[A fictional tale based on fact]
The blast of a whistle wakes Ernest from his slumber. Through the window comes a flash of silver. Their train, gleaming in the Canadian morning sunlight, is chugging into - what he assumes is - their destination, the rail terminus at Vancouver, British Columbia. Quickly, he wipes the window, in his head checking the date - 23rd May 1887.
Celebration of the first passenger train arriving in Vancouver, 23rd May 1887. Courtesy, City of Vancouver Archives LGN 465
“Built on a trestle over the tidal flats,” the guard says, rushing past him.
“What is?” he asks, yawning. The journey across the mountains from Calgary has been painful.
“The railway line! Ensures access to the quay, doesn’t it? Anyway, we’re here; you’d better disembark or you’ll find yourself in the Burrard Inlet.”
Ernest gathers his bag from the luggage rack. A sharp kick, and the eyes of his companion open.
“Gee, Ernie. What d’ya do that for?”
“We’re here,” he says, enjoying Piper’s look of bewilderment.
“Blimey,” Piper says, shifting in his seat. “Finally.”
Ernest grins. His protégé, whilst still a lad, has filled out in recent times. Scrawny arms have acquired muscle. An emaciated looking jaw line shows the beginnings of man-hood, if not quite attaining the real thing.
“It’s done yer good,” he says, nudging the lad.
“What has?”
“All that work on the railways. You never know; we’ll make a man of yer yet.”
Piper’s boot kicks out, missing its target. “Cheeky bugger,” the ‘man who is still a boy’ mutters.
CPR 374, 23rd May 1887. Courtesy, City of Vancouver Archives Can P6.
Ernest’s feet land awkwardly on the station’s gravel. Around him a throng of people wave banners.
“Engine 374,” the guard shouts, adopting a swagger. “First crossing into Vancouver, don’t you know.”
Piper lands in a heap on the ground.
“Therefore, the celebration,” the guard continues.
Ernest glances up at the number emblazoned on the front of the shiny locomotive. “Tell me about it; we’re the muggins who’ve been building the bloody track for the last eighteen months, ain’t we?”
The guard doffs his cap. “We owe you a debt of gratitude, sir. Vancouver’s been waiting for the railway. Many of the folk here are banking their futures on it.”
“We are the future, Mister. Come to pick up a parcel of land, ain’t we?”
“Ernie!” Piper shouts, seeming to struggle with the bags.
Ernest grabs the lad’s arm and pulls him through the throng. “C’mon Piper. Show a leg!”
Water Street looking East from Cordova Street, 1887. Courtesy, City of Vancouver Archives Str N59.
Water Street is a dirt thoroughfare running parallel to the shoreline - if one can call this jumbled assortment of derelict, burnt-out wrecks a thoroughfare. Amidst the confusion, several new-builds show signs of a settlement, sprouting - phoenix-like - from the ashes.
“What the blazes?” he mutters.
“It’s the fire,” Piper wheezes, from behind. “Last year, apparently.”
“I can see that, you twit,” Ernest replies, exaggerating his stride. “Is this it then…Moodyville?”
“Moody what?”
Piper’s question is ignored. Ernest glances around. Glimpses of water sparkle through the crowd. Quickly, he pushes his way to higher ground, a smile breaking out.
Vancouver, Burrard Inlet, North Shore and Moodyville, March 1887. Courtesy, MONOVA Archives Inv 206.
A water channel separates the coastal plain from the mountains to the north, an escarpment whose slopes harbour a largely untouched carpet of conifer trees. The spring sun has begun to unlock the chill of winter. A line of white recedes up the mountain, the snow and ice eaten by the thaw, holding now only to the tops. The trees, some of which he reckons are over two hundred feet in height, reach up to snow-covered peaks, an apron of green and brown to their white masters above.
“Different from bloody Majuba,” he mutters.
“Pardon,” Piper says, catching up to him.
“Nothing.”
The lad’s cheeks are puckered. “Why d’yer keep calling it ‘our’ piece of land, Ernie?”
“It is, sort of,” he says. “I know you’re keeping your money for your mum and all. But we’re a team, aren’t we?”
“Yes, but you’re not expecting me to move in with yer, like,” Piper says. “I’ll get me own place.”
Ernest’s laugh is shriller than expected. “I know that, but I can’t have me best bugler floundering around, can I?”
Piper’s eyes adopt a sharpness that is not an infrequent occurrence.
“Let’s not talk about it, Ernie. You know---”
“Know what?” he says, the mischief in him rising.
“Majuba Hill---”
“Hey Mister, is this Moodyville?” he calls out to a passer-by.
“Over there; you see the huts.”
Ernest squints in the direction of the man’s arm. Across the waterway, somewhat hidden amidst the confusion of the forest is a cluster of buildings.
“The Senator’ll get your across,” the man continues, with a smile.
Before he can seek further clarification, the man disappears into the crowd. He and Piper are left to wander haplessly.
S.S.Senator, ca 1890. Courtesy, MONOVA Archives Inv 280.
It’s several minutes later that the two men stumble upon a small ferry boat tied up at a wharf. Several passengers are in the process of boarding the vessel, which carries the inscription ‘Senator’ on its bow.
“Is this the crossing for Moodyville?” he calls out.
On board, a man wearing a weathered cap lifts from his haunches. “Sure is…Lonsdale Quay, then Moodyville, if you’ve a mind for it, but you’ll need to hurry, we’re about to leave.”
Thankful, he grabs Piper by the arm. “C’mon, slow coach. Told you it was only a hop, skip and a jump.”
“A what?”
Moodyville Milling Company, 1889 or 1890. Courtesy, City of Vancouver Archives CVA 1376-375.10.
The journey across the inlet is rockier than he was expecting. Perhaps, because of a stiff breeze blowing up the narrows. Several minutes later, and feeling rather queasy in the stomach, he is relieved to see the approaching masts of several sailing ships docked at a small harbour. Above them sits the outline of what appears to a large shed, a plume of smoke drifting from its chimney.
“What’s that?” Piper asks.
Before he can think, the man in the cap is leaning out of the cockpit window.
“The sawmill…Moodyville.”
Ernest flashes his protégé a wink. “Told you, stick with your uncle Ernie, eh?”
“You’re not my blooming uncle”.
Moodyville, Sawmill and townsite, after 1882. Courtesy, MONOVA Archives Inv 6604.
They disembark, the silence between them like a shadow. The land promontory upon which the Moodyville settlement is housed is indented by a stony beach strewn with logs. Several buildings on the foreshore are raised on pilings from the flats below, men calling down to their colleagues on the beach. Refuse litters the mud, waiting to be ‘cleansed’ by the incoming tide. Urgently, he breathes into his handkerchief, a sense of déjà vu gripping him. The smell of rotting effluent is reminiscent of a certain watery thoroughfare back in Liverpool, England!
With three sailing ships docked at the wharf, goods are in various stages of disembarkation, men carrying bags onto the quayside. In the background is the white shed that they saw from the water.
“That’ll be the sawmill,” Piper says, swinging around. “Maybe, we can find ourselves some work?”
Ernest’s hand clips the lad’s back. “You’re not as daft as you look, Piper, are you? But, we’ve a plot of land to find first, ain’t we?”
“Have we?
From his pocket, he extracts the map that he bought from some bloke in Calgary. The parchment is worn, its lines faded, but at the top of a hill is the outline of a small box, the number 246 written across it. “That’s it,” he mutters, squinting into the light. “Up here.”
Logging Flume, 1890s. Courtesy, City of Vancouver Archives 677-2160.
A wooden chute runs up the slope. Coming down it, carried at speed by a sheet of water, is - what looks like - half of a tree!
“Bejesus,” he exhorts. “Now, I’ve seen everything!”
Piper’s glance is to the hill. “It’s a flume,” the lad says. “They use it to bring the logs down.”
Ernest’s laugh is one of those expansive laughs he often uses in the presence of his protégé. “Alright, clever clogs…as if the whole world didn’t know that.”
As it so often does in such situations, Piper’s face deflates and a twinge of regret bites at Ernest’s insides. “C’mon, then,” he mutters, gripping his fingers around the lad’s shoulder. “Shake a leg.”
The steps adjoining the flume are steep. Half way up, he pauses to catch his breath. A look back discovers Piper huffing and puffing behind him. “Majuba Hill didn’t teach you anything?” he yells. The head of the former assistant bugler of his majesty’s 58th regiment remains averted. “Lightweight,” he mutters to the hill.
Piper arrives, wheezing. “Gee, Ernie, the last time I followed you up a hill, it was a bleeding disaster. All it taught me was that I hope your map reading skills now are better than your soldiering ones then.”
“Cheeky bugger!”
His arm swings, missing its target as Piper ducks.
Later that afternoon, having failed to discover his plot of newly acquired land, he and his young protégé find themselves licking their wounds at the logging pool of the Moodyville sawmill. Sleeves rolled up, he lunges at a floating log with his harpoon, narrowly missing his mark. A second lunge, and - this time - he is lucky, his harpoon attaching to wood. A heave, and his first Canadian log hoists onto the ramp. He smiles. Moodyville is to his liking; better than the bloody British army at any rate. If only that daft Piper would get his act together, things might be looking up.
Logging Pond, Public Domain.
Except where indicated, text and images Copyright @ North Shore Heritage and Paul Haston. All rights reserved. Republication in whole or in part is prohibited without the written consent of the copyright holder.
References:
MONOVA, North Vancouver Museum and Archives https://monova.ca/archives/
City of Vancouver Archives https://searcharchives.vancouver.ca/
Background notes:
Named after Sewell Prescott Moody, the US entrepreneur who turned the sawmill into a success story, Moodyville, was the first significant non-indigenous settlement on the Burrard Inlet’s north shore. At one time the mill was one of the largest exporters in British Columbia, but by the early 1890s, overlogging and a worldwide depression reversed its fortunes. The mill closed in 1901 and the City of North Vancouver gradually absorbed the site. Curiously, almost no physical traces of the townsite survive, only a few artifacts and photographs.
Majuba Hill, South Africa is the site of the disastrous British defeat at the hands of the Boers on 27th February 1881.
Water Street, Liverpool, England is one of the original seven streets that made up the medieval borough founded by King John in 1207.