it’s spring in the Shuswap, my friend. Nothing could ruin the beauty of this day,” says Wilfrid Louie. “Let’s walk to the Chase ranch.”

David Chase nods.

Elizabeth Chase, more wrinkled and hunched, spots her son and Wilfrid Louie walking up the long laneway. Her eyes fill with tears.

David Chase stands before his mother on the wraparound porch. She embraces and holds him.

“I worried every day that you wouldn’t come home in one piece. I thought of those mangled boys we see these days and I feared that something terrible had happened to you,” she says holding her son’s unblemished face in her hands. “But I see you now – and you – just look at you. You’re all here!”

David Chase is stiff in his mother’s embrace – a single tear rolls down his cheek.

“Are you hungry?” asks Elizabeth Chase drawing back from her son. “Let’s go inside. I’ll make a fresh pot of coffee.”

The Chase home is infused with the smell of sweet baked pastry. “Just some butter tarts I threw together,” she says placing a tray on the table before the boys. “These ones have nuts and these have raisins.”

Wilfrid Louie nods approvingly. “You miss the food over there,” he says. “These are excellent. Flakey pastry and sweet filling. But the raisins make the difference.”

David Chase shakes his head. “No raisins.”

“I see your tastes haven’t changed, David,” says Elizabeth Chase. “There is a lot to catch up on.”

“It was a long walk, Ki-7-ce,” replies David rising from the table. “I’ll be right back.”

When David Chase is gone his mother turns to Wilfrid Louie. Concern is written on her face. “Something’s not right with him,” she says. “I’m his mother. I can tell. What happened?”

“It’ gonna’ take some time,” Wilfrid Louie replied.

“His eyes look empty,” she says. “What did you see over there?”

Wilfrid Louie sips his coffee and shakes his head. “I’m sorry.”

Elizabeth Chase holds Wilfrid Louie’s gaze, searching for an answer in his expression but finding none. When her son returns to the kitchen, she steps back and busies herself clearing dishes.

David Chase notices rolls of paper on the sideboard. “What are these, Ki-7-ce?”

Wilfrid Louie gets up and unrolls the papers. “Blueprints?” he asks as he studies the documents. “They look like plans for a Tudor mansion. Who’s got the money to build that kind of house around here?”

“That’s some of the news,” replies Elizabeth Chase. “A lot has happened. Those are the plans for Miriam’s new house.”

“Wow. She’s doing even better than I imagined,” says Wilfrid Louie. “News must be a lucrative business. That’ll be quite the Shuswap castle.”

“It’s not being built here. They’re building it in Westmount. In Montreal,” explains Elizabeth Chase.

“What’s that?” asks David. “Who’s they?”

“Your sister got married,” Elizabeth said matter-of-factly. “I didn’t know anything about it. It happened so fast. No family from either side.”

She puts down the plate she’s been drying and picks up another one.

“The husband’s name is Francis Beech. His family owns newspapers. Lots of newspapers.”

Wilfrid Louie loses his grip on his coffee cup spilling some down his uniform – he manages to catch the porcelain handle before it hits the floor.

“I met him last week. They came to visit,” says Elizabeth Chase. Her back is turned to the boys as she stands before the sideboard. She doesn’t seem to notice Wilfrid Louie’s lapse.

“He’s older than Miriam. They’re excited about the new house - room for lots of grandchildren. She turns toward Wilfrid Louie and David, clearly pleased at the prospect of a growing family.

“But Montreal is far away,” she adds wistfully.

Wilfrid Louie struggles to breathe

His eyes unfocus and he adopts the thousand-yard stare.

He’s just been punched in the gut.

Chapter 21 - Yearning for Home

May 1919 (1 month later)
The Shuswap, British Columbia, Canada 

“Just look at my face as you tell me goodbye
You’ll see what I’m after by the look in my eye
Just walk away and leave me alone
It’s a long way back home”
Gordon Lightfoot, Long Way Back Home

Wilfrid Louie sits at the kitchen table across from his sister, Lilly.

His mother kisses him on the head and looks at Lilly. “He’s always watched out for me,” she says. “I remember when he was a little boy, we left the house one morning and were heading to town. He grabs my hand and tells me not to worry, he left the back window unlocked and can squeeze in – in case we lose the keys again.” She smiles and heads off to bed.

Lilly waits for their mother to disappear. “You shouldn’t have had to worry about such things.”

“It’s not like we could count on them,” says Wilfrid Louie.

“Well, I’m grateful to have you home.”

“Home? Is that what this is?” he laments.

“Don’t be so maudlin. Home is where you make it, Wilfrid.”

“I’m not so sure. You know, before he died, our father asked me to send his bones to Hong Kong. He left that place when he was thirteen years old – spent sixty years in Canada. ‘Send my bones home,’ he said to me. Why wasn’t the Shuswap home?”

Into two coffee mugs, Lilly pours strawberry wine that she had bottled the previous year. It’s gold in colour and sweet on the palette.

“Some people never find home,” says Lilly. “It’s in your head… or maybe it’s getting out of your head. It’s just living… with your family… with your neighbours. It’s getting your hands dirty. That’s when you’re home, Wilfrid. Even if he rarely left the ranch, our father wasn’t home because he spent all his time looking inward – wrestling the demons in his head.”

Wilfrid Louie takes a gulp and looks his sister in the eye. “You get wise while I was away?”

“Take over the ranch.” says Lilly.

“I’m no rancher.”

“Then go back to the newspaper.”

“I want to get as far away from newspapers as possible. They only remind me of her… and him,” says Wilfrid rising from his chair. He walks to the window and takes in the view of the family ranch. “I’m not cut out for a life of farming. But I learned about radios in the war. They transmit words through the air… without wires. I hope radio kills off newspapers.”

“I’ll allow you some self-pity. But this will get tiresome,” says Lilly. She tips back her glass of strawberry wine – empties it. “I warned you years ago. How else was this infatuation supposed to end? Why in the world, Wilfrid, did you ever think you would overcome the obstacles?”

“I don’t know. I guess I’ve been living in my head – in a romantic fantasy. And now I’m just a wreck, Lilly… useless and stricken with heartache.” He turns, faces his sister, and pleads: “Why would she do this to me?”

“I don’t think she did anything to you and I don’t think it’s her fault. You can’t be as beautiful as she is and not be affected by it. I mean that. She must have ended up taking people’s constant attention and affection for granted. Most of us mortals aren’t used to adulation. We can’t help but be moved by it – not her though.”

“You think so? She’s all I can think about.”

“You’re going to have to get over this soon enough,” says Lilly. She lights a cigarette and squints as she exhales. “I earn a few dollars cleaning kitchens but we rely upon the money you send home.”

“I’ll figure something out.”

Wilfrid Louie at the Quesnel Family Ranch

Spring transitions into another Shuswap summer.

Wilfrid Louie develops a taste for his sister’s strawberry wine (preferably chilled), regularly sleeps in, and periodically visits David Chase. He also makes an effort - deemed “half-assed” by Lilly - to tend the strawberries and fruit trees of the family ranch.

Mélanie Quesnel, daughter of Henri and Ginette, arranges discreet run-ins with Wilfrid Louie at least once a week for manual, clammy lovemaking sessions – without dialogue. Mélanie moans in his ear. Wilfrid does not so much as grunt.

“You’ve got a gloomy humour these days,” says Henri Quesnel as Wilfrid Louie walks up the lane hoping for a late-afternoon Mélanie-tryst behind the barn. “Why don’t you join me for a visit on the back porch?”

Oh no, thinks Wilfrid Louie. This can’t be good.

It is spring in the Shuswap with green shoots squeezing through the winter thatch. From their vantage on the rear veranda Henri Quesnel and Wilfrid Louie have a panoramic view of the sprawling Quesnel ranch with Little Lake Shuswap in the distance, and plateaus on the horizon.

Henri Quesnel serves spruce beer.

“Your father and I used to make this in Barkerville,” Henri says, looking at the glass in his hand. “He really liked it.”

“My father really liked anything that could get him three sheets to the wind,” Wilfrid Louie says, taking a drink. I wouldn’t mind getting liquored up myself right about now, he thinks.

“True enough,” says Henri Quesnel with a laugh. “We built that storage shed and lived in it our first winter. Can you imagine the two of us in there?”

“Like sharing a funk hole.”

“I can’t even begin to imagine that,” says Henri.

Dusk descends upon the Shuswap. The mist slightly blurs the palette of their view.

“I read about Tangia Tura in the newspaper,” Wilfrid Louie says. “You were up there with him, weren’t you?” 

“Tangia was done to the bone. But he picked his time – coulda’ kept running,” Henri replies. “He didn’t want to.”

Out on the lake, a loon hoots sharply. After a moment, it hoots again. A musical wail sounds in reply from further up the lake.

“They’re checking in on each other. The loons are saying, ‘Hey, you okay over there?’” says Henri Quesnel. “Did your father ever tell you about the loon he caught? It damn near took his eye out. I told him – we don’t eat loons. Loons are like us,” Henri looks hard at Wilfrid Louie.

“Hey, are you okay over there?”

Wilfrid Louie looks up. “I have no idea, Henri,” he says, and looks into his glass swirling the remnants. “Truth be told, I’m lost. I don’t know how I’m doing and I don’t know where I should be.”

“I see that, Wilfrid. You got some crusts to eat, but you can be somebody.

You know, people think that their blood gives them a right. That blood gives them a claim.

Does the Frenchman have more right to the land than the English? Does the Englishman have more right than the Chinaman?

Does some blood have more honour? Is some more pure?

Blood is the great lie, Wilfrid. Nothing ties blood to land,” says Henri. He sits and the edge of his chair and looks his guest in the eye.

“Yes, I saw that in the war,” Wilfrid whispers.

“The Indian has always lived here,” Henri says with a wave of his arm towards the horizon.

“What does he think when an Englishman says a Chinaman does not belong?

Blood gives no rights.

Blood gives us one thing – duty. Duty to help each other to be great and to be good – to check on others like the loon shows us.”

The men pour more spruce beer. The last rays of sun cast shadows on Henri’s face. He slides back into his chair. A moment later the sun drops behind the plateau.

“I’ve noticed that my daughter has an affection for you – but I see that you only think of another. This is not good – not for my daughter and not for you. I think you’re trapped in your head – you’re obsédé.” Henri takes a drink before continuing.

I remember your father. He was obsédé – with regret – about things in his past. He saw life through his little window of grudge. I saw that. You lived it.

But you have a choice. To look through that window of rage and regret like Yee Ah Louie or to truly see others and not be tormented.”

“I’m not sure that I’m getting you,” says Wilfrid Louie taking a swig of spruce beer.

“Look for other people’s windows – don’t fear so much – it permits to hear their stories – to forgive and be rid of the rage your heart. Through their windows, we take in a piece of each person. If you are not born a half-breed – or better yet a mongrel – you can work to become one. 

I loved your father, Wilfrid. And I like you. But I love my daughter even more.” He holds Wilfrid Louie’s gaze. “You understand?”

Wilfrid Louie feels the air chill.

Henri Quesnel pulls a package of cigarettes out of his pocket. He taps two out and offers one to Wilfrid Louie – who accepts, grateful for the gesture.

“You know your mother is Métis?” says Henri Quesnel, lighting a match.

Wilfrid Louie’s eyes widen.

“It’s true. Her grandfather was a carpenter from Macao – he came to Nootka Sound many years ago and married a Saanich woman.” Henri lights his cigarette.

“My mother doesn’t talk about her family,” Wilfrid Louie says. “We were always told that our father went to Victoria and brought her back to the Shuswap.”

“That much is true,” Henri replies. “I introduced them.”

Chapter 22 - Lord Stanley’s Cup Runneth Over

April 1, 1920 (1 year later)
Ottawa, Ontario, Canada 

“The good old hockey game
is the best game you can name,
And the best game you can name
is the good old hockey game.”
Stompin’ Tom Connors, The Hockey Song

“Did you look at the numbers?” JRB asks Ruth FitzGerald.

“I did. And I don’t know why you want my opinion on this transaction, James.”

JRB and Ruth FitzGerald sit in the private box of Ottawa Senators hockey team owner, Ted Dey. It is an hour and a half until puck drop and the only activity below in the near-empty arena is a crew patching the playing surface. The Ottawa Arena does not have artificial ice and while the temperature remains below freezing, a full house tends to warm things up.

“Are you thinking of buying this team because you don’t know what to do with all the money we’re making in newspapers?” asks Ruth FitzGerald with a smirk.

“It’s an entertainment deal – and the way I see it – newspapers are in the same kind of business,” JRB replies as he lights his pipe.

“Ruth, I’m happy you’re here with me to take in tonight’s game,” he adds, extinguishing his match with a wave of his wrist. “You’ll feel the excitement and get a sense of how we can grow the business.” He takes a sip of whisky and continues. “It’s two games a piece in a best of five. Tonight’s winner takes home the Stanley Cup.”

Ruth skeptically looks at him, closes her ledger, and lights a cigarette.

JRB leans in. “If I buy the team – I want you to run the business side and we would need to find a good hockey man to work alongside you.”

“I don’t get it. By the numbers, it’s a flaky business – hard to establish value with so many fluctuations.”

“That much is true,” JRB replies. “Ted Dey is polishing up his asset – putting as much lipstick on this pig as possible. He’s invited Francis and Miriam for the game – they’re coming from Montreal – and he’s asked me to drop the puck for the ceremonial faceoff.”

“Ceremonial faceoff? He is pulling out all the stops. How much does he want?”

“Twenty thousand dollars.”

“So, I’ll ask you again. Why do this deal, James? What logic underpins handing over twenty thousand dollars for a hockey team? Does that include the arena?”

“No, the arena’s on top of that. And this Ted Dey fellow has a balance owing of thirty-five hundred dollars to our lumber division, so that would figure into the deal.”

“You’ve already got more money than you and your family could ever spend and political influence with the newspaper business. What more would this give you?”

“Think of it as a toy.”

“You want to spend twenty thousand dollars on a toy?” Ruth rolls her eyes. “I’m not sure I recognize you, James.”

JRB chuckles and shakes his head.

“Old money families have toys – playthings. I’ve seen it and I hear about it all the time. They talk incessantly about their toys when they get together.” He sighs and looks down at the rink. “At my age, I’m not about to learn to play polo or purchase a stable of racehorses. I know nothing about those things. I grew up in the townships – shinny was our game.”

“You want to buy a professional hockey team with a flimsy business model so that you can chat about it over cognac with your friends in the Senate. Have I got it right?” 

“Precisely. Except you’re going to fix the flimsiness.”

Ruth gets up and takes a last drag on her cigarette. She squints at JRB as she puts it out. “I’ll grant you that professional sport is entertainment. Stars sell tickets. In our newspapers, you’ll have noticed I manage our most popular columnists very deliberately. The star that shines brightest has got to be the banner on the front page. People purchase a copy of The Gazette, or The Times, or The Sun.”

“Why should it matter – so long as the money ends up in my pockets?”

“Because over time it wouldn’t. Stars have an inflationary impact on the cost of business. They develop leverage and can shift competitive balances. When I spot a young reporter or columnist with a burgeoning following, like I just did with that cheeky fellow here at the Gazette, I promptly sign them to long-term contracts. Well into the term, however, our most popular personalities consult their lawyers on how to break their agreements.”

“I’m surprised that you don’t want these people to make as much as they can. You’re the one who’s consistently arguing for handsome wage increases for the employees of our newspapers.”

“Yes I am. But, in any business, there’s a limit to the size of the pie shared amongst employees. If a few take disproportionate slices and if these slices grow over time – the rest will necessarily make less and labour strife will result.”

“How did you get so smart, Ruth?” asks JRB taking another sip of whisky.

“Professional sports must be about star players. No one pays to watch their nephew skate on his ankles. We want the very best. If the stars can sell their services to the highest bidder, the forces of supply and demand will apply. Unless you collude with the other owners – you will make the best athletes extremely wealthy at the expense of the supernumeraries and the franchise.”

“That’s why I need you to run the business side.”

“I’m not so sure that’s a good idea. And are there really two sides to the business? We pretend there are two sides to the news business. That’s our Achilles heel.”

“I, for one, don’t see such vulnerabilities in our newspapers.”

“James, newspapers are advertising machines that pay for a story-telling business. And we have the pretension that they’re connected. They’re not. Your son, Francis, makes speeches about the independence of his newsrooms. He says that he values them above all else. I get it. I’m proud of them too. But when the day comes and the advertising isn’t there – what will Francis value more? Will he protect the reporters and editors? Or will he protect the flow of cash? Because he can’t do both.

And there lies the rub. Ours is a business of selling messages from merchants – not a business of news. Our readers may love our stories – but they don’t pay what it costs to tell them. When the day comes that we need readers to pay the full cost of our newsrooms – and I don’t know when that day will come – but trust me, it will come – that’s when truth is revealed. I understand there’s a radio station in Detroit that wants to do a news broadcast. We need to be vigilant.”

“I don’t want to lose you Ruth.”

“Keep letting me do my thing and you won’t have to.”

“The board is entirely satisfied with the division’s results.”

“The board doesn’t even know I exist.”

“They might think Francis is calling the shots but the few board members that pay attention have heard your name more than once. Keep on working with Francis – he needs to be pushed and he needs to keep learning from you. I try to impress upon him that competence trumps loyalty – if loyalty is all that matters – he’ll end up with the lips of his advisors surgically attached to his arse – and no one with the courage to tell him when he’s wrong.”

Ruth shakes her head. “What is blood succession, James, if not the embodiment of loyalty trumping competence – as you always say – tell the truth – tell the truth to yourself,” says Ruth with a clink of her glass upon JRB’s.

JRB smiles. “I am an old man and I no longer have the strength to show you – but I admire you so, Ruth FitzGerald. Would you think me a fool if I said I loved you?”

“James, you don’t love me,” says Ruth looking him straight in the eye. “You love what I do and there’s a world of difference.”

“I don’t see the difference.”

“And that’s what makes you who you are,” says Ruth grinning and leaning back in her chair without a whiff of embarrassment.

“You’re a mystery. When I was a boy, I learned to work harder. Harder than my father – then harder than everyone else. Anytime I did a deal – I had done more homework. I knew where the value was hidden – and what could be tossed away. It was about my sweat and my sweat alone. But you… you have people across the country who do good work – who make good decisions for you – I don’t know how you do that.”

“That’s because I work with only a certain kind people.”

“How do you find them? Do you just get lucky? Look at you for example. At first, I had you pegged as a stenographer.”

“I wasn’t a stenographer. But I can work with a right stenographer. I look for three things. People who are smart; who tell the truth; and who enjoy seeing their peers succeed. If they’ve got all three, they’re my people.”

“That’s what I’ve always said. ‘Tell the truth. To me and to yourself, tell the truth’ – but I’ve worked with smart people who don’t do it.”

“James, you’ve definitely got plenty of those. They’re often smarter – but you can’t count on them to tell the truth and they hate it when others succeed. You know what that type does? They surround themselves with brown-nosers. And brown-nosers… well they hire quacks.”

JRB leans back in his chair, rubs his beard, and smiles at Ruth.

Just then Lewis Tichborne enters the private box and coughs to catch their attention.

“Who invited you, Tichbutt?” asks JRB with a clearly irritated tone.

“I came up from Montreal with Francis and Miriam. Francis says we’re working on a special project – sounds like it’s right up my alley. They’ll be along soon.”

“We’re still meeting in here. Go refill our drinks. But take your time coming back, Tichditz.”

“Yes, sir.” replies Lewis Tichborne picking up the empty tumblers.

“Quacks, eh?” says JRB with a laugh as Lewis Tichborne exits. “But you can’t say my boy married a quack.”

“Not at all. I like her, James. She has mettle and she’s smart as a whip.”

“I fear she’s more than Francis can handle. She has got spunk. You know she’s a half-breed?” 

“And I’m the daughter of a boozing soldier and failed farmer. Who cares? It’s character that matters, James, not who your parents are.”

Visiting team dressing room – Ottawa Arena

A hard-fought Stanley Cup playoff is reaching its climax.

In the visitor’s dressing room, the steam heating only augments the ammonia-like stench of sweat-soaked hockey equipment. The Seattle Metropolitans sit on benches around the perimeter of the cramped space, their gear in open duffle bags upon the floor. They take a little longer to prepare for this game. Each nurses injuries of greater and lesser severity.

Protruding from foreheads, chins, and cheeks are the snipped ends of catgut suture.

Ankles and knuckles are taped to protect sprains and minor fractures.

Strained groins and hamstrings are treated with creams that warm the skin and smell of menthol.

Coach Al Nicholson is thinking about his pre-game speech as the players don their pads and uniforms. A few versions rolled through his mind when he had trouble sleeping the previous night. He steps over the bags and moves to the middle of the room.

“This one’s for all the marbles, boys. I shouldn’t have to say anything at all. You know what this means. We win tonight and our names go on the Stanley Cup – forever. I told you when we started – that it wasn’t a sprint. It’s a marathon obstacle course – the team with the most desire will win the Cup. Tonight, I’m proud,” his voice cracks ever so slightly. “Not for anything I have accomplished, but to share this journey with you. Proud to battle alongside such a group.”

Coach Al addresses each player on the team by nickname: “Foysty, Toby, Muzzy, Bobby, Sibby, Jimmy…”

He stops and holds the gaze of the next man on the bench before continuing.

“Look at the Chinese Waterbug here boys. He was a useless rancher when my old friend Henri Quesnel called and asked me to come and get him.” He looks around the room one more time before adding, “Now, he’s got a chance to go down in history.”

The game

The Arena is designed to bring the spectators as close to the action as possible. Rows of seats are packed against the boards and stacked at angle so that the mayhem of 7,000 rabid fans hangs over the ice.

As goalie, Coach Al is not eligible to take the ceremonial face-off.

“You take it,” he says to Wilfrid Louie. “This is going to be the game of your life,” he adds with a twist of his ornate moustache.

A red carpet is rolled out to centre ice. JRB stands tall between the hard-hitting Ottawa Captain and the compact Wilfrid Louie. JRB drops the puck and the home Captain delicately draws it back, picks it up and hands it back to JRB. Tentative handshakes ensue.

“May the best team win,” says Wilfrid Louie peering into JRB’s eyes.

“He speaks English?” JRB says to the Ottawa Captain.

The energy in the barn-like arena is palpable and the noise level deafening. The home team wins the opening face-off and then both teams are off and skating fast. Violent collisions abound as players, high on adrenaline, move at a pace that cannot hope to be sustained.

Wilfrid Louie dances around the rink – zigzagging between opponents whose heads swivel in hopelessness as he rushes by. Whatever aches he may have been feeling or injuries he was nursing have vanished.

A high-pitched cry of “ôte-la-lui, tabarnack!” emanates from a zealous fan from Ottawa’s basse-ville neighbourhood each time Wilfrid Louie picks up the puck.

In the private box, Ted Dey sends for a tray of hot dogs and bottles of Molson’s. “Now, if we could get Queen’s Park to get rid of this preposterous prohibition, imagine the money to be made selling beer at games,” says the owner as he distributes the food and drink to his guests. “As it is, most of these fans have mickeys in their pockets.”

On the ice, head manning the puck, Wilfrid Louie stops suddenly upon entering the opposition zone, instinctively assesses his options, accelerates towards open ice and curls towards the slot fifteen feet in front of the net.

His speed and unpredictability give the Senators fits.

“Sign him to a long-term deal, James. That’s the kind of star I’d want,” says Ruth FitzGerald, her eyes fixed on Wilfrid Louie. “If you buy the team – I’d lock him up for the rest of his career.”

“That’s a tough sell, Ruth. I attended a Senate committee meeting today on the Chinese Exclusion Act. They’re not very popular with the electorate, you know.”

At that moment, Wilfrid Louie dekes around two defenders and deftly slides the puck between the legs of the Ottawa goaltender for a 1 – 0 lead.

The energy in the stands evaporates.

Miriam jumps up from her seat and cheers. From inside the private box and the seats nearby, people stare at her in indignation.

“You do realize that the Seattle team just scored, not the local squad?” asks Francis Beech.

“I know hockey, Francis.”

“They call him The Chinese Waterbug,” says Ted Dey to his guests in the private box. “I think he’s from BC.”

“I’ll check the program,” says Lewis Tichborne who picks up a printed booklet sporting an image on the cover of the Ottawa captain smoking a Sweet Caporal Cigarette.

“Says here he’s from Shuswap, British Columbia. Isn’t that where you’re from, Miriam?”

“You know him?” Francis Beech asks.

“The Shuswap is a small place, Francis. We all know each other.”

“His is the kind of performance that people pay to see,” says Ruth FitzGerald.

“He is electrifying,” admits JRB. “And I’d pay an additional twenty thousand dollars to anyone who could straighten his eyes.”

The rambunctious crowd has been silenced by the goal.

At the face-off, “Just hit the fuckin’ chink!” is bellowed by a fan seated three rows in front of the private box.

“Just shut your fuckin’ mouth!” hollers Miriam Chase at the fan.

Francis Beech freezes and looks at his father.

Ruth FitzGerald laughs out loud and takes a swig of beer.

JRB turns to Ruth. “She’s no quack,” he says with a wink.

The remainder of the first period is all Wilfrid Louie. He dominates with quickness and puck control, his teammates joining in a freewheeling display of keep-away – rendering the brute strength of the Senators futile. Frustration grows amongst the Ottawa club and their fans.

If not for the heroic performance of the Senator’s goalie, the score would have been lopsided. The period ends 1 – 0, Seattle.

During the first intermission – Ted Dey caucuses with the Ottawa coach and gives a nod to his arena manager who proceeds to walk the perimeter of the building and close each and every window.

The temperature and humidity inside the barn rise almost immediately.

By the midpoint of the second period, the game slows and momentum shifts. The softer ice makes the puck harder to handle and Wilfrid Louie’s directional changes become less pronounced.

The ferocious body checking of the Ottawa Senators wears down the Seattle team.

The second period end with the score tied at 1.

In the third and final period, Wilfrid Louie becomes a sitting duck every time he retrieves a loose puck along the boards where the ice has turned to slush. On multiple occasions he is crushed against the boards.

This is now Ottawa’s style of game: a north south, bruising battle of crosschecks and goalmouth scrambles. As exhaustion sets in, mental errors are made and the home team pounces on their opportunities.

The Senators score two quick goals and the deflated Seattle squad is unable to respond.

The game finishes in a debacle, 6 – 1.

The Stanley Cup is presented to the Ottawa Captain and the euphoric crowd erupts in song.

During the festivity, Wilfrid Louie, Coach Al, and their teammates hang their heads standing along the blue line – desperately waiting for the signal that they are permitted to leave the ice surface and return to their dressing room.

After the game

A soggy collection – with trickles of tears, blood and sweat - the Seattle Metropolitans sit in silence. The last Metropolitan player to enter the dressing room looks at Wilfrid Louie and mumbles: “There’s a broad out there – says she wants to see you.”

Miriam is leaning against the wall in the hallway under the stands.

Wilfrid feels a sledgehammer slam into his back when he sees her face. His dejection vanishes.

“My God, Miriam! I can’t believe it.”

“Wilfrid, you played a great game. Are you hurt?”

Wilfrid Louie just stares at her face.  

She repeats the question. “Are you hurt?”

“No, I’m fine. I had no idea you were here.”

“I saw that you were playing. I wanted to see you.” Miriam smiles an I think about you, Wilfrid.”

“Miriam, I think of you every waking and every sleepless minute. I get up each morning with your name on my lips.”

Miriam reaches up to wipe a thin stream of blood from Wilfrid Louie’s face and her long fur coat opens - revealing a bump.

Wilfrid Louie spots her abdomen and any shred of hope dies.

He takes Miriam’s hand in his and gently removes it from his bleeding cheek.

“That’s the best thing about hockey – when I play – every thought about past and future disappears – all that’s in my mind is the game. But this season’s over… and training camp feels a long way off.”

“Wilfrid, would you like to meet my husband?”

“Really, Miriam?”

“He’s a good man.”

“I’m sure he is. And I’m sure he’ll give you a life that I never could. But the days of you asking me my opinion of your suitors are gone. I hope you’re happy where you are. You made all the necessary decisions to get there.”

Chapter 23 - A Sunshiny Sketch

July 1, (Dominion Day) 1929 (9 years later)
Orillia, Ontario, Canada 

“Life, we learn too late, is in the living,
in the tissue of every day and hour.”
Stephen Leacock

Dominion Day is hot and humid in Orillia – a town of 8,000 souls, ninety miles north of Toronto, tucked between two lakes.

While most have the day off, Wilfrid Louie is hard at work positioning radio sets on shelves throughout the store. His inventory includes Clarion Junior sets and sophisticated Columbia radio-phonograph combinations. He arranges and re-arranges until the entire presentation is impeccable.

‘I want the space to be bright, clean and inviting,” he says to his part time employee, a student from Orillia District Collegiate. “Wipe down every shelf, every table, every sill.”

“How’d you get to know so much about radios?” asks the boy, looking up from his dusting of a bottom shelf row of radios.

“I learned about wireless sets in the war. We used them to communicate with the artillery.”

“My Dad and I listen to the hockey game on our radio every Saturday night.”

“Do you now? When I was in Toronto, I had the chance to work with Foster Hewitt on his broadcasts. Would you believe he wanted to cut off the sound from the Mutual Street Arena fans and lock himself in a hothouse booth? We had to convince him that the background noise would improve the broadcast and he could still be heard loud and clear.”

“These days, I don’t know how anybody can live without a radio.”

“That’s what I’m counting on,” replies Wilfrid Louie bending his knees to pick up a large, heavy radio. Meticulously, he positions it in the front display window. With its ornate cabinet, 10 tubes and ultra-dynamic speaker, the Lyric radio is the best of his offerings for volume, tone, and distance (a priority for residents of Orillia, with most broadcasters located in far-off Toronto).

He carefully places brochures on the counter and tables. These include images of his wide product line, his payment options and a brief article he penned on tips for eliminating interference.

He unfurls a poster and fixes it in the front window. “GRAND OPENING, JULY 2,” it reads. Wilfrid Louie steps outside to check his handiwork.

“Looks good,” he says, nodding in satisfaction. He takes another step back and admires the signage above the door: “MARIPOSA RADIO” all in capital letters and a modern sans serif typeface. “Yes, that will do just fine.”

“Why Orillia?” asks his part time employee as Wilfrid Louie re-enters the store.

“What do you mean, why Orillia?”

“My Dad asked – why in the world would a Chinaman open a radio shop in Orillia?”

“Fair enough. First off, Canada is all I know. I was born in the Shuswap, British Columbia. Fortunately, it’s a big country and I needed a fresh start. To do that – it’s not a bad idea to put some distance between yourself and your past - provides perspective. After working in Toronto – when I was ready and had saved enough money – I looked for a town that needed a radio store.”

When every detail is taken care of, Wilfrid Louie finally stops working and sends his part time employee home.

He steps outside and locks the door to Mariposa Radio. He sees the Union Jacks and bunting on stores, houses, and utility poles down Mississauga Street in celebration of Dominion Day. Orillians are planning to gather in Couchiching Park at the lakeshore this evening.

Wilfrid Louie makes a detour to Soldiers’ Memorial Hospital, constructed to care for local boys that came back with gruesome wounds, and in memory of those that did not. There, he spends some time in silence before the town’s cenotaph.

He then walks down the hill towards the lake. Couchiching Park is filling up with young and old. Wilfrid Louie stands alone and scans the scene. Ravenous, he orders a hot dog from French’s Food stand and loads it with mustard, relish, onions and tomato.

Children – well past their bedtimes - run laughing and screaming. Some splash in the shallow water at the beach. Benches and picnic tables are reserved for the oldest attendees – men with canes and suspenders who smoke and chat – women in summer dresses and horn-rimmed glasses who smoke a little less but chat a little more.

A group of resourceful men have brought along a barrel filled with ice and bottles of beer – strictly forbidden by provincial law. Paper bags and a cautious assembly line that passes bottles through trusted hands to eventual recipients facilitate their distribution.

The sky grows darker and a welcome summer breeze cools the audience. Children who moments earlier were baking in the sun, now shiver in wet bathing suits and are wrapped in towels by their mothers, aunties, and grandmothers – their teeth chattering behind blue lips.

The fireworks begin.

A meteoric light spectacle is visible a fraction of a second before the crack is heard. Kaleidoscopic explosions of blue, red, and white fill the sky while ‘ooohs’ and ‘aaahhhhs’ rise from the crowd.

Wilfrid Louie’s face contorts. It’s the noise of the blast that shakes him. “That sounds like whizz bangs,” he says aloud to no one in particular.

A few men standing nearby hear his comment and glance at Wilfrid Louie. They don’t respond. Knowing looks convey more than words. Those that recognize the sound are connected by a shared experience in horror.

Wilfrid Louie tips his fedora at those around him and leaves Couchiching Park. The fireworks continue but he is going to have enough trouble sleeping this night - what with everything riding on the grand opening tomorrow. The last thing he needs is a nightmare memory of life in the trenches.

The Grand Opening

The next morning, Wilfrid Louie is at Mariposa Radio before 7 o’clock. The store doesn’t open until 9.

He re-checks the details that he had double-checked the night before. He turns on each unit planned for use as demonstrators and confirms the dial positions for optimal reception and sound quality.

The forms for rentals, cash purchases, and layaway plans are neatly positioned on the counter.

At 5 minutes to 9, a red-faced man, with large belly, and no shoulders – his arms seem to sprout straight from his neck – stands out front. The circumference of his paunch is such that he is doubtless unaware of the undone bottom button of his white shirt.

Wilfrid Louie smiles at him through the window and holds up a finger as if to say – I’ll be with you in just one minute.

Wilfrid Louie returns, reaches for the deadbolt with one hand and the doorknob with the other, and opens the door.

“Please come on in. You’re Mariposa Radio’s first customer.”

The man with the belly stands in the doorway.

“Actually, I’m not a customer. And Mariposa Radio isn’t opening.”

“I’m sorry?”

“You’re not permitted to open.”

“What do you mean?”

“You don’t have a municipal business license.”

“Oh yes. Weeks ago - I completed the forms and paid the fee.”

“That may be the case. But the license has not been granted.”

“Well, why not? How long can it take?”

“The by-law states that the City Clerk shall refuse a license to any person if he determines that the issuing is contrary to the public interest.”

“And who, may I ask, are you?”

“My name is Gabriel Jacqueson. I’m City Clerk.”

“Did the Mayor instruct you to do this?”

“I don’t need anyone to give me instructions. As I said, I’m the City Clerk.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t recall you winning any elections.”

Gabriel Jacqueson jabs his stubby finger into Wilfrid Louie’s chest. “Don’t push your luck, Chinaman.”

“Push my luck? What luck? I’ve invested everything I have and never worked harder. How could my business be contrary to the public interest?”

“To ask that question is to answer it.”

“That makes absolutely no sense! I’ve put my entire life into this. How do I appeal your decision?”

“There’s no appeal. And if you find the reception a little frosty in this part of the country, maybe it’s because you’re not Canadian enough and are meant to live in a more tropical environment.”

Brown paper packages tied up with string

Wilfrid Louie goes home, sits down, and types the following letter:

July 2, 1929

The Right Honourable W. L. Mackenzie King
Prime Minister of Canada
Ottawa

Dear Mr. King,

I hope you will pardon me for approaching you regarding a personal matter. 

My name is Wilfrid Louie. I was born in Shuswap B.C. and served with the 29th Battalion of the C.E.F. in France and Belgium.

I recently purchased a retail store for the rental, sale, and service of radios in the town of Orillia, Ontario.

I have made efforts during the war and since to master radio technology and have invested all of my savings and resources into this endeavour.

The Orillia City Clerk has informed me that I am “not Canadian enough” to be granted the municipal business license that is required for me to open the doors of my establishment.

My conclusion is simple.

You will find enclosed the uniform and medals from my service overseas. If I am not Canadian enough to open my store, I am certainly not Canadian enough to keep these possessions.

Yours very truly,

Wilfrid Louie

Wilfrid Louie removes his uniform from the closet and folds it with precision. He irons the ensemble and pins his medals to the front.

He tucks the letter into an addressed envelope and places it on top of the uniform. With 2 layers of sturdy but pliable brown paper he wraps the package and cross-ties it with string.

Wilfrid Louie walks to the Post Office, affixes the appropriate postage, and mails the brown paper package.

The Reaction

Orillia Mayor Cleve Parke has faith in Sasha, his personal assistant. Seated just outside his office, she opens and reads every piece of correspondence. With judgement and discretion, Sasha separates the relevant from the superfluous.

Mayor Cleve Parke is supremely likeable. A charismatic, craggy-faced purveyor of food and drink, the Mayor bites his tongue – sometimes to a pulp – when dealing with Orillia’s old-line electorate who generally fails to share his progressivism. Sturdy and athletic, his delicious curly blonde locks would not look out of place on a man half his age.

“Mr. Mayor!” cries Sasha. “You’re going to want to see this one right away!” she says running into his office.

Mayor Cleve Parke reads the parchment.

OFFICE OF THE PRIME MINISTER

Ottawa

July 10, 1929

Mayor Cleve Parke,
Orillia, Ontario

My dear Parke,

Advisors inform me that although you reign over Tory country, we share a home on the political spectrum.

Which makes the reason for my letter all the more surprising.

It has come to my attention that an aspiring Orillia merchant, likely of Chinese origin, has been denied a municipal business licence on the grounds that he is not “Canadian enough.”

I am told the man in question was born in Canada and is one Wilfrid Louie, a veteran of the Great War. He is offended to the point of having shipped to me in protest his military uniform and medals.

Trusting that you will take appropriate action,

With kind regards and all good wishes,

Yours very sincerely,

Mackenzie King

Open for business – July 24 1929

The layered tone of the moustached man’s voice suggests it is enriched by insight and experience. “Look, I’m not intending to purchase one of your contraptions. I merely wish to rent one for the summer, before I return to McGill in September.”

“That’s not a problem,” replies Wilfrid Louie.

“Now, I want a radio that requires minimal finagling. Once set, I’d rather not have to touch it again. And I want quality speakers. I don’t want it to sound as if those at the other end are broadcasting from within the bowels of a tinsmith’s workshop.”

“I have just the radio for you.”

The man follows Wilfrid Louie to a table at the rear of the store. “I’ve been approached to do some radio – they tell me that I have a voice for it – but I’m unconvinced that it is the best vehicle for my brand of humour. You can’t see your audience or hear their reaction. It’s a question of timing…”

“Better to be told that you have a voice for radio than to be told that you have a face for it.”

“Touché. I am a boxer leading with his chin. Mariposa Radio? That’s a good name. Perhaps a little controversial in this town, why did you choose the name Mariposa?”

“It’s a bit of irony, actually. I’ve put everything I have into this business. My livelihood and any chance for fortune, however modest, ride upon it. ‘Mariposa’ was the place my father first sought his fortune - trying his hand at panning for gold. He wasn’t much of a prospector… not much of anything, really.”

The moustached man smiles and rubs his chin. “Did your father ever work in the cook car on the CPR? Did he enjoy a drink by chance?”

“That would be a ‘yes” on both counts,” replies Wilfrid Louie.

“Fancy that. My name is Stephen,” says the man extending his hand.

“Oh, I know who you are.”

They seal the deal and the rental contract is completed at the counter. Wilfrid Louie carefully boxes up the radio that will be installed at Old Brewery Bay.

While Wilfrid does so, although it lies upside down, Stephen is able to read a letter that sits upon the counter and later that day will be posted on the wall of Mariposa Radio.

OFFICE OF THE PRIME MINISTER

Ottawa

July 10, 1929

Mr. Wilfrid Louie
Orillia, Ontario

Dear Mr. Louie,

I have just received your package and letter and shall immediately have an inquiry made into the matter to which it refers. In the meantime, please accept the return of the articles you sent. You earned them and Canada is in your debt.

All good wishes,

Yours sincerely,

Mackenzie King

Chapter 24 - Party Crashers or Six Versions of One Celebration

November 2, 1929 (4 months later)
Montreal, Quebec, Canada 

“Clerks in downtown hotels were said to be
asking guests whether they wished the room
for sleeping or jumping. Two men jumped
hand-in-hand from a high window in the Ritz.
They had a joint account.”
John Kenneth Galbraith, The Great Crash of 1929



Francis Beech’s version

It’s a sunny autumn day in Montreal. Francis Beech prefers to walk from his home in Westmount to the Ritz-Carlton hotel. A burst of late-season Indian summer has leaves clinging to branches in defiance of what awaits just around the corner – the inescapable Montreal freeze.

Despite the mild weather, people are edgy.

Francis Beech arrives at the hotel, strides across the marble floor, and greets the Maître d’ of The Ritz-Carlton. “I need the staff to be on top of their game for one night,” he says. “This is my father’s 95th birthday. It’s high time the man be recognized for his accomplishments. Let’s make everything perfect.”

The list of invitees includes extended Beech family members – as well as bankers, politicians, suppliers, company executives, publishers, and directors of finance.

“We will not disappoint you, Monsieur Beech. But, alas, some of my staff may be distracted,” replies the Maître d’. “It has been a bad time. A few of the hotel regulars gave us stock tips and I, and many of my colleagues, have had our investments wiped out.”

“You had investments? That’s too bad. It has been topsy-turvy. For what it’s worth, I’m sure your losses are nothing compared to mine. But that’s the problem, you know. Too many ignorant people got into this market.”

“Thank you, Monsieur Beech. I will keep that in mind.”

Francis Beech and the Maître d’ review a checklist of decorations, details and special instructions.

“I know I don’t have to worry about the food. My wife, Miriam, is working with your staff on that.”

Upon entering the Ritz ballroom, Francis Beech is swarmed by congratulatory messages.

“Outstanding!”

“Perfectly planned!”

“You’ve outdone yourself, Mr Beech!”

Several approach to shake his hand.

Francis Beech is pleased. He sees his parents, JRB and Bev, with his son, Jimmy, and walks over to join them at the far end of the ballroom.

“Where’s mom?” Jimmy asks.

“She’s checking on the food. She’ll be out soon.”

“That’s swell. I’m going to explore,” replies Jimmy. Tall for his age with brown hair, bright eyes and handsome face, the boy proceeds to move about the ballroom. He stops and chats at each table. 

Francis Beech turns to face JRB. “Father, I’ve been looking at news division expenses. In light of the market downturn, I think we need to tighten some screws. I’ve included in my board report an opportunity for cost savings. Ruth FitzGerald’s travel is a luxury we can’t afford. In times like these, it shows how she’s got the wrong priorities.”

“Look at him work the room,” says JRB staring at his grandson. “He’s a natural.”

At Jimmy’s next stop they watch him challenge the Publisher from Calgary to a dual. Jimmy tosses a peanut high in the air and catches it in his mouth.  A competition is set to see how many peanuts can be caught in a row. The chunky Calgarian is game and reaches a count of five before a nut bounces off his thick lower lip onto the floor. Jimmy takes his turn and wins handily – he stops with an unblemished record at ten peanuts – and the table erupts in laughter.

“That’s quite a boy you’ve got there,” says an executive from the Bank of Montreal standing behind JRB and Francis. “I’m sure in no time, he’ll be the one squeezing us for an extra point,” he adds with a nervous laugh and a slap on Francis’ back.

For attendees, the spotlight of attention – apart from JRB himself - is on the perimeter of the ballroom. Francis has mounted photographs and descriptions on large black boards that tell the story of his father’s business from inception to present-day empire.

Sawmills, lumber camps, railways, Senate appointment, and ultimately the spellbinding success of the Beech Company newspapers are illustrated in images and white script upon the black backgrounds.

JRB, Francis, and Jimmy – 3 generations of business royalty – take their time to walk around the room.  “These are very well done, Francis. How did you do it?” asks JRB. “Where did you find the time?”

The old man takes his grandson by the hand. “Jimmy, this is an ideal primer on the Company that you’ll be running one day.”

Francis Beech’s face glows with his father’s praise. “I worked with a team of art directors from The Gazette. I curated every photo and each inscription on the boards of the display,” he explained.

Milestone moments, key acquisitions, and company leaders are featured in the photographs.

“Here’s one of you at our timber tract in Algonquin Park,” says Francis Beech. “Look at the size of that fir, Jimmy, it’s even bigger than Granddad. Here’s another on Parliament Hill.”

JRB stops in front of a board featuring a photo of Lewis Tichborne and Francis Beech at The Vancouver Sun taken at the time of its acquisition. He shakes his head.

“Francis, did you have to include that bozo Lewis Tichscum in this production?”

“Father, he’s been with me from the beginning. You know he’s sensitive about this kind of thing. He would be hurt were he left out. Lewis Tichborne has been there for me ever since that terrible time in Barkerville.”

Ruth FitzGerald’s version

Ruth’s ‘Bible’ ledger of Beech Company newspaper results is open upon the desk in her room at the Ritz. On either side is a glass of Canadian Club and a copy of the Montreal Gazette.

Across from her sits JRB in a wingback chair.

With her directors of finance in town for the party – Ruth has given notice that they will be earning their invitations and travelling expenses. She’s summoned them to attend a meeting at 8 o’clock the next morning – Sunday – at the Beech Company head office.

Ruth closes her ledger and takes a sip of her drink. She has just finished briefing JRB on the performance of the stable of newspapers, but it’s the roller coaster stock market that is top of mind.

“I don’t share your pessimism, Ruth. It has been an absolute frenzy on the markets and I’m down more than I’d like to admit, but we’re going to finish 1929 with record earnings. You should be very pleased.”

“James, don’t count your chickens before they hatch – the Christmas season is still to come – but we’ll get ahead of this. My directors of finance will receive their marching orders tomorrow morning. We’ll mitigate the risks.”

“Exporters will be the ones affected by this turmoil – much more than us.”

“And when those exporters complete their layoffs… their former employees will stop making purchases. The fear will spread. And one of the first things merchants will do is cut advertising. May I also remind you that your newsprint division relies heavily on the export market. But, as I said, we’ll be ready.”

JRB tries lighting his pipe, but the tobacco is too damp.

“You don’t have much time, James. You need to head over to your apartment to go get dressed for the party.”

“I’m not very enthused about it. Do you know how much Francis has spent on the party?”

“Try to enjoy it, James.”

“I suppose I should. Whatever the case, I’m glad you’re here to celebrate with me, Ruth.”

“I’m glad to be here, too.”

JRB gets up, smiles at Ruth, and leaves.

Ruth sits back in her chair and puts her feet on the desk. She makes supplemental notes for the next morning’s meeting, lights another cigarette, and savours her drink.

When she does come down to the main floor, Ruth is thoroughly impressed upon entering the ballroom. “Francis did a fine job. The décor, the music, and the food – it all looks impeccable,” she says to a gaggle of newspaper publishers standing around her.

She notices the black storyboards that capture the attention of the invitees. Ruth wonders if she too should tour the ballroom perimeter and take in the saga of JRB and the Beech Company.

Why do I care? I know what I’ve done – what I do – and JRB knows it too. I’m not in need of recognition.

Ruth gives in to the temptation.

By herself, with drink in hand, she painstakingly reads each inscription on every board.

When she arrives at the end of the display, her inner dialogue is amplified: Should it bother me? Did I expect anything different? But it is bothering me. I feel it.

There are a total of twelve black cardboard panels around the room. Each panel has multiple photographs. Ruth FitzGerald’s name is not once inscribed and her face does not appear in a single image.

She decides to leave the party even earlier than planned – besides with an eight o’clock start the next morning – there’s no need to burn the candle at both ends. She spots JRB in the ballroom and walks up to him. He is surrounded by a swarm of admirers laughing at his banter.

“Thanks for saving me,” he says to Ruth as they separate themselves from the pack. “It would appear when you’re the boss you can never tell a dull joke. Their sides split every time. But not yours, Ruth. Somehow, you remain above it all I can always trust you for the truth.”

“I’m cashing in my chips, James. I’m tired and I’ve got that meeting tomorrow with the directors of finance. Congratulations - and happy birthday.”

“Good night,” says JRB with a peck on her cheek.

Ruth turns to walk away and has a face-to-face encounter with Beverly Beech.

When Ruth returns to her room, earlier than anticipated, she pours herself a triple Canadian Club and lights another cigarette.

She sits down facing the window – with a lovely view of Westmount in the distance. Something inside her has changed – and she can feel it. She stops to listen to the tone of her thoughts and knows them to be different from only a few hours earlier.

Ruth calls the Ritz-Carlton front desk and has individual notes delivered to the rooms of her finance directors. ‘Good news. You can sleep in. Sunday’s special meeting is cancelled. Sincerely, Ruth FitzGerald,’ reads each letter.

She sips her rye whisky and takes a deep drag on the cigarette. While exhaling, and deep in thought, a tumbling dark form passes outside her window and startles Ruth FitzGerald.

Beverly Beech’s version

Beverly Beech, alone in the Ritz-Carlton apartment she shares with her husband, is on the phone with room service.

“A bottle of Veuve Clicquot on ice please. No, no food, thank you… Pardon me? Oh, how many? Uhm, four flutes, please.”

Once again Beverly Beech waits for her husband.

To occupy herself, she selects each piece of JRB’s outfit for the event and positions them carefully upon their bed.

Her husband finally appears and proceeds to get dressed in his formal attire.

She helps him with his tie before polishing off the last of the Veuve. “Let’s go, James. It’s a special evening. I’m grateful to spend it with you,” she says studying herself in the hallway mirror.

Their ballroom entrance is a thing to behold. From the announcement of their arrival to the manner in which the crowd parts and gracefully turns to face the couple in rapt attention, the reception is thoroughly regal.

“Look at the decor, James. Isn’t that chandelier breath taking?” Beverly asks.

“I suppose so. I never expected to see gold braid and nodding plumes at one of my birthday parties.”

Two tall back chairs in red velvet are positioned at the northwest corner of the room. Francis calculates that his parents can sit and observe from this perch and receive visitors should they choose.

Beverly takes her seat in one of the velvet thrones and motions a waiter to bring her a glass of champagne. “Please stay nearby and don’t let the flute get less than half full.”

The poor waiter is in a no-win situation. Francis Beech had the Maître d’ warn his staff that Beverly Beech not be over-served.

“Yes ma’am,” replies the waiter who finds it obscene to deny a woman of her age.

Later, Beverly’s eye catches Ruth FitzGerald crossing the dance floor to join JRB. She watches as Ruth tends to his needs, brings him a drink and a bite of food. Beverly observed JRB’s face light up and his interest in their conversation.

When she sees her husband place his hand upon Ruth’s face, Beverly gets up and strides towards them.

Ruth FitzGerald, having just received a peck on the cheek from JRB, turns and faces Beverly Beech standing inches in front of her.

“Let the woman learn in silence with all subjection. But I suffer not a woman to teach, nor to usurp authority over the man, but to be in silence,” stammers Beverly Beech.

“Excuse me, Mrs Beech?”

“Where’s your own husband Mrs FitzGerald? Why aren’t you all over him? Or is he shacked up with an Owen Sound secretary?”

Ruth FitzGerald does not answer. Her face is blank as she sidesteps Beverly Beech and makes for the exit.

“Don’t walk away from me!” shouts Beverly Beech just loud enough for everyone in the ballroom to notice.

Ruth maintains her posture and neither turns nor accelerates her pace as she leaves the ballroom.

JRB’s version

“I don’t like parties. And I definitely don’t like parties held on my account,” says JRB to Beverly upon entering their apartment at the Ritz.

JRB and Beverly live in the Ritz-Carlton penthouse suite – a sprawling residence of brass and marble – furnished with three bedrooms and three bathrooms.

For a man of 95, he walks with sprightly determination and the long cane he carries is as much fashionable yardstick as means of support.

“Where were you? We’re going to be late. You need to get dressed”

JRB’s outfit – a long coat tuxedo with grey vest and colourful tie – is laid out upon the bed. 

He sees that Beverly has already opened a bottle of Veuve Clicquot. She finishes the last glass while he dresses.

“It’s Francis who is responsible for this pageantry, James. He’s put a lot of work into it.”

Beverly gets up to help JRB with his tie.

“Isn’t this a little ostentatious?”

“It’s your birthday, James, and they’re celebrating all that you’ve accomplished. A little splash of colour is appropriate… and don’t forget, our grandson Jimmy is going to be there.”

This brings a smile to JRB’s face.

“Doesn’t Jimmy remind you of Peter?”

A tear forms in Beverly’s eye. “Yes, James. Yes, he does.”

“When I look at Jimmy, I forget where I am. I’m in another time. In my mind, he becomes Peter and he’s alive – full of piss and vinegar - making things happen – my bull of the woods. But then, I come to my senses.”

“I understand, James. I see Peter in Jimmy’s eyes and in the way he talks to people – even strangers. He’s got his Uncle Peter’s confidence.”

“The boy’s a force of nature. We need to get him involved in the Company.”

“James, he’s 9 years old.”

The couple check themselves in the hallway mirror and – confidently impeccable – exit the penthouse.

They arrive at the ballroom to coronets and applause.

“So it begins,” mumbles JRB.

“They’re all here for you, James.”

“Brown-nosers and sycophants.”

JRB’s mood instantly improves upon seeing his grandson, Jimmy.

“Father, I’ve been looking at news division expenses. In light of market volatility, I think we need to tighten some screws. I’ve included in my board report an opportunity for cost savings. Ruth FitzGerald’s travel is a luxury we can’t afford. In times like these, it shows she has the wrong priorities.”

“What are you even talking about, Francis? Look at Jimmy. He’s such a natural.”

Together, Jimmy, Francis, and JRB tour the ballroom taking in the black storyboards on the rise of the Beech Company. “You’ve done a fine job, Francis. And this is an excellent education for young Jimmy.”

The old man places his hand on his grandson’s shoulder. “To you, this story of my life’s work must seem to have lasted an eternity. But for me, Jimmy, it’s been like the blink of an eye. How I wish I were young again.”

When the three near the end of the display and reach the board that contains a photo of Lewis Tichborne and Francis Beech in Vancouver, JRB expresses his disappointment. “Of all people, did you have to include Lewis Tichputz?”

“He’s been there for me. Ever since Peter’s murder, Lewis Tichborne has been loyal to me, Father.”

“And what of Ruth? Did you not think it relevant to include her – not even a mention?”

“Oh, I suppose that’s an omission on my part, Father. But it’s not like I could possibly squeeze every last Beech Company employee into the story.”

Miriam Beech’s two cents worth

Miriam emerges from the kitchen and sees the ballroom filled with guests. The band plays “Someone to Watch Over Me” and people surround the food stands to delight in snack-sized dishes.

Miriam has arranged for food stations to be positioned around the ballroom serving her inspired selections.

There are fresh-shucked oysters, giant shrimp, lobster, and scallops on multi-tiered trays with lemon wedges and horseradish garnish. The Montreal deli station with smoked meat sandwiches, kosher pickles and Cole slaw is packed with hungry men. There’s a Chinese spread – with egg rolls, fried rice and mini plates of chop suey. A man in tall chef’s hat slices bite-sized chunks of prime rib, pink and tender, seasoned with coarse salt, cracked pepper and a splash of hot butter. A smorgasbord of cheeses, fruit, and imported chocolates completes the menu.

Miriam spots her son, Jimmy, with his father and grandfather. They consider closely a black board of photographs and descriptions. She walks over to join them.

“Jimmy, your father has done a fine job telling this story. When it’s your turn to run the company, you’ll write the next chapters. You remind me so much of your Uncle Peter - my bull of the woods.” says JRB.

The old man places his long hand upon his grandson and affectionately pats his head.

“Always remember, Jimmy – Not good enough – Beech’s must be better.”

Miriam stands behind JRB and coughs deliberately.

“No, they don’t, Jimmy. Beeches don’t have to be anything they don’t want to be.”

Miriam then turns toward her father-in-law. “You will not place your twisted burden upon my son. I’ve watched it crush my husband’s spirit and I have no intention of allowing you to do the same to Jimmy.”

JRB’s frown slowly becomes a grin.

Francis Beech says nothing and observes his father’s reaction.

“My dear, the die is cast. The boy is a Beech and there’s absolutely nothing you can do to change that.

Lewis Tichborne’s angle

Lewis Tichborne rinses his face and looks in the mirror. Wearing only elastic waist boxers, he opens his lips wide, admires his teeth, and checks for debris. With a steaming hot facecloth, he wipes away remnants of shaving cream from his neck and ears.

His formal suit hangs on the back of the bathroom door.

“No rush,” he says.

Lewis Tichborne walks over to the sideboard and empties a bottle of vodka into a hand-painted teacup of fine china. He collapses into the wingback chair in the corner of his 2-bedroom suite. Lewis Tichborne charmed his way into an upgraded room on the top floor of the Ritz-Carlton.

He picks up a folded copy of Saturday’s paper that sits on the martini table.

“Selling Frenzy Caps Off Tumultuous Week” reads the headline.

“Fuuuuuck,” he slowly whines and downs the contents of his teacup.

Lewis Tichborne glances at the clock and lights a cigarette. He chooses to be fashionably late to the party.

“I’ve got lots of time.”

A moment later, there is a knock at his door.

Lewis Tichborne gets up, looks through the peephole but sees no one. 

He unlocks and cautiously opens the door – just a few inches.

With a jolt he is taken by surprise and stumbles backwards as four women push open the door and plough into his suite.

A rare occurrence, Lewis Tichborne is stunned. After a second, he regains his composure, straightens his boxers, and flashes a smile.

The four women work at the Beech Company head office in the secretarial pool, mailroom and dispatch. As working-class women, they’re not on the guest list for the party downstairs. They’re dressed in Ritz-Carlton housekeeping uniforms. Two of them carry baseball bats. 

Lewis Tichborne assesses the body language and facial expressions of his visitors. His mind races. He knows each of them – biblically – but doesn’t think they knew of each other. He made sure that they didn’t socialize together.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, ladies? What brings you here… together?”

The women advance into his suite and shut the door behind them.

Lewis Tichborne looks around the room, spots a paperweight on the desk and assesses its potential.

“No housekeeping at this time. The room’s just fine,” he says with a nervous laugh. “Look, the bed’s already made.”

One of the women (with bat in hand) steps towards Lewis Tichborne. She is a secretary in her late twenties with thick red hair and Irish accent.  Her speech is cold and hard.

“You pulled our strings to hand over every last cent. You even had us beseech our families. You promised we would all be rolling in it.”

A second woman (without bat) rolls her sleeves. A short and brawny French-Canadian, she is the next to address Lewis Tichborne. “Now we have nothing. The money our families gave you is gone. We were crying in the cafeteria and saw that we were not alone. I told these girls my humiliating story. Then they told their stories. Every one came back to you, Lewis Tichborne.”

The third woman to speak (again batless) has been a clerk in the Beech Company head office dispatch for more than twenty years. She has greying hair held in place with bobby pins. She speaks softly. “You preyed on us. You made fools of us. You said you loved us – each of us.”

The fourth woman does not speak. Her face is contorted. She does have a bat.

They charge Lewis Tichborne who retreats towards the balcony at the back of the suite. The momentum is sufficient – and much to their frustration - there is little chance to get their licks in.

Lewis Tichborne falls backwards over the balcony railing and rotates in the air as he tumbles. His left ankle violently catches the edge of an awning - like the snapping of a turkey wishbone - partially breaking his fall but cleaving him open from scrotum to tail bone.

His face hits the pavement with a smack.

Lying facedown upon the sidewalk, Lewis Tichborne is conscious for a moment. His right leg is positioned straight back while his left leg points towards his shoulder. He opens his eyes, tries to focus and notices a blood splatter before him and a random cluster of his teeth, scattered on the sidewalk - splattered in scarlet.

With his final movements, as if playing jacks, he reaches out and tries to collect the ivories in the palm of his right hand.

The Montreal police investigation is fleeting. It hastily concludes that his is yet another in a long list of recent suicides.

Chapter 25 - Whitefish Lake

September 18, 1935 (6 years later)
Algonquin Park, Ontario, Canada 

“No matter how much you disagree with your kin,
if you are a thoroughbred you will not discuss
their shortcomings with the neighbours.”
Tom Thomson

A project for Wilfrid Louie and his old friend, David Chase

“Most people prefer July and August, but for me, it’s the days between Labour Day and Thanksgiving – that’s when Algonquin is magical,” says Wilfrid Louie to David Chase. “Sure it’s cooler, but more colours, misty mornings, contemplative sunsets, and no bugs.”

After a day of strenuous labour, the friends sit upon stumps before a campfire and share a bottle of Seagram’s V.O. whisky. David Chase smokes a cigarette. Wilfrid Louie lights a pipe. The evening sky is cloudy – splashed with cyan and mauve.

Mariposa Radio is successful enough to provide Wilfrid Louie the means to construct his northern refuge: a log cabin cottage located in the Park. Since a fellow Orillia shopkeeper introduced to him Algonquin’s natural beauty, Wilfrid has been determined to make it his second home.

To assist with the construction, he invited his old friend, David Chase, to take the train east from the Shuswap. Wilfrid Louie met him at the station, and together, they drove two hours northeast to the site in Wilfrid’s new 1935 Ford pickup – with levels, chisels, plumb, measuring tape, and saws in tow.

When they arrived at the lot on the shores of Whitefish Lake, the logs were already stacked and waiting, having been ordered, prepped, and delivered in advance.

The men laid the foundation and installed the floor of a two-room structure plus screened porch. The main room is a kitchen, dining and living room while the second is a bedroom. It’s positioned not far from the water, giving the screened porch a panoramic view of Whitefish Lake.

They chose staggered corner joints and notched the logs as they assembled the walls – leaving space for eventual doors and windows along the way.

“It’s a beautiful vista from here up the lake,” says Wilfrid Louie exhaling a cloud of aromatic tobacco. “It’s why I picked this site.”

The hoot of a loon echoes across the bay.

“Thanks for the invitation, Old Tillicum,” David Chase says. “This is just what I needed.”

“Not at all. I should be thanking you. We’ve already got the makings of a log cabin,” says Wilfrid Louie gesturing towards the building site. “Look at our progress. All that’s left are windows, doors, screens, and the roof.”

Two loons fish in the bay in front of them. Their nest is nearby, just below the Beech Lumber Company railway bridge at the narrows.

Thirty feet off shore one of the loons emerges from a dive and turns a small fish in its beak before swallowing it.

“Look at her red eyes,” says Wilfrid Louie.

“The red will turn grey. Their eyes don’t hold the colour in winter. In the Shuswap, once the ice breaks up, loons arrive in pairs. Each couple chooses a bay. They nest on shore for about a month, taking turns, guarding their eggs.”

“And they mate for life.”

“Actually – not always. If a nesting fails, sometimes they split – and find another partner.” 

“Really? I didn’t know that.”

“It happens. There’s a mid-season courtship. The new pair dives together and finds a nesting area to try again.”

“You learn something new, every day.”

“I have to tell you, this is the best I’ve felt in some time,” says David Chase. He stares at his glass, swirls the whisky around, and takes a gulp. “I’ve been in terrible shape. Can’t keep a job. I can’t even be with people. As soon as anyone gets close – I push ‘em away.”

“Why’s that?”

“I don’t know. But this time here with you has been good for me. Working hard and having to think about the notch and angle of every log – haven’t had time to listen to the voices inside.”

Wilfrid Louie reaches out and clinks his glass to that of his friend.

“My mind gets in ruts and I get pulled in,” David Chase continues. “Why did I survive? Could I have done things differently?” He shakes his head, then looks at his friend. “Wilfrid, I know I’m nuts. The voices I hear are proof of that.”

Wilfrid Louie pauses before replying. “Maybe not. Maybe it’s folks who don’t hear a voice that are the crazy ones. I talk myself through past experiences. It keeps me on an even keel. Helps me study my actions. People with no chatter in their head are also the ones with no regrets and no apologies. Think about that for a second, Old Tillicum. Those people scare the shit out of me.”

David Chase studies Wilfrid’s face. Then he downs the last of his whisky.

“You’re a good friend, Wilfrid,” he says, then smiles. “Now, what’s for dinner?”

The men rummage through their dwindling supplies and come up with a can of beans and the last of the corned beef for dinner.

After cleaning up and safely storing what little remains of their provisions, they tie down a tarp over the roofless walls of the log cabin and tuck in for the night.

The Algonquin sky becomes a spectacle of sound and light – rumbles of thunder announce an incoming storm. Moments later, lightning shoots across the horizon. The men lay side by side as the rain pelts the tarp, drains off the edge and drips steadily onto the ground outside.

“For me, it’s the noise – that’s what gets me the most,” says Wilfrid Louie. “The noise takes me back to France, to the bombardments. I can’t wait for it to end.”

“I get that. But for me, it’s not so much the noise as the mud. Like, right now, I’ve gotta’ go take a piss – but I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because if I go outside and my feet get wet and muddy – I lose it. Nothing takes me back to the trenches like wet, muddy feet,” he says. “I don’t think straight. I need to dry my feet instantly. And don’t get in my way, ‘cause I’m not in control. It makes no sense, but I’m damaged goods, Wilfrid.”

“Aren’t we all?”

The men abandon hope of sleep ‘til the storm is finished. They catch up on old friends and Shuswap gossip.

“How is Henri Quesnel doing? I haven’t had news of him.”

“Henri? I thought you’d be asking about his daughter, Mélanie,” David Chase says, smirking. “I stayed at the Quesnel ranch for a while. It was good. But I did some stupid shit and they asked me to leave - my own damn fault. Henri Quesnel passed a few years back. Ginette and the kids run the ranch now – good family. They take in drifters, migrants, destitute children… they’re all expected to work – but everyone’s well fed and treated right.”

“Somehow, I’m not surprised. How did Henri go?”

“Heart attack. He fought the good fight to the bitter end, though. He dropped dead after delivering a speech on voting rights to a committee of the Legislative Assembly. Heart attack.”

When the storm finally subsides, the men get a few hours sleep.

I knew this was a bad idea

The next day is productive.

Wilfrid Louie and David Chase install purlins and rafters. They then get a start on the tricky process of cutting the stacked gable logs at progressive lengths and angles.

At the end of the day, the men return to their spots around the campfire. Again, they share some whisky – a bit more than the previous day. They smoke, chat, and reminisce.

When it comes time to prepare dinner, the thought of another can of beans leaves them uninspired. “That’s about all I’ve got left,” says Wilfrid Louie. “We’ll have to make a run into Barry’s Bay tomorrow for supplies.”

“I’d die for some fresh trout right now,” says David Chase. “Whaddya’ say we take a quick tour in the canoe?”

“The canoe? It’ll be dark soon, David,” Wilfrid Louie says. “And we’ve already had a few too many.”

“Come on, it’ll be quick, the lake is teeming with fish.”

“You really think we can troll from the canoe?”

“Don’t be a nervous Nellie. We’ll be fine. You paddle, I’ll drop a line and we’ll be back on shore in no time.”

“Alright, fine. But let’s not be stupid. If we don’t catch a trout in the first twenty minutes – we’re calling it a day.”

“Deal.”

They step down to the shore, carefully embark in the canoe, and paddle out towards the middle of the peaceful lake. David sets himself at the rear of the vessel and Wilfrid sits in the front third.

Whitefish is deathly still and the air is crisp. The squawking jays and chattering chickadees are hushed. Apart from the subtle sound of the paddle brushing the water – there is total silence. As if entering a cathedral, the men become solemn - making gestures to communicate. 

David Chase prepares his line – attaching a minnow-like lure plastered with three-pronged fishhooks. Wilfrid Louie paddles at a slow pace, keeping the path as straight as possible. David Chase lets his line run into the deepest parts of Whitefish – where the lake trout prefer the cold waters.

Whitefish Lake, Algonquin Park

The sky is bathed in thick burnt orange brushstrokes. Fifty yards to their left is a shore of dense mixed bush and some twenty yards to their right an exalted rock face rises forty feet, dotted with birch and white pine.

The immensity of the landscape envelops the men as a gentle current carries the canoe.

David Chase takes a sip of whisky, taps Wilfrid Louie on the shoulder, and silently passes the mickey to him. Wilfrid Louie lays his paddle flat across the canoe before him, his faith in the forward momentum.

He, too, sips of the whisky but otherwise remains silent. In this instant, he thinks, breaking the stillness with any sound might be a mortal sin.

Suddenly, the canoe rocks, snapping Wilfrid Louie out of his trance. He swings around to see David Chase standing up, ejecting a yellow stream that shatters the silence as it xylophones into the sacred waters of Whitefish.

David Chase’s loss of balance is violent, his fall projecting the canoe forward before it tips and drifts away from its former occupants.

Wilfrid Louie watches the tackle box disappear towards the blackness of the mucky, suctioning bottom. “I knew this was a bad idea.”

The shock of the frigid temperature stings on exposed skin – hands, neck, and face. The paralyzing density of the water is gradually comprehended as it fills pockets, pants, jackets, and boots. In desperation, the men struggle to hold their head above the surface and scream blasphemy toward Algonquin’s firmament.

Awakened by the commotion, birds warble songs of sorrow and a loon from beneath the railway bridge signals alarm with tremolo calls.

Wilfrid Louie’s numb fingers clumsily undo the buttons of his jacket and release it to the hungry lake. Twisting and turning in the frigid depths, he goes for his heavy boots but the waxed laces, hardened by the cold, are impenetrable.

His bearings lost in the blackness, Wilfrid Louie’s movements are slow and deliberate but his mind is racing.  He turns his head left, right, up, and down and does not see David Chase. He detects the light of the sky at the water’s surface. He repositions himself and estimates the distance. Looking skyward, above the surface, the red eyes and sharp beak of a loon appear in his frame of vision.

Wilfrid Louie musters his remaining energy and propels himself upwards one last time. He has time to think that he does not want this to be the end. Not this way and not now. He has time to get angry by thinking of Miriam. In this moment? How preposterous that once again she should occupy his thoughts.

His cotton shirt and canvas pants take on further weight but he nonetheless reaches the surface and arches his neck to force his mouth and nose just above the water line. The red eyes and beak fade away and he fills his lungs with air.

Exhaustion is winning the battle and Wilfrid Louie is sinking when he feels a sharp blow to the top of his head. Then something grabs him from behind, under the collar of his shirt, and tugs him upwards.

When he resurfaces, he coughs up mouthfuls of water and realizes a man has hooked him with a boat pole. The stranger stands beside a soaked David Chase and together they reach down to pull Wilfrid Louie into a boat.

With his back to the setting sun, shadows cover the gaunt features of the tall, thin, dark-haired man. He starts the Johnson outboard – and without saying a single word, he takes Wilfrid and David to a nearby shore – where he leads them up a set of stairs hidden in the brush. At the top of two flights stands a woman at the doorway of a cottage in the warm glow of gas lighting.

Wilfrid Louie and David Chase climb the stairs and look around - but the man has vanished.

An Algonquin refuge

In soaked outfits, they walk, in penguin style, towards the cottage. “I was sure I was a deader,” Wilfrid Louie mumbles through chattering teeth.

The woman opens the door and waves the men in. Upon entry into the cottage, Wilfrid Louie remarks the knotty pine planks that cover the walls, the gas lighting, dozens of paintings, and the smell of baking.

“Nothing like a near-death experience to sober you up,” says the woman smelling Seagram’s on the breath of her guests. Short in stature – not young - she has a wrinkled face but bright eyes.

“That was a pretty stupid move,” she says. “You’re lucky we heard you scream out there or you’d be sleeping with the fishes.”

The woman walks over to the kitchen and pulls a cookie sheet from the wood fired oven. The sweet smell of hot oatmeal raisin cookies fills the cottage.

“Go on through the door to the bedroom there and get undressed. There’s a couple of blankets on the chest.” she says.

The friends emerge wrapped in Hudson Bay blankets. They hang their wet clothes on a rack by the stone fireplace where a dancing flame snaps, sparks and hushes.

Wilfrid Louie studies the cottage. It’s cozy, with a roomy kitchen, a large desk and typewriter in front of a window, and against one wall is a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf angled to the peak – complete with ladder. Upon the other walls are oil paintings, big, small, on canvas and on plywood, of trees, skies, and wilderness landscapes.

The woman places a plate of cookies and a bottle of Canadian Club on the kitchen table and invites her guests to sit.

“Thank you very much,” says Wilfrid Louie, reaching for a cookie. “The fellow who saved us, where did he go?”

“Oh, he keeps pretty much to himself. He might drop by later if he gets hungry.”

“He sure got to us in a hurry,” says David Chase.

“You’re lucky to be alive. In the dark, half drunk, and no life jackets – what the hell were you doing?”

“Genius here,” says Wilfrid Louie pointing at David. “Thought we could troll for trout from the canoe and then decided to stand and take a piss.”

“I don’t know what I was thinking,” says David Chase shaking his head.

“You clearly weren’t thinking,” the woman replies. “Where are you boys from?”

“My name’s Wilfrid. I’m from Orillia and my friend David here is from the Shuswap - in BC. He’s visiting – helping me build a log cabin.”

“Well, welcome to the neighbourhood, Wilfrid,” the woman says. She cocks her head to one side. “Orillia – the Packet?”

“That’s right,” replies Wilfrid Louie. “You know your newspapers? I used to operate a Linotype machine.”

“You’re a typographer?”

“Not really. I suppose I once was… a long time ago. I’m in the radio business now. How is it you know newspapers?”

“Until a few years ago, I worked for a newspaper family,” replies the woman who pours Canadian Club into tumblers for her guests and herself.

“So did my sister,” interjects David Chase. “She wrote for the Vancouver Sun. And then she went and married the owner.”

“Did she now? I might know her.”

“Oh you wouldn’t know her. She stopped writing years ago. She’s in Montreal now. I haven’t seen her in ages,” says David Chase. “Her husband owns a bunch of newspapers – and thousands of miles of timber. He owns the railway bridge on this very lake.”

“Fancy that. Then you must be Miriam Beech’s brother,” says the woman to David Chase. “And Francis Beech is your brother-in-law.”

David Chase spits a mouthful of whisky back into his glass.

Wilfrid Louie swallows hard. He takes a moment to gather himself.

“Pardon me, but we didn’t get your name, ma’am,” he says. “And how do you know Miriam?”

“I know the Beech family better than I’d sometimes like to admit. My name is Ruth FitzGerald. I worked for them for thirty years.”

“Well, isn’t it a small world! Pleasure to meet you, Ruth FitzGerald. You and your mystery friend are life-savers!” says David Chase. “Miriam is indeed my sister but she’s Wilfrid’s one true love.”

Wilfrid hides his face in his hands.

“Sorry, Wilfrid, but you know it’s true,” David says, patting his friend on the knee. He turns back to the woman.

“What did you do for the Beech’s? Were you a nanny or a housekeeper?”

“No, I wasn’t a nanny… or housekeeper. I ran newspapers. I ran all their newspapers.”

“Now, I remember your name,” says Wilfrid Louie suddenly looking up. “You’re the one who hired Miriam, didn’t you? You sent her a letter at The Chase Weekly. ‘Carpe Diem, Miss Chase,’ you wrote.”

“That was probably me,” replies Ruth FitzGerald. “And I remember you too, Wilfrid. I attended a hockey game in Ottawa for the Stanley Cup. They called you the Waterbug – didn’t they?”

“That’s not all they called me,” Wilfrid Louie replies.

“Miriam had quite the reaction when they shouted those things. I always liked her – and there’s no question, she’s got talent. A gifted young woman… it’s too bad she doesn’t write anymore.”

“You worked for Francis Beech all those years?” asks David Chase.

“Many thought so,” Ruth FitzGerald says, shaking her head. “But no, I didn’t work for Francis Beech. I worked for his father, James Randolph Beech. They called him JRB. All Francis Beech ever did was stab me in the back - with his silver spoon.”

Wilfrid Louie takes a gulp of whisky and rubs his forehead.

“I don’t get it. How do you go from running a newspaper empire to a hermit’s existence in Algonquin?” he asks.

“My work for the Beech Company was a chapter of my life - a chapter I loved - and the founder treated me well.” Ruth takes a sip of her whisky and goes on. “It was the next generation – the one that hadn’t invested a single drop of sweat - that helped me make up my mind. It was a marvellous ride – and under the circumstances - I think I ended it well. But do I miss it? Not for a second.”

“How did you end it well?”

“December 31st, 1929 was my last day. I kept my head high – stayed gracious – and savoured the revenge of departing with more class than Francis Beech ever mustered in his twisted existence. JRB passed away that spring – ninety-five years old and tough as nails to the bitter end – so I don’t think my timing could have been better. He gave me this plot of land in the Park as a retirement gift. It used to belong to the Beech Company.”

“When did you last see Miriam? Do you know how she’s doing?” asks Wilfrid Louie.

“It’s been a while. I’m not so sure that Miriam’s cut out to be the wife of a newspaper baron – let alone a Westmount socialite,” Ruth says. “She is a doting mother. Her son’s got her spunk. His name is Jimmy and he’s charming – but he’s still a kid. JRB thought the world of him – saw him as the heir apparent. But I think the boy would be better off pursuing a different vocation entirely – get as far from the family business as possible.”

“I’m not surprised that Miriam’s a good mom,” says David Chase. “Our mother set the standard.”

“So what do you do now? Here in Algonquin?” asks Wilfrid Louie.

“I read, write, cook, chop wood. I pick blueberries. And I fish. I fish a lot.”

“Don’t you feel isolated? And what about winter?” asks David Chase.

“I spent thirty years constantly surrounded by people – taking trains, attending meetings. I got my fill of that. And winter is the best time in Algonquin. I keep the woodstove and fireplace going – load them up before going to bed. Lots of dry and canned goods and I get back to fishing once the ice is thick.”

“I understand the appeal,” says Wilfrid Louie.

“I’m where I want to be and I couldn’t be more content. I like to say that I’m writing my next chapter.”

“That was Miriam’s line,” says Wilfrid Louie. “She wasn’t a character in someone else’s book – she would write her own story.”

“Sounds like Miriam. But it’s a tough thing to do that when you’re married to the Beech clan,” says Ruth FitzGerald. “They have a way of sucking you into their saga.”

The mystery man returns

The front door flies open and Ruth FitzGerald’s mysterious neighbour walks in. He has a corncob pipe in his mouth, carries a violin under one arm, and has two mason jars under the other.

“Some blueberry preserves for you, Ruth” he says placing the jars on the kitchen table and pulling up a chair by the stone fireplace.

The man tunes his violin.

David Chase gets up and fetches him a drink. “I don’t know how to thank you. You saved our lives. My name is David Chase and I’m very pleased to meet you.”

The man nods his appreciation for the drink, takes a sip, places the glass on the floor at his feet, and tunes his instrument.

“I guess you’re hungry. I’ll cook some trout. I caught a three-pounder today,” says Ruth FitzGerald to her neighbour.

“Thanks, Ruth. I found your canoe, boys. It’s on the shore at the bottom of the stairs. Couldn’t find any paddles.”

Ruth tosses a chunk of butter into a heavy skillet. “Would you believe this fellow’s sister is married to Francis Beech?” she yells to the man while pointing at David Chase with her spatula.

“Is that so?” replies the mystery man who positions the violin under his chin and looks towards the neck as he speaks. “I travelled with the Beech brothers across Lake Superior on the Algoma. I was only a boy, but I remember every detail of that trip. First time I ever faced death.”

He pulls the bow over the strings and gently turns a peg.

“Some siblings would rather slit each other’s throats than work together,” he continues. “They’re born with a grudge. Other siblings are better together - they make each other great… and good. Those Beech brothers needed each other.”

“I was on that ship, too. I thought it was the end,” says Ruth FitzGerald. “Peter Beech was magnificent – so was Francis actually,”

“You were on the Algoma?” exclaims Wilfrid Louie.

“I was. And for Peter Beech to be murdered in Barkerville on that same trip after his bravery… it was all too much.”

“That’s when he was scalped?”

“That’s right. And after years on the run, deep in the Cariboo mountains, they finally tracked down the man who killed him – the ‘Head-hunter of Barkerville,’ she says with a sweep of her hand.

“JRB was obsessed with the murder. And it hangs over the Beech family to this day,” Ruth FitzGerald says. “There’s a regret at what could have been and an empty chair reminder at every Sunday meal”

The man pauses his warming up on the violin to take another sip of whisky.

“You boys are lucky I got there as quick as I did. You could have ended up like the bloated floater I once pulled from the lake… had a knock on his head and fishing line wrapped around his ankle,” he says as he finishes tuning his instrument.

“When the storm was finally over, I played this song on the shattered deck of the Algoma,” he adds and begins a rendition of In the Bleak Midwinter. The three others sit quietly, listening with rapt attention as mournful chords fill the cottage, punctuated occasionally by the crackle of the fire.

A tear is in Wilfrid Louie’s eye as he listens.

“That was heartbreaking,” he says when the stranger finishes. He turns to Ruth FitzGerald and asks, “Aren’t you going to introduce us to your friend?”

“No. No, I’m not,” she replies - holding back tears of her own.

Chapter 26 - Beech Head

June 24, 1936 (10 months later)
Montreal, Québec, Canada 

“If I could read your mind, love,
What a tale your thoughts could tell.
Just like a paperback novel,
The kind the drugstores sell.
Then you reach the part where the heartaches come,
The hero would be me.
But heroes often fail,
And you won’t read that book again
Because the ending’s just too hard to take!”
Gordon Lightfoot, If You Could Read My Mind

Beech Company woes

Francis Beech returns to his corner office from a mid-morning visit to the mailroom. He looks out the window – with its view of McGill University – and spies his wife, Miriam Beech. She is two blocks up the hill and walking in his direction.

Francis Beech’s office is ornate and paneled in Black Maple. In it, he has a private washroom – one of the perks of being the boss – with a door finished in the same wainscot pattern as the rest of his office. The match is so perfect that the door is practically invisible. He presses the panel and it pops open. Francis Beech showers, dresses, and re-emerges to face a massive portrait of his father that hangs on the wall.

The brass plaque attached to the base of the frame is inscribed: ‘James Randolph Beech, ‘Not Good Enough, Beech’s Must Be Better!’

He calls his secretary, Miss Dennis. “Can you come in here for a minute?”

She wears horn-rimmed glasses on a silver chain, has a mole beside her left nostril, and wisps of peach fuzz on her cheeks. Miss Dennis competently manages Francis Beech’s agenda, communications, and filing with total discretion and is reliable when needing to explain last-minute cancellations – often shouldering the blame. She is the first to last more than six months in the role. At the time of hiring, Miriam took one look and blessed the selection of Miss Dennis.

“Would it be seen as appropriate to remove the portrait, Miss Dennis?” Francis asks.

“Well, he is the Founder of the Company,” she replies.

“Yes, he is indeed the Founder… Then perhaps it could hang in the lobby so that all employees can see it. Wouldn’t that be better?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Beech. What do you think?”

“I’ll tell you what I think. I think I feel his glare from beyond the grave,” says Francis Beech lighting a cigarette and collapsing into the leather tufted chesterfield below the portrait. “That’s what I think, Miss Dennis.”

The death of JRB

For six years Francis Beech has been calling the shots at the Beech Company – since his father’s death in the spring of 1930.

Just prior to the moment of passing, Francis Beech stood bedside in his parents’ penthouse apartment at the Ritz-Carlton.

“I’m overcome with emotion, Father,” said Francis. “You are my compass and my sounding board. To carry on without you… I don’t know if I can do it.”

“Pull yourself together, Francis,” replied JRB. “Keep your head during the transition. It’s time to get Jimmy involved. Get him working at the paper mill in Hull this summer.”

“Yes, Father. I’ll do that. He is only ten-years-old, you know. But I’ll do it. I just have to convince Miriam.”

“Jesus Christ, Francis. Don’t convince Miriam. Just do it,” stammered the old man.

“No need to worry, I’ll figure it out. It’s tough not having anyone to turn to. I don’t have Lewis Tichborne anymore. He was my right-hand man. Much like when Ruth FitzGerald left the company - that couldn’t have been easy for you.”

The old man’s eyes glared and his brow pinched. Thin pasty strings of saliva stretched between his lips as his mouth gaped open.

“Don’t whine to me about your lackey. He didn’t make a goddamned difference in this company,” he said in his slow cadence with a surprisingly firm grip on his son’s wrist. “And don’t ever compare him to Ruth.”

The old man’s eyes widened until the lids could open no more and there they stayed.

Francis Beech stood alone bedside for an hour – in the rankness that followed the release of his JRB’s bowels – uncertain on how to unlock his father’s death grip upon his wrist.

Robert Rust’s receivables

Francis Beech reclines in the chesterfield and puts his feet on the coffee table that is covered in unread copies of Beech Company newspapers.

“Sir, you asked to see Mr. Rust. He’s outside. Did you want me to make him wait a while longer?” asks his secretary.

“Oh yes, thanks Miss Dennis. Just a few extra minutes. Not too long – it is Rusty, after all.”

Robert Rust enters the office five minutes later. He sits in a chair in front of the desk.

“Got any good news for me, Rusty?” asks Francis Beech. “Newsprint sales finally picking up?”

“I got the call this morning,” he replies. “The Regina Telegram has officially ceased publication and The Edmonton Times is hanging by a thread.”

The blood drains from Francis Beech’s face. “What do they still owe us?”

“Regina owes one hundred and fifty thousand. Edmonton was already up to seventy-five – but that was before the newsprint shipment you authorized last week,” Rusty says. “The one I advised against.”

“Well, how would they ever pay us back if they have no paper to print on?” asks Francis Beech raising his voice.

Robert Rust remains calm. “The worst thing we can do is provide more credit to a ship that’s doomed to sink. At some point, we walk away from our losses because the alternative is worse.”

“It’s a goddamned worldwide depression, Rusty! Our exports have tanked – and don’t look to pick up anytime soon. What else was I to do?” Francis rubs his forehead.

“Newsprint volume and prices are down across the board. In Toronto, The Mail and Empire and The Globe have been purchased and merged by the new owner – we’re trying to keep the new operation as a customer.”

“And what about the results in our own newspapers?”

“Not very good, Sir. We’ve got a bad debt problem in virtually all our operations. It’s time to clean up the books and write it off. We’re not going to collect on monies that are twelve months overdue from merchants who have since closed shop.”

“What is wrong with my publishers? Why can’t they fix this? Where’s their sense of urgency?”

“Sir, if you’re asking my opinion, you can’t motivate people with memoranda from behind a desk in Montreal. In moments of truth like these, you need to look them in the eye.”

Francis Beech wipes the sweat from his brow. “I have obligations here in Montreal, Rusty. I have boards I sit on. I have a family. And our newspapers span across the country.”

“Each of our newspapers is on a passenger train route that Ruth FitzGerald travelled constantly. She arrived without notice and toured operations before anyone in management even knew she was in town. The results of the division under her watch were not an accident.” 

“Well, it looks to me like she jumped ship just in time!” exclaims Francis Beech.

“It’s been six years, sir.”

“Trust me, she knew exactly what she was doing when she abandoned us. Her house of cards was crumbling and she wanted to be one step ahead. So, let me have it. What’s our cash situation?”

“We’re starved. We won’t make payroll next month. The situation is dire in all divisions – newsprint, lumber and newspaper publishing – and the bank is not willing to support us without a restructuring plan.”

“Bastards.”

“And sir, we still need to talk about my decision.” adds Robert Rust.

“Oh, we can talk about that another time, Rusty. You’re not in any rush, are you?”

“You’ve twice asked me to put it off. It’s been six months. It’s time.”

Francis Beech’s secretary, Miss Dennis, walks in and interrupts the meeting.

“Please forgive me, Mr. Beech. I thought you would want to know. Reception called. Your wife is here.”

“Oh God, now what?” Francis sighs and looks up at the ceiling.

“Apparently she’s not here to see you. She’s has a meeting with the Gazette’s editorial board.”

Miriam’s mission

Miriam stands before the Beech Company boardroom table. Around it sit the five men who make up The Montreal Gazette editorial board.

“At least she’s easy on the eyes,” writes one member to the others in a note he passes around during her address.

“The editorial pages of The Gazette need to increase the pressure,” Miriam says, looking at each man in turn. “What will you do to preserve momentum at this critical juncture? Will you get off your asses and do what’s right?”

“Mrs. Beech,” says one of the men. “We have made it clear that we’re in support of women in Quebec getting the vote. Why come here and lecture us?”

“Maybe you shouldn’t bite the hand that feeds you, Mrs. Beech,” says another.

Miriam presses her lips together then continues in a tone that is firm but respectful.

“Gentlemen, public support is on our side – we must complete the project. The absolute worst scenario is if Duplessis wins the next election. That could set us back years. He and his cohorts would rather see us barefoot and pregnant – in the kitchen.”

“That would be tragic,” mumbles a man under his breath. “Barefoot and naked, on the other hand.”

Around the table they hide their expressions and struggle to contain their laughter.

“Listen you lazy oafs, we’re stragglers.” says Miriam through clenched teeth. “Every other province has granted women the vote except for Quebec and for federal elections, it’s been twenty years.”

Francis Beech opens the door to the boardroom and enters.

The slouching members of the editorial board sit up in their chairs.

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything, gentlemen,” says Francis Beech.

“Nope,” says Miriam. “I’d say we’re done here.”

The members of the editorial board gather their notes, pencils, and coffee cups and get up and leave.

“I’ll take you home,” says Francis to Miriam.

Ten minutes later, their driver picks up Francis and Miriam at the front door of the Beech building. They do not speak on the short drive to their home in Westmount.

Miriam Chase has become a leader of the women’s rights movement in Montreal. She is the chairwoman of the suffragette committee of the Montreal Council of Women.

In the spring, she hosted a small but notorious dinner party at the Beech residence – prepared, catered and served entirely by men. Even the music was performed by a string trio of handsome musicians from the music department at McGill.

Her dinner guests were a group of independent Quebec women supportive of the cause. Marie Lacoste-Guérin-Lajoie, Idola Saint-Jean, Octavia Ritchie and Thérèse Casgrain enjoyed a delightful evening of champagne, amuses-gueules, roast duck, and male subordination.

Stories of the gathering got around and shocked Montreal society – giving gossipers a field day. With each retelling of the story, the seditious suffragette dinner group became more nefarious.

“I’ve told you so many times, Miriam. It’s not our role to be front and centre on controversial issues. Many of our customers are conservative in their views. If you insist on being involved – you must be discreet and lead from behind,” says Francis Beech as they enter the vestibule of their Westmount mansion.

“I will not be discreet on this subject, Francis,” replies Miriam.

“Well, you’ll ruin any social standing we have left in this town if you invite one more radical for tea, Miriam.”

“I could not care less about our social standing.”

“That’s the problem. You married me knowing what it meant. You became a Beech in full knowledge of the benefits and the disadvantages. And today you stand there saying you couldn’t care less.”

Miriam looks at Francis. His face is blotchy. His brow is covered in sweat. Another time she would have helped pull him together. She is not inclined to do so.

“Yes, that’s what I’m saying.” she says.

“You chose this life. We got here together. We shared the wheel. I didn’t kidnap you, goddamnit! You pursued me. We built this home together.”

“We did, Francis. And that doesn’t mean that I must subjugate my principles.”

Francis Beech walks over to the bar in the parlour and pours himself a glass of bourbon.

“I’ve decided that Jimmy is to spend the summer at a camp in Algonquin Park,” says Miriam.

“Please, not now, Miriam. I can’t take anymore.”

“It will be good for him.”

“We agreed he’s going to work in the Company this summer. He’s sixteen years old. Like it or not, it’s his destiny to inherit and run The Beech Company.”

“Jimmy is not destined for anything. He will choose his own path. Who knows? Maybe he won’t even want to run the Beech Company. But one thing I know for certain - it’s not in his best interest to have his head filled with nonsense and be treated like a prince for the summer.”

Francis Beech pulls back on his cowlick. His face turns red.

“Miriam, your life in my lap of luxury is not an à la carte menu. You can’t reap the benefits and reject the responsibilities – it’s a package deal. All or nothing.”

Miriam remains calm and does not respond. She waits a moment and clears her throat.

“The camp looks to be an ideal experience for a young man his age – aimed at helping him become the best he can be. I’m not backing down on this, Francis. I’ll do what is right for Jimmy and his development - come hell or high-water.”

“No. I won’t allow it. We’ll talk later about Jimmy’s summer. Right now, I need to get back to work.” 

Francis Beech unravels

It is eight o’clock in the evening and Robert Rust joins Francis Beech in his office. Papers, pencils, and ledgers are spread out upon the desk. While Robert Rust is as buttoned-down as he was at eight in the morning, Francis Beech’s tie is undone, his shirt untucked.

“That’s what I like about you, Robert,” says Francis Beech. “Your loyalty. I appreciate how much you value your relationship - with me – as the head of the family. And your service will not soon be forgotten.”

“Sir, to be clear, my loyalty has been to my colleagues and to the mission of building a great enterprise,” replies Robert Rust who, with his index finger, taps his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

“Yes, of course,” replies Francis Beech.

“We’re out of options,” adds Robert Rust. “You need to meet our representative at The Bank of Montreal first thing in the morning. He’s expecting you. Lay out the measures that we’ve discussed. Here are the notes I prepared – and remind him that the bank is far better off if we’re a going concern. If he chooses to let us fail, it’s riskier – for him.”

Francis Beech rubs his eyes, looks at the portrait of his father, stands up, and walks in a circle around his office.

“You don’t expect me to do this alone?” Francis asks, his tone near to pleading. “You’re coming with me, aren’t you Rusty? You just told me you’re loyal to your colleagues. They need this to work as much as I do.”

“My people have moved on – through retirement, to other companies, or you’ve terminated them. I’ve stayed longer than I originally planned and I’ve done my best for them and for the Company. I wish it could have ended differently, but here we are. This is the end of the line for me, Mr. Beech.”

“Not now,” pleads Francis Beech. “Let’s do this with decorum. I haven’t organized a retirement party. With a gift… and cake and speeches. You must at least stay until I pull that together – you’re part of the furniture around here. People need to say farewell in the proper manner – give you the kind of send-off you deserve.”

“Goodbye Mr. Beech,” says Robert Rust placing a ring of keys on the desk. He gets up and walks out of the office.

Francis Beech sits back in his chair. He opens the bottom drawer of his desk and pulls out a mickey of bourbon. He downs a mouthful, leans back, puts his feet on the desk, and again looks at the portrait on his office wall.

He finishes the mickey and goes for a walk around the empty offices of the Beech Building looking into open doors to see if anyone is still working. He finds no one and takes the elevator to the basement. The lights flicker in the dimly lit space that smells of ink and paper.

Francis Beech wanders until from the shadows of a hallway emerges a woman in coveralls, her hair tied up. She walks over to him. “You still here?” she asks.

Francis Beech perches himself on a pile of newspaper bundles in a corner of the mailroom.

“Twice in one day, Mr. Beech?” says the woman in coveralls. “Aren’t we feeling randy?”

“Please don’t speak,” he replies, lighting a cigarette.

The woman kneels down, undoes his belt, and unzips his pants. Francis Beech leans back against the wall and looks at the ceiling. He notices that it is covered in soot and cobwebs. He reaches into his pocket, removes a money clip, and pulls out a five-dollar bill. Without so much as glancing upwards, she takes it from his hand and shoves it in her pocket.

Miriam’s 1936 McLaughlin-Buick Roadmaster Phaeton

To Miriam, it feels like freedom.

The route from Montreal is adventurous and circuitous but she loves driving her 1936 McLaughlin-Buick Roadmaster Phaeton convertible. Miriam and Jimmy are up and out before dawn. Before departing, they load a picnic basket with roast beef sandwiches, condiments, and a chunk of Oka cheese. The night before, Francis Beech did not come home until after midnight – he is out cold when they leave.

The weather cooperates. Sunny skies and warm temperatures make for a perfect road trip. To pass the time, Miriam and Jimmy play “Twenty Questions,” and “Two Truths and a Lie.”

“I once jumped in a swimming hole full of two-headed snakes. My first writing job was at The Vancouver Sun. My best friend at school was Chinese,” says Miriam to her son. “Two of these statements are true and one is a lie. Name the lie!”

“You hate snakes, that I know. And I’ve never heard of a two-headed snake. You did work at The Vancouver Sun – because that’s where you met Dad. You’ve never mentioned a Chinese girlfriend before… Can I get a hint before I take a stab at it?”

“No hints. Use logic, Jimmy.”

“I’m going with the two-headed snakes,” he says smiling. “There’s absolutely no way you would do that.”

“I did too! And I wrote for a newspaper in the Shuswap where I grew up before I worked at the Sun in Vancouver. So that was the lie.”

“I can’t believe you decided to swim with snakes – two-headed ones!”

“I didn’t know there were snakes in the swimming hole. My friend told me after I was already in the water.”

“Your Chinese friend?”

“As a matter of fact, yes, my Chinese friend – although I can’t think of anyone more Canadian than him.”

“Him?” replies Jimmy. “So your best friend was a boy?”

“My best friend was a boy, Jimmy.”

“Wow.”

During the quiet moments of the drive Miriam wonders why she isn’t feeling more out of sorts. She has just had a monumental dispute with her husband yet feels no desire to reconnect – to patch things up – or even to patch him up as she has done so often before.

It is dusk when they near their destination and Miriam has to be cautious following the directions down the logging road whose surface goes from washboard to battlefield craters.

She finally pulls into a narrow, winding laneway in the bush. Branches, leaves and needles graze the sides of her car making squeaky, scratching sounds, which are suddenly drowned out by a calamitous clanging. “Oh God, I hope that’s not the engine,” says Miriam whose imagination immediately goes to the worst-case scenario.

Then, at the end of the laneway, the Buick’s headlights illuminate a woman of short stature holding two large kitchen pots in her hands.

Miriam parks the car and she and Jimmy jumps out.

“Hello!” says the woman. “I’m so happy to see you!”

“What’s with the pots, Mrs. FitzGerald?” asks Miriam.

“Oh, please call me Ruth. I’m just scaring away the bears with some clanging. At times they get a little too friendly - you know. Come on in! Look at you! I am so pleased that you accepted my invitation. Such sweet memories!” says Ruth FitzGerald squeezing Jimmy’s cheeks.

Miriam opens her purse and removes a folded piece of parchment. “Ruth, when I read your letter, I thought how sweet that you would think to check in on us. It was perfectly timed. I followed my intuition and here we are.”

Dear Miriam, 

I often think about you and your beautiful son.

As you know, I worked closely with his grandfather, James Randolph Beech, who thought so highly of Jimmy.

I do hope that you have found a way to flourish in these treacherous times.

I have recently had the pleasure of discovering a wonderful developmental experience for youth that builds character through adventure: The Algonquin Park Summer Camp.

In case this is of interest, please find enclosed a brochure, registration information, and directions to both the camp and my cottage in the Park.

Of course, I would be delighted if you could pay me a visit and even stay a while at my Algonquin refuge should you decide to bring Jimmy in this direction.

I recall, I sent you a letter many years ago.

So, once again, Carpe Diem, Miriam.

Warmest regards,

Ruth FitzGerald 

Chapter 27 - Lure

July 1, 1936 (1 week later)
Algonquin Park, Ontario, Canada 

“And our fingers entwined like ribbons of light
And we came through a doorway somewhere in the night…
’How long,’ said she, ‘Can a moment like this belong to someone?”
Gordon Lightfoot, Affair on 8th Avenue

Something Fishy

Even in summer — until sunrise — the Algonquin air has a chill. A thin layer of mist hovers over the lake and, in the bay, you can make out the contours of a pair of loons. One dives for fish while the other remains on the surface, calmly paddling nearby with a scruffy lump nestled on its back.

Ruth carries a small basket under her arm and Miriam has two mugs of coffee. They walk to the end of the dock to two Muskoka chairs positioned to face the lake. Ruth reveals blueberry scones tucked under a dishtowel covering the basket.

“You keep this up and I may never leave,” says Miriam. “Do you see that over there? The loon has something on its back. Is it a chick?”

“That’s a baby loon,” replies Ruth. “Their mating season is romantic. They share nesting duties. They fish together…. They’re always in each other’s company.”

“The baby loon is just a puff of black down,” says Miriam.

“The chicks can swim right away but they like to ride up there,” says Ruth taking a sip of her coffee. “Who wouldn’t? Take naps, keep away from snapping turtles.”

Miriam, rapt, watches the loons.

“Maybe that’s why I’m not sure I want to go back. I don’t enjoy being in his company,” says Miriam. “When we share a meal – interruptions come as a relief. I dread my time with Francis. I come away feeling empty. He’s like a vampire sucking away at my energy.”

Ruth reaches over and places her hand on top of Miriam’s.

“Do you remember why you married him?”

“Leave it to you, Ruth, to ask the real question. JRB said you had a way of putting the moose on the table,” Miriam says with a chuckle. She looks back over the lake toward the loons.

“It wasn’t just the trappings – I admit the prospect of trips to the Riviera and the Westmount mansion were enticing – but Francis can be charming. He’s intelligent, elegant, well-read. He’s appeared so well-finished.”

“Miriam,” Ruth says, “I remember a moment when I had insight into the Beech clan. There was a feature in the paper on Francis being named by Commerce Magazine as one of the most influential men in Montreal. He made a point in the interview of saying how surprised he was and that the recognition really belonged to all Beech Company employees. Reading that article, I remembered JRB telling me how Francis’ mother, Bev, had the Editor of Commerce for lunch two weeks earlier. And you know how wily Bev can be. Truth be told, Francis may very well have been surprised and I suppose that’s the tragedy of it all.”

Miriam nods. “To this day, he simmers with rage when an employee brings up your name, Ruth. For some reason, he can’t stand how fond they remain of you. Maybe if he’d gotten away from the family early on – maybe then Francis could have led his own life. I guess his decision not to do so still belongs to him, though, doesn’t it?”

“Speaking of which, Miriam, aren’t you the one who said she would write her own story?” Ruth asks.

“Yes, I am. And there’s something else I’ve come to realize. Not about Francis but about me. From the beginning, he needed me. He couldn’t function without me – at least not for long. His dependence must have represented something for me.”

“You’ve had time to think about this.”

“I have. Every one of our impasses ends with Francis presenting me with a list of things I must do more of or less of – in order for him to function. And I earnestly applied myself each time – until now.”

“What’s different?”

“I think I finally get it. I can’t be responsible for his happiness. That comes from within. I’ll never fix Francis. Behind his perfect finish are cracks that I cannot repair and I’ll drain what’s left of me if I keep trying.”

“Do you love him?”

“I thought his dependence strengthened our bond – made us stronger – but I don’t understand love that way anymore. His neediness helped me feel more in control – but I don’t think I crave that anymore. Maybe I finally grew up.” Miriam looks to the horizon, takes a deep breath and slowly exhales. “Why did you never marry, Ruth?”

“But I did,” Ruth replies. “I married my childhood sweetheart – he was such fun to be with. Edmund had the gift of the gab. We actually worked well together in newspapers for a time,” she adds with a smile. “But Edmund is a surface dweller: a man with virtually no inner dialogue. I realized that where I had aspirations – Edmund had impulses. I had ambitions – he had urges. I made plans – he followed instincts. We were destined to grow in opposite directions. So, I moved on – even though he insisted he loved me and needed me.”

“What happened to him?” says Miriam, sipping her coffee.

“I left him in Owen Sound. He moved in with a classified ad girl who never took a day off and had more than a hundred pairs of shoes and a dozen mink coats in her closets. She was found to have been skimming cash for years. He resigned in disgrace and was soon broke. I offered him a cheque if he signed the divorce papers. He jumped at it.”

“Do you ever miss him?” Miriam asks.

“Oh no. Not in the least,” Ruth laughs. “I have some sweet memories of him – some not so sweet. But I can safely say I’m not missing anyone at this stage of my life.”

“I need to thank you, Ruth,” says Miriam turning towards her. “I’m grateful for this time. It’s all so selfless of you.”

Ruth looks Miriam in the eye and grins. “Even the purest motive may be tangled, my dear,” she replies.

Miriam and Ruth drink their coffees and enjoy the scones in silence.

“Now, you’re coming fishing with me this morning, right?” says Ruth, putting her empty coffee mug down on the arm of her chair.

“Yes, I’m excited,” replies Miriam. “I can’t remember the last time I fished.”

Miriam fetches the gas tank, carries it down to the dock, and connects it to the outboard. Ruth grabs two fishing poles and her tackle box.

Ruth starts the Johnson motor and the two set off, chugging along to the narrows below the railway bridge. The current is gentle but strong enough that she needs to drop the anchor to hold their position.

They make several casts. Ruth has a few bites. Miriam isn’t as fortunate. As time passes, Miriam begins to feel frustrated. “Am I doing something wrong?” she asks.

“Patience. Remember, fish are finicky.”

Ruth opens her tackle box and removes a speckled yellow and green lure. “I cherish this lure. My father made it. He fished Lochaber Lake when I was a kid. It’s the only item of his that I have left.”

The lure is remarkably frog-like with torso and articulated legs carved in wood. Three-pronged fishhooks are attached at the end of each leg and under the belly. Ruth secures the lure to her line.

“It’s the best lure for catching bass,” she says with a cast and an immediate splash. Ruth pulls up on her pole to set the hook and reels in.

“About a pound and a half, I’d say,” she exclaims as hauls a bass to the surface.

Miriam grabs the fish net and captures the twisting fish.

“Works almost every time,” says Ruth as she delicately removes the lure. She takes the stunned fish and gently pulls it back and forth in the water. In a moment, the bass finds its bearings and disappears into Whitefish Lake.

Miriam studies the lure.

“You can try it, Miriam. Just be careful,” says Ruth. “Here, pass me your pole and I’ll set it for you.”

“Oh I couldn’t,” replies Miriam. “Are you sure?”

Ruth smiles and removes the tackle that Miriam has on her line. She turns to face the bridge and attaches the frog lure.

“There you go,” says Ruth handing the pole back to Miriam who casts beside the weed bed and slowly winds her line back in.

“Try a little closer to the weeds. That’s where the big ones hide,” says Ruth.

Miriam casts again. This time the frog lure falls inside the edge of the weed bed.

She pulls up on her pole and the fishing line tightens. “It’s caught,” she says.

“Might be the big one,” cries Ruth. “Reel it in!”

“You think so?” exclaims Miriam who enthusiastically reels - causing her pole to arc towards the water.

Suddenly the fishing pole straightens and her line goes limp.

Miriam’s face drains of all colour. She continues reeling and a loose string of fishing line appears - covered in tiny droplets reflecting the morning sun.

“Oh my God!” says Miriam. “I’m so sorry Ruth. I don’t know what to say.”

“Must have been a nasty bass to snap the line like that,” replies Ruth.

“But your father’s lure!” cries Miriam. Her eyes well up.

Ruth and Miriam are interrupted by a voice from the bridge above. “Everything all right ladies?” he shouts. The man holds a pole in his hands and his fishing line runs down thirty feet into the waters of the narrows.

“Why hello Wilfrid!” says Ruth. “Fancy meeting you here.” 

“Wilfrid?” says Miriam looking up. “Wilfrid Louie? Is that you?”

“Good morning Ruth. Good morning Miriam,” he replies from above.

“Wilfrid, I can’t believe it’s you. What are you doing here?” Miriam asks.

“I’m fishing,” replies Wilfrid blinking into the bright sun.

“Wilfrid has a cottage just across the bay,” says Ruth to Miriam. “You two know each other?” she asks.

Miriam shakes her head in disbelief.

“Is everything good down there?” asks Wilfrid Louie.

“No it’s not,” cries Miriam. “I just lost Ruth’s special lure. The one her father made. I feel terrible.”

“That doesn’t sound good,” replies Wilfrid Louie as he shifts his position on the bridge, moving his line and studying the water. “I suppose a bass got a hold of it.”

He walks back and forth, keeping his gaze fixed at the water below.

After a moment – Wilfrid yanks upwards and winds in his reel. A bass breaks the surface of the water and puts up little fight as it rises through the air to the height of the bridge. There, Wilfrid Louie holds his pole in one hand and a net in the other to secure his catch.

Ruth and Miriam watch him from their boat below.

Holding it out over the railing of the bridge, he grips the bass firmly with his left hand and with his right he uses a pair of needle nose pliers to gently remove the hook from the fish’s bottom lip. He then uses the same pliers and reaches inside the mouth of the bass. He digs, tugs, and ever so delicately removes an object from within the belly of the fish. Wilfrid stretches his arm out towards the boat below and reveals a speckled yellow and green frog-like object.

“Heavens to Betsy!” cries Miriam in disbelief. “Ruth, It’s your father’s lure! Do you see that? He caught my fish! The one that swallowed the lure!”

Wilfrid Louie continues to hold it out for the women to examine. “Is this what you’re looking for?”

“How did you do that?” shouts Miriam.

“That’s amazing Wilfrid,” says Ruth FitzGerald.

“Wilfrid! You’re a lifesaver! Where did you come from?” exclaims Miriam.

“All this drama and it’s not even ten o’clock,” says Ruth. “Wilfrid, would you like to come back to my place? I’ve got a few more blueberry scones.”

“That would be delightful,” he replies.

At Ruth’s cottage

Wilfrid ties his boat to the dock and, carrying his tackle box, walks up to join the women inside Ruth’s screened-in porch.

“I still can’t believe you did that, Wilfrid,” says Miriam sipping her coffee. “And I can’t believe you’re here. This is surreal.”

Ruth brought out a plate of scones. “Lucky for you he caught that fish,” she says to Miriam. “That lure was one-of-a-kind.”

“I was mortified. I felt so bad – and for you to catch the fish that swallowed the lure. It’s unbelievable. There is magic in this Park.”

Wilfrid smiles. He bends down to open the tackle box that he placed on the floor at his feet. He removes a pipe and a small leather pouch of tobacco. The open drawer of his tackle box reveals no less than five speckled yellow and green frog-like lures with articulated legs.

Miriam stares at the lures.

“It was Ruth’s idea,” says Wilfrid Louie through a half-clenched mouth, holding a lit match at the end of his pipe.

Miriam explodes in laughter – her crazy laugh. “You two are terrible!” she cries. “You set me up!”

“My father never fished,” exclaims Ruth. “All he left me were bills to pay,” she chuckles.

Wilfrid looks at Miriam. “I can’t begin to tell you how I’ve missed the sound of your laugh.”

Wilfrid & Miriam’s sunset canoe tour 

Ruth invites Wilfrid to return for dinner. The three share a feast of wild turkey with onion, sage, and cranberry stuffing, a side of roasted fiddleheads, and mashed potatoes with gravy.

After a sliver of rhubarb pie for dessert, Wilfrid looks at Miriam and proposes a sunset tour on Whitefish Lake in his canoe.

“That sounds lovely,” she replies. “Let’s clean up these dishes first.”

“No, you two go ahead,” says Ruth. “This won’t take me a minute.”

It’s a warm evening with no wind. “The skitters will leave us alone once we get moving,” says Wilfrid.

“You knew I was going to be here?” replies Miriam as they paddle out into the lake.

“Ruth said you might be visiting this summer.”

“And she knew we were old friends?”

“Ruth doesn’t miss much. I’m sure she had a pretty good idea.”

“She’s the one who came up with the whole charade?”

“She did indeed. I had that bass with the lure in it on my line the whole time. The look on your face was priceless,” he says, his paddle breaking the water’s surface.

“I’m glad you had a good laugh at my expense. How long have you and Ruth known each other?”

“Your brother David came to help me build my cottage last year – and while on a canoe trip sort of like this one, we met Ruth and that neighbour of hers.”

“I didn’t know David had been here. I haven’t seen him in years. I send him letters and he rarely replies. How is he?”

“You know David. Up and down. We had a grand time together. He was in a good place while he was here. I asked him to stay. But he returned to the Shuswap and now I wait months for a reply to my letters. What about you? Why are you hiding out in Algonquin?”

“I’m not hiding. I brought my son Jimmy to a summer camp in the park.”

“That was a week ago,” replies Wilfrid. “Won’t someone be looking for you?” 

“Maybe. I don’t know… I’m thinking about what I want to do next,” says Miriam.

“Tell me about your son.”

“Jimmy’s an old soul, mature beyond his years. He’s curious. He asks questions and has a wonderful sense of humour… he loves to laugh,” explains Miriam.

“Sounds like someone I know. He’s lucky to have you for a mother.”

“I had a good example,” says Miriam.

“That you did. I think my own mother loved so long as those around her remained at her beck and call. But if someone behaved according to their own desires – she took it as an affront. I sometimes wonder what it would have been like to have successful parents – ones who help you find your way,” says Wilfrid. 

“Careful what you wish for,” she replies. “You know, my father was a bit of a local icon.”

“Miriam, they named the town after him,” says Wilfrid.

“That they did. And I knew enough to strike out on my own. My father died when I was young and my Ki-7-ce encouraged me to believe in myself.”

“Your mother was special.”

“Wilfrid, you didn’t have the shadow of a parent hang over you. No one ever said under his breath – ‘Wilfrid Louie will never live up to the example set by his father.’ You enter a room with the thought that everyone is comparing you to one of the country’s great entrepreneurs – a living legend. Can you even imagine the weight?”

“I admit,” says Wilfrid, gently steering the canoe. “I’d never thought of it that way.”

“In your mind – you’re convinced they’re asking themselves: ‘does he have the brains? Does he have the bloody-mindedness of his father?’ It crushes the spirit.”

“You’re talking about your husband, not your son, I take it?” says Wilfrid.

“I suppose I am,” replies Miriam looking out toward the silhouette of the tree line. “Francis is determined to be a good man. But I think he’s like a hand-painted vase. On one side it’s intricately, beautifully decorated – but behind there’s a crack from the constant pressure and a hole from his brother’s murder – that can never be patched.”

“I once said to my sister that our childhood experiences were like vulcanizing rubber. Our resilience is a direct result,” explains Wilfrid.

“And did you know, at the family dining room table – right up until his mother died –there was an untouched place setting? The ghost of his brother, Peter, was present at every Sunday dinner,” says Miriam.

“That’s creepy,” replies Wilfrid gently paddling closer to the shore.

“You want creepy? When the old man saw a twinkle in my son’s eye that reminded him of Peter – that was creepy,” Miriam exclaims, her cheeks rising and her eyes squinting. “Jimmy deserves his own journey – not to have the twisted Patriarch plot out his future before he even comes of age.”

“Are you saying you want your son to write his own story?” asks Wilfrid.

Miriam gives Wilfrid a knowing smile. “Touché. The entire family is haunted by Peter’s murder. It happened long before I met him, but I think it scarred Francis. He found the body – scalped – and then the investigation that lasted forever. When JRB anointed my son as some sort of reincarnation, it sent chills down my spine.”

The sky is ablaze in a warm sunset palette. Wilfrid points to a form in the water to the right of them. “Look at it go,” says Miriam. “A moose head and antlers floating on the surface.”

“They’re great swimmers,” says Wilfrid. “We should head back before it gets dark.”

“I’m in no rush,” replies Miriam.

Bridging the gap

The next day is a scorcher. The air is heavy with humidity. After breakfast, Wilfrid jumps in his boat and heads back to Ruth’s cottage.

There he finds Miriam and Ruth reading on the screened porch.

“Good morning ladies,” he says walking up the stairs to the cottage. “It’s gonna’ be a hot one!”

Ruth looks at the thermometer attached to the porch siding. “It’s already almost ninety degrees,” she says.

“Why don’t we go for a dip,” proposes Wilfrid. “It’s the best way to beat the heat.”

“You two go ahead,” says Ruth.

Miriam looks up from her book. “You’re on,” she says slamming it down on the table beside her. “I’ll go get my bathing suit.”

Ruth turns to Wilfrid. “Would you like a coffee before you two head out?” she asks.

“No thanks, I’ve had my share already.”

“Where are you going to swim?”

“I was thinking we’d go to the railway bridge at the narrows.”

“That’s risky,” she smiles.

“Isn’t it?” he replies with a smirk.

Miriam and Wilfrid pull the boat up on the sandy beach adjacent to the railway bridge. Dressed in swimming trunks with beach towels slung over their shoulders, they climb the steep hill and clamber onto the bridge – an iron block without trusses that connects each side of the narrows. From there, they can look back up Whitefish Lake. Their exertion in the humidity is enough to cover them both in beads of sweat.

“We could comfortably stroll into the water back down there,” says Miriam pointing at the sandy beach where they parked the boat. “Why are we up here?”

“We can jump off that bridge when we get to it, is what Henri Quesnel used to say,” replies Wilfrid.

The Beech Company Railway Bridge in Algonquin Park

“Very funny. How far down is it?” she asks peering at the water below.

“About thirty feet.”

“Are you going to jump?” she asks.

“We could jump together,” Wilfrid says, nudging her. “Come on, let’s stand on the ledge,” he says, heaving himself up onto the three-foot high steel railing. He pulls himself to his feet and balances there, eighteen inches of steel under his feet and nothing but air to grasp.

“You’re crazy, Wilfrid Louie,” says Miriam carefully climbing beside him. She looks down from their perch and exclaims with a cackle: “To jump or not to jump, that is the question. Any two-headed snakes in this lake, Wilfrid?” she asks with a wink as she pulls a hair tie from her wrist and quickly tugs her hair into a ponytail.

Wilfrid is distracted as she poses the question. With her hair pulled back, the lines of her face are revealed. Wilfrid’s eye catches a bead of sweat beside her ear. It runs over her jaw line and down her neck.

“Wilfrid?” she asks again.

“No, no two-headed snakes,” he replies turning to face the lake.

“You remember that night in Blind Bay,” asks Miriam. “After the dance… We sat on a snowbank and stared at the horizon?”

“I remember that night.”

“You recall what you said?” she asks.

“I think so. I definitely remember what I felt. Maybe I imagined it - but I think I got a glimpse - a notion that I know you Miriam… with more precision than a scientist knows a specimen. And I sensed that in our brokenness we’re pieces of a puzzle that somehow snap together.”

Looking straight ahead, Miriam replies. ““What did you do about it, Wilfrid?” When you sensed those things… what did you take the time to say – or to do?”

Wilfrid Louie doesn’t answer for a moment. “What did you want me to do?” he asks.

“I don’t know… But you didn’t do much – as I recall,” exclaims Miriam still looking ahead. Following a pause she adds: “I don’t think private people truly appreciate just how private they are.”

There is a sudden screech of steel against steel – and a blast from a release of steam. Wilfrid looks at Miriam. “It’s the logging train.”

A locomotive whistles loudly as it emerges from the forest to their left, accelerating in their direction.

“We have to jump,” yells Wilfrid.

“I can’t jump from here!” she cries.

“We don’t have a choice, Miriam!”

Leaning out the window of the locomotive, an engineer spots Miriam and Wilfrid on the ledge of the bridge. His face expands in shock. He yanks hard and long on the whistle chain.

At the last moment Miriam grabs Wilfrid’s hand and together they leap from the bridge. The train is so close that they feel a swoosh of air as it blows past.  They plummet into the narrows, their momentum carrying them to the very bottom, their toes scattering sleepy fish.

Wilfrid comes up first. He watches, as if in a dream, as Miriam emerges and shakes her head. His eyes track the trail of drops hitting the water in circle patterns. He watches her hair settle flat clinging to her neckline as it had in a Shuswap swimming hole years before.

Miriam and Wilfrid look at each other, and then up at the bridge. They watch the railway cars, stacked high with logs, roll by and disappear. The clattering of the wheels dissipates as quickly as it arrived.

Miriam looks at Wilfrid.

“Did we choose to jump or did the train force us?”

“Does it matter?” he asks. “Either way, I think we’re in too deep.”

Treading water, Wilfrid moves closer to Miriam, then leans in and gently kisses her. Her lips are wet and swollen from the plunge and adrenaline.

She grips his arms and kisses him back more forcefully. They tip over and sink into Whitefish Lake.

Wilfrid and Miriam swim to the sandy beach where they left the boat. He starts the outboard and Miriam grabs their towels and sits on the bench facing him. She places Wilfrid’s towel around his shoulders and wraps herself in hers. Wilfrid has one hand on the motor and one on Miriam’s knee as they cross the bay. Her hands are pressed on top of his – her thumb is tucked under, gently rubbing the palm of his hand.

When they arrive at Wilfrid’s dock, he ties up the boat. Their hands are clasped as they run from the dock through the door of the log cabin.

Once inside, Wilfrid holds Miriam by the elbows and draws her in for a deep kiss. Their contact releases a pent-up current of connectivity that surges through their bodies.

They fall to the floor on top of a bearskin pelt. “I’ve imagined this scene more often than I can say,” mumbles Wilfrid pulling down her bathing suit and kissing Miriam’s neck and breast. “I stopped believing we would ever find ourselves in this moment. Do you realize…” he says as Miriam places her hand over his mouth.

She kisses his neck and places her lips against his ear. “Shut up,” Miriam whispers as she kisses him and peels off his wet bathing suit.

Wilfrid presses himself vigorously against her and their movements are synchronized upon the soft firmness of the fur-covered floor. Miriam rolls over and pushes Wilfrid down upon his back with her hands on his shoulders.

Their eyes are fixed upon each other. He grips her breasts as she gyrates upon him. Drops of sweat fall from Miriam’s face onto Wilfrid’s chest and stomach. Their tempo slowly accelerates until it reaches a flat out pace. Miriam’s wails echo through the cabin and she flattens herself upon him still heavily breathing.

When they are finished, they face one another and he holds her close gliding his fingers over her neckline and shoulder.

“This moment can’t last long enough.

“Don’t think about that,” says Miriam. “Just be here with me.”

Francis’ plea

“It’s cocktail hour!” exclaims Ruth FitzGerald.

She has an oak hutch converted into a liquor cabinet in the main room of her cottage. Ruth pours herself a Canadian Club. Miriam has a Plymouth gin and tonic. Wilfrid prefers Johnny Walker Black.

They play three-handed euchre on the porch. A bowl of potato chips sits in the middle of the table.

“What’s trump?” asks Wilfrid for the second time.

“Hearts,” replies Miriam with a giggle.

They look at each other and smile - again.

“Give it up you two,” says Ruth. “You’re making me nauseous.”

An outboard motor rumbles in the distance. The three of them look out towards the lake. The boat, containing a single person, slows and pulls up to Ruth’s dock. A man dressed in overalls and wearing a cap gets out and walks up the stairs. He knocks at the door to the screened porch.

“Come on in,” yells Ruth.

The man opens the door and steps in. “Are you Mrs. Beech?” he asks, looking at Ruth.

“No, how can I help you?”

“I’ve got a telegram here for Mrs. Beech. They said she’d be at this cottage,” explains the man.

“I’m Mrs. Beech,” says Miriam. “Who’s it from?”

“I work at the Beech Lumber Company Camp at Tea Lake, Ma’am. I was told to deliver this to you,” he says handing her an envelope.

Miriam reaches out and takes it.

“Ma’am, I don’t know what’s going on and I don’t know if there’s anything you can do – but I promised the guys that I would at least ask.” 

“Ask about what?” says Miriam.

“None of us got paid this week,” he explains. “And we have no idea what’s going on.”

“Neither do I,” replies Miriam.

She opens the envelope.

It reads:

“Come home. Ready to discuss options. We WILL work this out. Need you. CONSEQUENCES IF YOU DON’T COME NOW. YOUR HUSBAND. FRANCIS BEECH.”

Chapter 28 - Hurry Hard

April, 1940 (4 years later)
Orillia, Ontario, Canada

“This time tomorrow, we might all be packed and gone
I believe, it’s best we carry on
Smoke rings rising ‘til they disappear
In the sky above, if you ask me, I’ll tag along”
Gordon Lightfoot, I’ll Tag Along

Wilfrid closes shop at Mariposa Radio, drives to the Orillia Packet, and pulls into the parking lot. Miriam, the women’s page editor, appears from the back door. She has with her a hot-off-the-press copy of The Packet.

Wilfrid gets out of the car and opens the passenger door for Miriam.

“Thanks honey,” she says giving him a peck on the cheek. “Have you got the brooms?” she asks handing him the newspaper.

“Yes, they’re in the trunk,” he replies, closing the door after her. He walks around the car to the driver’s side door, glancing at the newspaper headlines as he goes.

‘GERMANS ROLL THROUGH HOLLAND AND BELGIUM,’ and ‘LEAFS LOSE TO RANGERS IN STANLEY CUP FINALS.”

“Thanks for the newspaper honey,” he says, placing it on the dash. “I don’t really feel like reading depressing stories on Nazi victories right now or about Palooka losses,” He holds Miriam’s hand as they drive to the Orillia Curling Club releasing it only when necessary to shift gears.

The club parking lot is crowded with cars – the Friday evening mixed-doubles curling league being especially popular. Tonight, Wilfrid and Miriam are participating in the final for the club championship.

“The curling season is already coming to an end,” Miriam says with a sigh as they pull into one of the few empty spots. “That’s the downside of being busy and happy. Time flies.”

“That’s why we embrace each moment - even if it may appear insignificant,” says Wilfrid turning off the ignition. He turns to her. “To be clear though, tonight is not insignificant. We’re playing to win,” he says, giving her hand a squeeze.

“For all the marbles!” replies Miriam with a grin.

Miriam and Wilfrid wear their wool curling sweaters and matching tams. Wilfrid’s sweater is dotted with crests from bonspiels on the front and a crossed brooms and stone pattern on the back. Miriam’s is a form-fitting red sweater with white trim. Their fellow curlers are outfitted with variations of the same theme.

The main hall of the Orillia Curling Club is on the second floor. It has a wall of windows looking out over the rinks – allowing spectators a bird’s eye view of the action while enjoying a beverage in the warmth.

Wood-and-glass cases house the hardware of past champions: trophies topped with the golden figures of crouching curlers; silver bowls and trays etched with the dates and names of club champions. Navy-and-maroon felt standards be-tasselled, and embroidered in gold, line the walls, each one listing the names of bonspiel victors. 

The Club serves draught beer, mixed drinks, and a variety of snacks. Three large jars sit on the bar: pickled sausage, pickled onions, and pickled eggs. Dried pepperonis hang in pairs on a wooden stand and wicker baskets of popcorn sell for five cents.

On round tables draped in red and black plaid tablecloths are marble ashtrays of cream and caramel swirls, boxes of wooden matches, and packs of Export “A” cigarettes in forest green or Player’s in baby blue.

Miriam and Wilfrid meet their teammates and opponents on the ice. Hand shakes and wishes of “good curling” are shared between the teams of four. A coin toss determines which team goes first.

Wilfrid – who plays lead – throws the first stone. Miriam, who is the team’s skip, stands at the other end of the ice, her broom carefully positioned to indicate the line the wants Wilfrid’s stone to follow.

His first throw is right on the money. Executed with proper weight and direction, it settles as a guard obstructing their opponent’s path to the house.

“Good shot, Wilfrid,” says his curling teammate, a tall man with dark hair combed and creamed straight back. “You’re a fine curler – so why let your wife skip?”

“It’s not for me,” replies Wilfrid, “to let her do anything.”

“Yeah, but a woman skip?” the man persists.

“It works for us,” Wilfrid replies, looking down the ice toward Miriam. “We’re partners: I set it up and she closes.”

“But you come off looking like a bit of a sissy… you know that.”

“I can live with that,” Wilfrid says.

“Miriam’s divorced, eh?” the man goes on. “Quite the looker though.”

Wilfrid raises an eyebrow and looks at his teammate. “We don’t need to talk, you know. We can stand here in silence. That’s perfectly okay, too.”

The man runs his hand over his helmet-like hair. “Suit yourself.”

They are down to the last rock of the end, and it’s Miriam’s. As she readies herself to throw, crouched with stone in hand, Wilfrid positions himself a few yards ahead, his broom on the surface of the beaded ice, ready to sweep and affect the stone’s course down the rink. “You’ve got this one,” he says.

But she doesn’t. Miriam’s stone is too heavy and she overshoots her target.

“That’s alright,” says Wilfrid. “We’ll get that back next end.”

Miriam’s teammate, the wife of Wilfrid’s greased-hair companion, is a plumpish woman with a beehive. “Your husband’s so nice to you,” she remarks to Miriam. “Mine chews me out if I try a hard shot. He says he wants me to play within my abilities.”

Miriam shrugs in response and turns her attention back to the ice.

The game is a seesaw battle. In the final end, the score is tied. The season’s mixed-doubles championship comes down to Miriam who has the hammer – the end’s final stone – in her hands. 

In the main hall, spectators crowd around the window. On the other sheets of ice, where teams compete for third, fourth, fifth and sixth place, everyone stops and turns to watch Miriam’s throw.

The rink is silent as she launches the forty 40-pound chunk of polished granite down the sheet of ice. Wilfrid slides alongside the stone, his broom readied to sweep at a moment’s notice. He waits for instructions from Miriam who remains crouched – her focus intent on the stone and its line.

“Wait!” she yells. “Wait!”

This time her throw isn’t too heavy.

Miriam’s stone collides with an opponent’s on the edge of the four-foot ring knocking it flying out of bounds. Veering to the inside, its speed diminished, it taps another stone out of the way then – slowly, slowly – it inches toward the middle of the house until settling, finally, smack on the button. Shot rock!

Wilfrid raises his broom in the air with a whoop. “Perfect shot!” he shouts.

Applause erupts from other curlers and from within the main hall.

Miriam slides down to the end of the rink to inspect the final results and hugs Wilfrid.

“We did it!”

Back slaps and handshakes ensue between participants and then, thoroughly spent by their efforts, they make their way to the main hall.

“What are you having?” Wilfrid asks in a perpetuation of curling’s most civilized tradition: the winners buy the losers a drink.

The players gather around a table in the main hall to dissect the game, watch the remaining competitors through the window, and raise a glass to one another.

“That was a great shot, Miriam,” says the slicked hair man. “I don’t think my wife could pull that off.”

“You won’t know until you let her try,” replies Miriam.

The man looks surprised. “I suppose so,” he says.

“And where did you learn to curl there, Wilfrid?” the man asks, turning away from Miriam. “Not too bad for a… well you know,” he adds.

“I learned to curl on Little Shuswap Lake,” replies Wilfrid. “in British Columbia. That’s where I was born.”

“Really? You know to fit in around here, it helps to have deep roots,” says the man. “My great-grandmother came to Orillia when it was still a one-horse town.”

Wilfrid looks at him. “Of course – deep roots. That must be why you treat the Chippewas with so much reverence,” he deadpans.

The man shrugs – begins to speak – thinks better of it – and decides to stroke his hair one more time.

“Speaking of learning to curl,” says Wilfrid to those at the table. “Do you know how the sport started in Canada?”

The man shakes his head.

Wilfrid leans in and tells the story.

“It happened nearly 200 years ago. You might know of Major General James Wolfe? He’s the one who read Gray’s Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard to his troops as they crossed the Saint Lawrence River. The line from the Elegy, ‘The paths of glory lead but to the grave…’ prompted him to say, ‘I would rather have written those lines than take Quebec tomorrow.’ He would, of course, die hours later in the battle.”

The man is looking at Wilfrid utterly perplexed.

“What’s not so well known,” Wilfrid continues, “is that the origins of Canadian curling were with him in that crossing. You know, of course, that curling started in Scotland – well, Fraser’s Highland Regiment would spend the winter of 1759-60 within the pulverized walls of Québec City. Cabin fever inspired a need for some friendly competition. So a group of intrepid Highlanders melted down cannonballs, made iron curling stones, and became the country’s first curlers on the frozen river.”

“I did not know that,” says the woman with the beehive. “How interesting.”

“Your stories take too long,” mumbles Wilfrid’s greased-hair teammate.

Wilfrid gets up and heads to the bar for another round. He brings Miriam a Plymouth Gin and tonic and a Crown Royal – double with one cube of ice - for himself.

“He pays attention to you,” says her teammate to Miriam. “What’s your secret?”

“It’s not complicated,” says Miriam. “We take care of each other.”

“Well, you’ve only been together for a few years. You’ll see. The honeymoon wears off, let me tell you.”

“We’ve known each other a long time actually – since school. It was love from the beginning. I may not have realized it. But Wilfrid did,” replies Miriam.

“I’m sure he did. That does sound romantic, though,” says the woman. “It must help to be so much alike.”

“Actually, we’re about contradictions – not similarities,” says Miriam with a sip of her gin and tonic. “I told him years ago – our perspectives couldn’t be more different. He sees the big picture, thinks long term, and doesn’t try to control me. I notice details that he overlooks. We work well together because we respect and admire each other. Wilfrid treats me as if I were heaven-sent – like I was specially created for him to love,” explains Miriam.

“Hmmm,” replies the woman. “He does look better since you came along. He dresses much better.”

“He’s my rock. I try to be that for him as well,” says Miriam. “Our love makes me want to be the best version of myself.”

“That sounds nice,” replies her teammate leaning in to confide in Miriam. “When I need my husband to get the message, I stop talking to him – for a couple of days – sometimes it takes a couple of weeks. But he’s just so thick-headed.”

A chill sweeps through the hall as the doors open and Miriam’s son Jimmy and two friends walk in.

Miriam spots their arrival and waves them over. The boys pull up chairs and join the crowded table. Wilfrid takes their drink orders.

“We won!” says Miriam. “Can you believe it?”

“Here’s to the champs!” says Jimmy when the drinks arrive. “To my mom and Wilfrid.” The table raises and clinks their glasses.

Miriam interrupts the ensuing chatter by tapping her glass with a spoon.

“Excuse me everyone!” she says loudly to those assembled. “Now, I’d like to make a toast!” She looks at her son and puts one hand on his shoulder. “To my son – who has graduated from the Ontario College of Art. We’re very proud of you, Jimmy.”

The gathering clinks their glasses and pound the table.

“Congrats, Jimmy!”

“Bravo!”

“Speech!” yells one of Jimmy’s friends.

Jimmy stands up, quieting the crowd with his hands. “Thank you, thank you. Yes, it’s true. I have a bachelor’s degree in fine art – qualifying me for a life of canned beans and basement apartments.” Everyone laughs, a few nod.

Actually,” he continues. “I should add, that at Wilfrid’s insistence, I do have a minor in Accounting!”

“So he can paint by numbers,” interjects Wilfrid to even more laughter.

“I loved every minute of my studies,” Jimmy continues. “Some might say that I have chosen the life of an artist – but I think it’s more accurate to say that this life chose me. The bug is inside,” he says, his hand on his chest. “And I believe that if I express it – it will be the meaning of my life and if I were to suppress it, it would haunt me.”

“Well said!” exclaims Miriam.

Jimmy shifts his attention to his stepfather.

“Thanks to you, Wilfrid, for supporting me. You made it clear that during my studies, you would be happy to pay my bills – and now that these are complete – I’m on my own… but I could not have done this without you and I am grateful. To my mom, through each step you have made every effort to support me,” Jimmy turns to face his mother whose eyes well up. “No matter the stress it may have caused – you always sought what would be best – sometimes by letting me fall on my face and having to figure my way out – sometimes by catching me before I fell. You always try to find that balance – not take the path of least resistance. What more could a son ask?”

Miriam hugs her son.

“Now, is a speech like this worth another drink?” Jimmy asks looking at the faces around him.

“Yes, one more round for the silver-tongued devil and his friends,” replies Miriam.

“It would have been nice if my father were here to celebrate,” adds Jimmy. “But he’s not.

Jimmy’s expression turns more serious.

“And there is one more thing,” he says putting his hand on his mother’s shoulder. “Today, my friends and I did something else. We enlisted. We leave next Tuesday,” he says.

Miriam’s eyes well up again.

Wilfrid hesitates. His gaze momentarily lost in the distance, he stands up and shakes Jimmy’s hand. “I’m proud of you,” he says, looking Jimmy in the eye.

Opening the cottage

On Jimmy’s final weekend before basic training, Wilfrid, Miriam, and he drive to Algonquin Park to open the cottage for the season.

En route, Miriam and Jimmy teach Wilfrid their favourite road trip games: Twenty Questions and Two Truths and a Lie. Wilfrid is particularly good at Twenty Questions whenever it is Miriam’s turn. He rarely needs more than three or four to guess what she is thinking.

With two late-season snowstorms there remain patches of snow in the bush and Whitefish Lake is icy-cold.

Upon their arrival, Wilfrid and Jimmy go immediately to work. They drag the heavy propane tanks into position, open the outhouse, prime the water pump that draws water from the lake, change the batteries on flashlights, and replace any damaged propane light mantles.

Then they inspect the cottage for ice damage and determine if any critters have nested inside during the winter.

“Why don’t you check on Ruth while Jimmy and I finish up?” says Wilfrid.

“I’ll do that,” Miriam replies.

Jimmy and Wilfrid carry the boat and outboard down to the dock. They change the oil and fill the portable gas tank with fresh fuel.

“She’s ready to go now, mom,” says Jimmy.

Miriam ties her scarf over her head, starts the Johnson motor and crosses the lake – the sun is warm – the air is cool.

As Miriam approaches Ruth’s dock, she sees an unfamiliar boat already moored there. Did Ruth buy a fancy new boat? she wonders as she pulls up alongside. She eyes it curiously as she ties up her own small vessel, then shrugs it off and walks up the dock toward the cottage.

Walking up the stairs, she hears voices from inside Ruth’s cottage, knocks on the door and calls out. “Hello Ruth! It’s Miriam!”

At the kitchen table, engaged in intense conversation, is Ruth FitzGerald and a gaunt, grey, and unshaven Francis Beech.

The agony of Francis Beech

When Francis Beech appeared at Ruth’s cottage earlier that morning, she looked at him through the screen door, rubbed her eyes then looked again. “Is that you, Francis?”

“Hello Ruth, may I come in?” he asked.

“Sure you can,” Ruth FitzGerald said, opening the door and motioning him in. “Can’t say I expected to ever see your face again.”

They sat at the kitchen table. Ruth poured two coffees.

“I’m desperate,” Francis began. “We’re in a pickle. The price of newsprint is up twenty-five percent and our papers are struggling.”

“Go on.”

“My team is weak. It’s hard to believe. They can’t seem to get anything right,” said Francis reaching for his coffee. He steadied the trembling mug with his free hand. “I’ve never worked so hard and I need help before I lose everything.”

Ruth lit a cigarette. “I saw you sold the newsprint division and some lumber tracts in a fire sale a few years ago,” she said. “You brought your books?”

“What’s that?”

“Your financial statements. You brought them, didn’t you?” asked Ruth.

Francis Beech nodded and pulled a pack of folded papers from the inside pocket of his jacket.

Ruth spread them out on the kitchen table, pulled a kerosene lamp close, put on her reading glasses, and picked up the pencil she’d been using on a crossword puzzle.

Francis sat quietly while she read the lines and columns. She made notes in the margins.

“What do you think?” asked Francis Beech.

Ruth removed her glasses and looked him in the eye. “Why are you here, Francis?”

“Like I said, I need help.”

“From the looks of this fiasco, you do need help. But why me?”

“I’ve always respected your judgement – your business acumen. You know how to make decisions, Ruth.”

“Is that it?” she replied sitting back in her chair. Ruth supported her chin with her left hand and stared at her guest. “Well, Francis, I may be able to help you. But it comes with a condition.”

“I’ll pay you handsomely,” said Francis Beech. “Name your price.”

“I don’t want your money, Francis.”

“Well, whatever you do want, consider it done!” Francis said, his voice almost pleading.

“Francis,” Ruth said evenly. “You’ve cut off your ex-wife and your son.”

Francis’ jaw dropped. He sat back in his chair. “I don’t see what that has to do with anything.” 

Ruth reached for her pack of cigarettes and lit one. “It does if you want my help,” she said.

“Why should they matter to you?”

“They’re my friends, Francis. And if I can turn your situation to their advantage that’s what I intend to do.”

Francis pushed his chair back and got up from the table.

“Miriam left me,” he said pointing a finger at his own chest. “She took Jimmy away from me. She’s remarried a Chinaman and they’re plotting to turn my son against me!” His volume has risen with every me. “I warned her when she left that there’d be consequences.”

Ruth sipped her coffee. “Look, I have an idea that might save you from losing everything. I’ll need to make a few phone calls. But before I do anything, my condition stands.”

“What do you mean exactly?”

“If you want my help, you’re going to transfer the title of one Beech newspaper to Miriam and Jimmy,” said Ruth.

“I don’t understand why you should care what happens to them,” said Francis walking away from the kitchen table towards the screened porch. “Which newspaper?”

“I’ll let you know which one,” she replied. “For this to work, you’re going to have to sell more assets. I know the buyers who will be interested and I have some ideas on how to drive up the price.”

“Ruth, that’s what I needed to hear,” exclaimed Francis, looking relieved.

Ruth took a long drag upon her cigarette and squinted at Francis. “This couldn’t have been easy for you – getting up the gumption to come here. I suspect you’ve been hemming and hawing for weeks. And now it’s in your hands. If you want my help – you know the price. Take it or leave it.”

Miriam meets Francis for the first time since leaving him

The door slams behind Miriam. She is no more than a step into the kitchen when she freezes.

Francis stands behind a kitchen chair. Upon spotting his ex, he grips the top rail of the chair. His knuckles are white.

“Miriam!” he cries.

“Francis! I certainly didn’t expect to find you here,” says Miriam.

“I came to discuss some matters with Ruth,” Francis stammers. “Is Jimmy with you?” he asks.

“He and Wilfrid are opening the cottage.”

Ruth puts out her cigarette, gets up, and walks over to hug Miriam. “It’s great to see you,” she says. “It’s been a long winter. Can I get you a coffee?”

“I didn’t know you had company, Ruth. I don’t want to disturb.”

“You’re not disturbing anything. Francis and I are done here.”

“We are?” asks Francis, his fingers still gripping the chair.

“We’re done,” replies Ruth. “You know the terms.”

Francis walks towards the door, then stops. “Do you have a minute, Miriam?” he asks her.

They head outside, walk down the stairs, and Francis and Miriam stand face to face on Ruth’s dock.

“It’s been a long time, Miriam,” Francis says. “You look great.”

“Thank you, Francis. I wish I could say the same. Are you taking care of yourself? What are you doing here?”

“It’s just the stress of the business,” he says looking away from her and over the water. “I came to get Ruth’s opinion on a project I’m working on.”

“You don’t look very good.”

 “I’m fine.” Francis takes a breath and looks at her. “Miriam, I’m ready to let bygones be bygones. Why don’t you and Jimmy just come home?”

“Bygones?” Miriam stares at him. “I can’t believe you said that. You really aren’t well, are you Francis? You’ve cut off your son. You gave me nothing – and you’re talking bygones?”

“We both have things to be sorry for. But I’m ready to forgive. Why can’t you?”

“I am truly sorry for many things. Not least of all for thinking you might not already be broken - by your father and by your brother’s murder. But I’m not coming back, Francis. That’s not going to happen.”

“Miriam,” says Francis, grabbing her by the arms. “You’re not hearing me. I know that you and that new man of yours are doing everything in your power to turn my boy against me. But I’m ready to forgive - if you come home.”

“Let me go,” says Miriam stepping back. “Nobody’s turning Jimmy against you. He would love to have you involved in his life and I would not stand in the way. You need to understand, I’ve never been more content. I didn’t appreciate how cynical I had become. I have a connection that I didn’t believe possible.”

“But you once said you loved me and you made a vow,” pleads Francis.

“I did Francis. But I was young and naïve. I understand love in ways I couldn’t have back then.”

“You’re not in love with that man. That’s sick and selfish, Miriam.”

“I do love him.”

Francis digests Miriam’s words and feels nauseated. He blinks at her in disbelief, turns, and runs back up the stairs towards Ruth’s cottage. He opens the door and shouts, “Forget any deal! I’ll take care of things myself!” 

He then scurries back down the stairs and into his boat.

“Aren’t you going to stop and see Jimmy?” asks Miriam.

“I don’t have time anymore,” sputters Francis as he starts the outboard motor and speeds away across Whitefish Lake leaving a wake behind.

Ruth walks down to the dock with two coffee mugs. She hands one to Miriam.

“What was he here to see you about?” asks Miriam.

“I’m not sure. He’s pretty messed up,” replies Ruth taking a sip of her coffee. “Francis certainly inherited at least one trait from his father. He knows how to hold a grudge.”

Chapter 29 - Loons

September, 1966 (26 years later)
Orillia, Ontario, Canada

“Hear the cry of the ringneck look
Hear the sound he will be home soon
Hear the cry in the afternoon”
Ringneck Loon, Gordon Lightfoot

The other secret

On his way to Mariposa Radio, Wilfrid Louie stops at Soldiers Memorial Hospital for an early morning appointment.

“How are we feeling?” asks his doctor, a tall, impeccably dressed man with framed photographs of his high-achieving children adorning the walls of his office. Wilfrid has curled with him for years.

“I fell. First game of the season - just lost my balance. I’m sweating buckets at night. Miriam wants to know what’s going on. I think she felt a lump.”

“Why haven’t you told her?” asks the doctor, his chapped fingers feeling around Wilfrid’s neck.

“I was waiting for you to confirm it. I didn’t want her to fret over nothing.”

“It’s not nothing,” says the doctor. “Unbutton your shirt and undo your pants.”

He examines Wilfrid, feeling the lumps around his neck, in his armpits, and groin.

“It’s what I told you last time – and if it’s confirmation you need, you’ve got it.”

“Okay,” says Wilfrid with a deep exhale.

“Look Wilfrid, this is tough, as tough as it gets. They’re growing. Quickly,” he says as he turns to wash his hands. “But you can’t face this alone. Miriam’s no shrinking violet. She can handle it.”

“I guess my body did keep score,” mumbles Wilfrid Louie.

“What’s that?” asks the doctor.

“Nothing… I know Miriam can handle it. It’s just – once I tell her – it becomes real. We start the countdown. From that point forward every moment is tinged with the knowledge that the end is near,” he says staring at the floor. “What’s next?” asks Wilfrid.

“You can get dressed,” replies the doctor. “Next, the tumours get bulkier… interfere in organ function… bone marrow failure… it gets ugly.”

“Ugly how?” 

“You sure you want the details?”

“Yeah, I do,” replied Wilfrid.

“The pain gets much worse. Fatigue, bowel, loss of balance, loss of other functions.”

“Oh, we got a sneak preview of that one already.”

“That’s too bad.”

“How much time do I have?”

“That’s hard to say. It’s aggressive. Could be weeks. Might be months. We’re not talking years,” says the doctor.

A customer at Mariposa Radio

Following the appointment, Wilfrid walks the few blocks to Mariposa Radio. He passes friends and acquaintances along the way. His responses to their wishes of ‘good morning’ are delayed.

A handsome young man with sandy blond curls wearing jeans, gold-rimmed sunglasses, and jean jacket walks into the store and strolls around the showroom.

“How can I help you?” asks Wilfrid.

“I’m looking to buy a colour TV… for my parents,” replies the man removing his sunglasses.

“I think I can help. We’ve got a good selection. This way.”

“I want your best,” says the young man.

Wilfrid guides him to a model near the back of the store.

“Mom and Dad have got an old black and white box.”

“This is one of the best colour televisions on the market,” says Wilfrid. “It’s not inexpensive, however.”

“Not a problem. I got an advance from the CBC.* They’ve commissioned me to write a song for the centennial. I’m thinking to write about the railway.”

“You mean the CPR?”

“Yeah, I suppose so.”

“My father worked on the construction on the CPR – and then in a cook car after that.”

“Is that right? Did he ever talk to you about it?”

“He wasn’t there for long – but he told me a few stories.”

“Care to share?” says the young man offering a cigarette to Wilfrid Louie and lighting his own.

Wilfrid, who rarely smokes anything other than a pipe, accepts the cigarette.

“For one thing, my father liked his drink, and whenever he spoke of the railway, he’d stop, raise his glass high, and make a toast to the dead. He saw a friend get his head sliced in two by a flying piece of rock - thanks to a reckless detonation team.”

“Christ, that must have been something.”

“And considering how dangerous the work, they were paid a pittance. A dollar a day.”

The curly haired customer removes a notepad and pen from the breast pocket of his jean jacket. “A dollar a day? A toast to the dead?”

“He said the accidents were because of the constant pressure to increase the speed of construction. The bosses complained that they were always moving too slow.”

The young man scribbles in his pad.

“He was a camp cook for a construction gang. He told me of how he once made a stew from a jackrabbit… how he hid bottles of bad whiskey. At night, he and the crew would lie under the stars in the darkness of the bush – he said how silent it could be – too silent.”

“Too silent?”

“Yeah,” replies Wilfrid who returns his attention to the television in front of them. “So, this RCA Victor model should be what you’re looking for. Solid copper circuits, good picture tube, a beautiful cabinet.”

“Sold.” says the young man. “Can you have it delivered to my parents’ place on Harvey Street?”

“We can do that,” replies Wilfrid Louie who writes up the bill of sale.

The letter

The young man thanks Wilfrid, shakes his hand, shoves the receipt into his back pocket, and leaves Mariposa Radio. As he exits, the mailman enters the store and drops a package of envelopes on the counter.

“Have a good one,” says the mailman as he turns and leaves.

“You too.” Wilfrid sorts through the letters and stops at one post marked: Village of Chase, British Columbia.

He opens the envelope.

Dear Wilfrid,

I saw a photograph of you and your mixed doubles curling team in the Kamloops newspaper. As always, Miriam looks stunning.

I am happy to see that your life has turned out like a fairy tale.

A few years ago, I began to write a biography of my father, Henri Quesnel. The affair has become an obsession and the research has taken me places I never imagined. I had not been fully aware of the trials and tribulations that our fathers and their friend, Tangia Tura, experienced.

My research includes the stories my father told me in his final days, interviews with the Shuswap friends of Tangia Tura, and I sat for hours with an elderly woman from Barkerville named Liz Titmarsh. Sharp as a tack. She’s the sister of the investigating officer, Sergeant Titmarsh.

I have an agreement with a publisher and the book is now being printed. The title is “Henri Quesnel and the True Story of the Head-hunter of Barkerville.” It will be coming out later next month in time for the Christmas season.

As a courtesy to you, Wilfrid, before my book is released, after seeing that lovely photo of you and Miriam, I thought I would send a ‘heads up’ letter letting you know that the full true story of their lives, the murder of Peter Beech in Barkerville, and the manhunt for Tangia Tura will be told in my book.

I still think about your visits to French Bob’s Hotel and to our family ranch and the things we shared.

Best wishes to Miriam.

Sincerely,

Mélanie Quesnel

Wilfrid tells Miriam about the letter

Wilfrid walks home after work.

He makes a pot of tea and waits for Miriam to come home.

He looks out the back door screen at the black maple tree they planted three years previous with visions of eventually building a tree house for the grandchildren. The tree looks healthy – about fifteen feet tall. He closes his eyes. 

Miriam arrives at the side door and he invites her to sit in the living room.

“Why so formal, Wilfrid? What’s going on?” she asks.

“I’ve told you a lot of stories over the years. There’s one, however, I never told you. When I think about it now, I’m not sure why. It seems like it’s something I should have done years ago and maybe none of it would matter today.”

Miriam face wrinkles. “What are you talking about?”

“You know how we often say that our paths intersect in strange ways?” asks Wilfrid.

“Wait,” says Miriam shifting her position on the chesterfield. “Why are you telling me this? Is it for my benefit or yours?”

“There’s a way our stories intertwine that I never mentioned. You know the story of the manhunt for Tangia Tura, the man accused of killing Peter Beech, the one they called the Head-hunter of Barkerville?”

“Of course, I know it. Francis kept the news clippings of how the Mounties shot up his cabin in the mountains. JRB showed the scrapbook to Jimmy when he was a boy. It was such a relief to the family when they finally got him. It was his brother’s unsolved murder that broke Francis beyond repair.”

“Miriam, the Mounties got their man,” says Wilfrid. “But they got the wrong man.”

“Are you saying Tangia Tura didn’t kill Peter Beech?”

“No, he didn’t. Francis and Peter came to the butcher shop where my father worked in Barkerville. There was an argument – my father was strung out on dope and booze. He didn’t remember all the details, but he blew up over how he felt he was treated. Later that night, he saw Peter alone on the street and he lured him into the bush where he suckered him. Peter defended himself – they fought – and in a rage my father scalped Peter Beech with his butcher knife,” explains Wilfrid.

“Jesus Christ,” says Miriam getting up from the chesterfield. “Why are you telling me this now?”

“I got a letter from Mélanie Quesnel,” replies Wilfrid.

“From whom?” demands Miriam.

Wilfrid hands her the envelope.

Miriam opens it and scans the letter. “You’re corresponding with an old flame? What else aren’t you telling me, Wilfrid Louie?”

“I’m not corresponding with her, Miriam. In the letter she says she’s writing a book on the murder – on the true story of ‘The Head-hunter of Barkerville’ where she will show his innocence and point the finger at Yee Ah Louie, my father. She’s giving me the heads up,” pleads Wilfrid.

“Is that what she’s doing?” says Miriam dumping her tea in the sink and making a gin and tonic. “Why didn’t you tell me a long time ago? When did you know about this?”

“My father let it out at the end like a confession. He was smashed when he killed Peter Beech – just like when working on the railway and he crippled an explosives expert and blew another one up with dynamite,” says Wilfrid following Miriam around the house. “What haunted him the most was picking up Peter Beech’s pocket watch in the snow after their fight. He gave it to Tangia Tura and the police used it to pin the murder on him. But Tangia Tura refused to betray his friend. My father never felt he deserved such a sacrifice,” explains Wilfrid – his left eye blinking.

“Why didn’t you tell me then?”

“I was afraid, Miriam. You were seeing Arthur Cadwallader and I was desperate for your affection. The last thing I wanted was to give you a reason to stay away.”

Miriam stands apart from Wilfrid at the far end of the living room. Her arms are crossed. Her lids are half-closed as she stares at him.

“I intended on getting the true story out when I returned from the war but… but then the shoot out in the mountains had already happened,” adds Wilfrid.

“How many more secrets are in there?” she inquires.

“I have one more, Miriam,” he replies.

The other bad news

“I knew it. I had a sense of dread. I feel those lumps. I could tell they were growing. What’s the treatment?” asks Miriam, her arms wrapped around Wilfrid on the couch.

“There is no treatment,” whispers Wilfrid.

“So how much time do we have?”

“He’s not sure. Probably weeks, maybe months he said.”

Miriam’s eyes fill. 

“Then we’ve no time to waste,” she says. “You’ll stay by my side.”

“He said it will get ugly. I don’t want to put you through that.”

“I can handle it, honey,” replies Miriam who leans in and kisses her husband.

“When I got home, I couldn’t even look at the black maple we planted. A wave of melancholy overtook me. All I could think about were the coming seasons of that tree. Leaves sprouting, turning, and falling – the strengthening limbs where we were to build upon – and the cooling shade under which we will never simply sit and hold hands. I’ll need to make the decision before it’s too late,” he whispers in her ear.

Their limbs intertwine as they lie down on the chesterfield and lock in an embrace.

Closing up the cottage

Miriam pulls a roasting pan from the woodstove oven.  Aromas of turkey, onion, and sage fill the cottage.

Wilfrid carves a golden bird while Miriam prepares a Cole slaw salad. Jimmy and his wife mash the potatoes and make the gravy. Their two young children play in the living room.

The family gathers around the table for a Thanksgiving feast. It is to be their last visit to Algonquin Park for the season. The woodstove keeps the cottage warm despite cold autumn winds.

Miriam raises a glass to make the first of many toasts. “I’m thankful to be surrounded by family and for the love I share with the man of my dreams. I’m thinking of those who are no longer with us – my father, my Ki-7-ce, and our dear friend Ruth FitzGerald. Here’s to them!”

The adults raise glasses of wine. The children raise glasses of milk.

“Here’s to love,” says Wilfrid. “To my mind, Providence is simply chance. And from the moment I arrived early at school and she ordered me to clean the chalk board brushes – we were meant to be – the great fortune of my life,” he adds.

“Oh, would you two give it a break,” exclaims Jimmy. “You’re like a couple of teenagers.”

After dinner, they bundle up and cross the lake in two boats to Jimmy’s cottage for pumpkin pie and whipped cream. Wilfrid moves gingerly down to the dock. His legs tremble getting into the boat.

The interior walls still have dramatic landscape paintings by Ruth’s neighbour and they also feature works that Jimmy made during the war: Lancasters, Spitfires, faces of anxious aircrews, and dramatic crash landings. There are two framed FrontPages of the Orillia Packet where Jimmy works as Publisher.

After dessert, coffee, and tea, they take a stroll behind the cottage.

“Wilfrid, what’s got you? Can’t you keep up?” jokes Jimmy.

“Leave him be,” Miriam says softly to her son.

About fifty yards back, not far from the shack where Ruth’s neighbour once lived, Jimmy crouches to his knees and sweeps away the leaves to reveal two stones lying flat on the earth.

The first one is inscribed: Ruth FitzGerald, 1860 – 1949, “I am not an angel, and I will not be one till I die: I will be myself.” Charlotte Brontë

The second stone reads: T.T. 1877 – 1950, Art & Nature. An image of a Crocket canoe is etched in the granite.

“We’re thinking of you, Ruth,” says Miriam.

“What a character,” says Jimmy. “They broke the mould with her.”

“Who’s Ruth?” asks one of the children.

“She was a dear friend,” replies Miriam.

“This was Ruth’s cottage. She left it to us,” says Jimmy.

“And it was her money that Grandma used to buy the newspaper where Daddy works,” adds Miriam.

“She sounds very nice. Where is she now?” asks the child. “Can we visit her?”

Wilfrid looks at Miriam and smiles.

The railway bridge on Whitefish Lake

Two weeks after Thanksgiving, at the end of October, Wilfrid and Miriam return to the cottage. They feed the woodstove and play cribbage late into the evening by the light of propane lamps.

Wilfrid tells the story of rushing to find David Chase at the Shornecliffe Army Hospital. “Arthur Cadwallader said they’d been gassed by the Huns. I was shocked. I get to David’s bedside only to learn that his lungs were just fine thank you very much – but his pay was docked as he received mercury treatments for V.D.”

As Wilfrid hoped, the story makes Miriam break out – in her crazy laugh.

He takes Miriam’s hand. “If you’re not giving, what are you doing? The last thing my father said to me was: “you can only give what you’ve been given.” But I think our challenge is to see past that. The sun rises and sets. Our choice is to look towards it or turn away. We’ve really only got one decision to make: to give or to take. And if you’re not giving, just what the hell are you doing?”

On the second morning, Wilfrid is up early. He kisses Miriam who has only just fallen asleep.

He leaves a letter on the fish cleaning table at the dock, gets in the boat and crosses the lake to the railway bridge.

Miriam’s eyes open when she hears the sound of the outboard motor.

Although they have discussed it, she jumps up and in the cold morning air, dressed in only her nightgown, and runs to the dock.

The boat is too far away for her shouts to be heard.

She stands on the dock – one more tear on her cheek that Wilfrid will not see.

Wilfrid stands on the railway bridge railing, looks up the lake, and catches his breath. He closes his eyes, remembers, and steps forward.

Wilfrid senses the temperature drop - the weighted pockets of his fishing vest pull him down – and he descends through thresholds of Whitefish Lake.

He arrives at the soft, muddy floor and feels perched upon a log of driftwood. He straddles it and reaches down to touch the surface. It’s not wood. He runs his hands over its soft oily exterior - smooth in one direction and barbed in the other. He leans forward and wraps his arms around wet feathers. There is a sudden acceleration and Wilfrid Louie is carried away to the deepest, silty trench of Whitefish Lake.

* Canadian Broadcasting Corporation

Epilogue

July 24, 1967 (the following summer)
Algonquin Park, Ontario, Canada

“You go with me everywhere
When I'm dreaming you still share my lonely nights”
Gordon Lightfoot, Ordinary Man

Miriam and Jimmy sit in their Muskoka chairs at the end of the dock facing the water. They listen to the distant sounds of Jimmy’s children jumping off the floating platform at his cottage on the other side of the lake.

It’s late afternoon – happy hour – a tradition that Wilfrid and Miriam once kept religiously. Jimmy reaches over and holds Miriam’s hand. “It’s going to be okay.”

“I know,” she says looking up at her son. “These past few months have been such a challenge – especially the winter. Some days I just stayed in bed. I’ve decided though that I’ve got nothing to complain about. I found my fortune. I spent years with my best friend and soul mate… But I do miss him dearly.”

Jimmy raises a stubby bottle of Labatt’s 50. Miriam raises her Plymouth Gin and tonic. 

“You know, he left me a note,” says Miriam.

“What did it say?”

“That any time I wanted to feel close to him that I should come up to the Park, reach back into the past and pull some frames into the present.”

“That might not be as crazy as it sounds, mom.”

“Crazy as a loon… I might not ever leave the Park,” she laughs.

A warm breeze sweeps over them. A family of merganser ducks swims by.

In the distance, a moose and calf cross the lake.

“Tell me something Jimmy. I know it’s been years, but what really happened with your father in the end? He kept himself so fit and his father lived to 95. I thought Francis had the best doctor in Montreal.”

“He was fit – but after losing the company – he lived like a hermit. I went to see him every now and then. At the end, he had two of the best doctors: One said his hypertension was deadly – the other that it was nothing to worry about – and lowering it would do more harm than good. Poor Dad went back and forth – didn’t know which doctor to trust. It was indecision that did him in.”

“That’s sad. But hardly surprising.”

“Do you resent him?” Jimmy asks. “Do you hold a grudge?”

“No, not at all. Do you?”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “But I think even from the grave, he’d much prefer it if you did.” 

“You’re probably right about that. Francis constantly worried about what people thought – which is not to be confused with worrying about people themselves.”

From the bay, a loon slowly swims up within a few feet of the dock scattering the merganser ducks. The loon’s speckled white collar is brilliant in the sunlight and his eyes are blazing red.

“He’s looking right at you, mom.”

The loon turns to the side.

Miriam has a view of the loon’s full profile and peers into his scarlet eye.

The loon holds his position.

“We’ll be together again – some day,” says Miriam.

The loon’s beak opens wide and his wail – beautiful and agonizing – echoes across Whitefish Lake.