by Larry Stuart
The news had certainly gotten out quickly. From the snatches of conversations Cameron picked up, all the men in his carriage were unskilled labourers’ intent on getting any job available. And although they seemed cheerful and full of confidence, their weathered faces, hollow cheeks and sunken eyes told a very different story; a tale of men who, nearly at their wits end, were desperate to find any kind of work to survive.
Initially, the world outside the window of Cameron’s carriage changed very little. St. Paul had been a dour, dismal-looking place. But once they had cleared the last of the inhabited areas, the view became one of clean white fields separated by dirty brown hedgerows and lines of leafless oaks and poplars. Their route paralleled a fast flowing river, which in places tumbled over ice-covered rocks sparkling in the midday sun. But as time passed, the rocks became huge boulders with snow-covered tops and dark uneven bottoms, looking like iced cakes sitting on a wrinkled blue tablecloth. The river continued to grow in stature until finally, as they drew near their destination, its flow disappeared beneath a sheet of snow and ice covering it from shore to shore.
Cameron was soon to discover that this waterway’s name was the Red River, and it ran for almost five hundred miles before pouring its contents into a massive lake named after the city to which they were bound. Winnipeg stood at the confluence of this river and the mighty Assiniboine, which joined from the west and added its power and soil-enriched flow to the union.
The gradual deceleration of the train announced their imminent arrival. Men, who for hours had been lying on their bags, sitting on boxes, or squeezing into any floor space available, now began to stir. Cameron watched their antics as they tripped over each other’s possessions in a mad scramble to recover their belongings. No doubt they would
all try to get out the door at the same time, he mused, as he sat back and decided to linger. After all, there was plenty of time. He had his whole life ahead of him.
When Cameron finally stepped down from the carriage, what he saw was not so much a train station as a huge marshalling yard. A small shunting engine could be seen manoeuvring into position, to detach each freight wagon in turn and tow it to its required off-loading site. And the two Mogul engines that had powered the train from St. Paul were already detached and moving onto the turntable to be repositioned for their return journey. All around him were men yelling orders, while horses and wagons were being positioned to receive their cargoes.
‘Hey you! Look out! You wanna get killed?’
A ruddy-faced man, with long, dark hair sticking out from under a filthy cap, wearing a woollen scarf around his neck and ears, strutted towards Cameron; and it was only then that Cameron realised he was the only one left alongside the inbound train.
Suddenly, with a reverberating clang, the carriage from which he’d just descended jerked and moved off down the yard.
‘Sorry…I was just kind of fascinated by all the comings and goings. Can you tell me where the C.P.R. offices are?’
‘Other side of the river. Take that bridge over there,’ he said, pointing off to the left. ‘Then just follow the crowd. That’s where they’ll all be headed.’
Throwing his bag over his shoulder, Cameron carefully looked up and down the tracks before heading off in the suggested direction. Light snow began to fall, and for the first time he noticed the cold. In Quebec the air was moist, and as soon as the temperature dropped below freezing you knew it – and how! However, here the air was much drier, and apart from the stinging in his ears, it was only now that he realised he’d been licking his lips ever since getting off the train.
On reaching the so-called bridge, Cameron pulled up short, gaping at the crossing. He couldn’t believe what he was looking at! Not only was it not made of steel, but it wasn’t even stone, the next best thing. In fact it wasn’t even a permanent structure. The actual surface of the bridge was made up from rough, wooden planks held together by strips of wood nailed at right angles. These sections were then laid across the river on floating barges anchored in the stream. In other words, the only thing that appeared to connect Winnipeg to its main supply line was a temporary pontoon bridge. With the experience Cameron had gained working for the GNSR, he knew this couldn’t possibly work. There was no possibility of this rickety thoroughfare being used to successfully supply the needs of an ever-expanding rail network. To him, the bridge already looked to be dangerously overloaded. Huge wagons and carts jockeyed with myriads of foot passengers to cross the river, and he was certain it was only a matter of time before disaster struck.
Deciding it probably wasn’t going to get any safer the longer he stood there, Cameron moved off, quickly picking his way across the swaying structure.
What had started out as a small fur-trading outpost known as the Red River Colony, had turned into a chaotic, flourishing city, bustling with humanity. All that was left of the old settlement were the remains of Upper Fort Garry – the previous headquarters of the Hudson’s Bay Company. And even this was now diminishing in size daily, as workmen demolished what was left to allow for the city’s expansion to the west.
Winnipeg was designed around two main thoroughfares – Main Street and Portage Avenue. Along these two streets non-stop construction was taking place as, on a daily basis, new businesses moved in. The signing of the agreement to build the railway had been like a gold rush, and had turned Winnipeg into the fastest growing city in North America; and it appeared that everyone was after a piece of the action.
Cameron wandered up the sidewalk on Main Street soaking up the atmosphere. Most people moved about with a spring in their step, as if they all felt a sense of being part of some great new beginning. The air was pungent with the fragrance of freshly-cut lumber and resounded to the din of construction. Sawdust was everywhere, and half finished buildings lined both sides of the street. A new courthouse, new police station and new legislative buildings were all being raised. The Bank of Montreal was erecting a four storey building at the corner of Main Street and Portage Avenue, which would eventually house the new headquarters of the C.P.R..
Further along the street, he finally came to the building that most interested him, namely, the current offices of the new railroad. No sign was needed to advertise its whereabouts, as the queue of men waiting to enter its door disappeared around the next corner.
Cameron kept walking. He was already feeling the effects of the extreme cold and quickly came to the conclusion that he didn’t wish to spend the rest of the day getting frostbitten in that line. A few minutes later, he spotted a sign for the Davis Hotel, and decided to follow the suggestion from his feet that now might be a good time to get inside.
The following morning at eight o’clock, Cameron briskly rounded the corner, hoping to be the first in line at the C.P.R. headquarters. To his dismay, the line of men already snaked down the street nearly as far as the day before. Realising that he had no choice, he began to make his way towards the back of the queue. Before he’d gone more than a few steps, a stocky, black-bearded man wearing a smart three-piece suit exited from the front door of the building. Turning towards the notice board at the side of the main entrance, he pinned-up a sheet of paper. The line automatically began to surge forward, at which point the company’s representative held up his hand.
‘I’m sorry, gentlemen, but there will be no labouring jobs available for at least another month...and all the other unskilled posts have been filled.’
The sound of grumbling gradually faded away as the men shuffled off towards the café down the street. Cameron waited until most had gone, and then approached the bearded man as he was about to re-enter the building.
‘Excuse me. Did I hear you correctly? You did say all the unskilled jobs have been filled, I believe. Does that mean there are vacancies for experienced people?’
‘Oh, yes...and what kind of experience would that be then?’
‘Well…I did work as a surveyor and depot manager for a Scottish Railway for the best part of three years.’
‘Come in, he’ll see you now,’ said a rather plain-looking woman, holding the door open for him.
Leading Cameron past her desk to the far side of the room, she knocked on another door, which when opened revealed a large wood panelled office. Sitting behind a gargantuan desk placed across the furthest corner of the room, was a man well suited to its size. What hair he lacked on the top of his head was more than made up for by his thick, sprouting eyebrows, giving him an almost permanent look of surprise, while on his face mutton chop whiskers failed to cover his heavy jowls. His chest was enormous, and his waistcoat appeared ready to explode.
‘So, young man…I hear you claim to have some knowledge of railway inventory,’ he said, his obvious misgivings manifesting themselves in the slightly scornful tone of his voice.
‘Yes, Sir…I believe I do.’
‘In that case, you wouldn’t mind telling me how many rails, fish plates and sleepers are required per mile of track then, would you?’
‘Of course not. That would be 136 rails, 132 fishplates and 1760 sleepers.’
Seemingly surprised by the speed with which Cameron had answered the question, Mr Stickney was momentarily silent, before thanking Cameron for coming in and terminating the interview.
Well, I guess that didn’t go very well, thought Cameron, as he waited near the reception desk at the entrance to the building.
‘Can you tell me who Mr A.B. Stickney is?’
‘Certainly, Sir,’ replied the girl behind the desk. ‘He’s the man in charge of the western division of the C.P.R.’
‘Hmm…maybe that’s why it didn’t go so well,’ he thought to himself.
But, to his surprise, five minutes later he was taken to another office, where coffee was offered along with a contract.
‘But, excuse me,’ Cameron said to the bearded, portly man, who it seemed was the Company’s Personnel Manager.
‘What is the job? Nobody’s told me what it is I’m supposed to be doing.’
‘Oh…sorry,’ he replied. ‘You’re to be the new supply manager…and you’ll be responsible for the inventory for the nine hundred miles from here to the Rockies.’
Cameron was aghast. In Scotland, he’d been responsible for the control and supply of
fifty miles of track at a time. This was way beyond his experience. When he told the Personnel Manager about his concerns, the portly man’s only comment had been, ‘Well of course you don’t have any experience of this magnitude…but then neither does anyone else’.
Cameron arrived at work the following day determined to somehow get to grips with the mammoth task that lay ahead. Still, at least he didn’t have to start from scratch. The C.P.R. management had been planning this for over a year, and had already signed contracts for an enormous amount of stock. Half a million sleepers, five thousand telegraph poles and sixty thousand feet of pilings were already either in yards on the outskirts of the city, or in the process of being delivered.
In the main depot west of Winnipeg, hundreds of miles of rails, thousands of fishplates and hundreds of boxes of spikes awaited the spring thaw. Triple-decker construction cars, to be used as bunkhouses for the workers, were waiting to move out, and hundreds of teams of horses had already been hired to move the necessary supplies. Two dozen teams of oxen had been bought to pull the great flat-bladed ploughs, which would be used to build up the track bed to four feet above the prairie, thus ensuring the movement of trains would not be impeded by snow during the long winter months.
When the writing on the paperwork in front of Cameron eyes began to blur, he looked up and rubbed his eyes. It was now dark outside. His first day had raced by, and it was only now that he had begun to make any kind of sense of the stack of papers in front of him. The scale of the undertaking was enormous, making his previous Scottish company look like a toy railway in comparison. Forcing his shoulders back, he twisted his upper body from side-to-side in an attempt to ease the ache he felt in his lower back. Then, deciding that that was enough for today, he pushed back his chair and tidied up his desk.
Even though it was Sunday morning the streets were still bustling. Cameron looked left and right, moved forward and stopped, and then ran forward again as he dodged the horses, carts, wagons and sleighs on his way across Main Street. Having just found a quite acceptable room, at a reasonable monthly rate, all he had left to do now was retrieve his bag from the hotel, and then risk life and limb again re-crossing this street on his way back to Mrs Baker’s boarding house.
Twenty minutes later, his head momentarily down watching the placement of his feet on the slippery surface, he started back across Main Street. Just then, the muffled thundering of hooves drew his attention. On his left, appearing from almost nowhere and about to cross in front of him, was a coach and four galloping down the street at an idiotic speed. Suddenly, a cry went up directly in front of him as a woman slipped and fell on the icy surface. His brain instantly foresaw the impending disaster, and without a moment’s hesitation, he dropped his holdall and launched himself towards her, grabbing her with both his arms and holding her to his chest, whilst throwing himself forwards and rolling as quickly as momentum would allow. Ice chips propelled by the hammering hooves struck his face and bare hands, but it was only after the wheels grinding on the ice and snow had passed him by that he knew they were safe.
Quickly standing up, he reached down to offer the woman his hand, and as he did he
became aware of the cheering and applauding ringing out from up and down the street. Everywhere he looked men were waving their hats in the air and yelling their approval; and even the drivers of the carriages and drays crowding the street had stopped and tipped their hats to acknowledge his daring performance.
‘I hope you haven’t been injured. That idiot should be arrested for driving in such a reckless manner. May I help you to the sidewalk?’
‘Thank you…thank you…so…so much,’ the woman stammered, breathlessly.
By the time they stepped onto the boarded sidewalk, the milling crowd of onlookers had dispersed, and the non-stop hustle and bustle continued.
Turning to say goodbye, Cameron was suddenly struck by how enticing his “damsel in distress” truly was. Her hair was reddish-brown, and her hazel eyes were set alluringly far apart. Her nose was pert with a slight flare to its base, and rested charmingly between high cheeks.
‘Thank you again for what you did,’ she said, putting out a small, gloved hand to say goodbye. ‘I’m sure you probably saved my life.’
Cameron gently grasped her hand, inadvertently holding it for longer than was probably necessary.
‘Oh, excuse me,’ he said, releasing her hand. ‘By the way, my name’s Cameron Stuart. Maybe we’ll see each other around town some time.’
‘Yes, that would be nice.’
At that point she turned to leave, but then abruptly swung back.
‘Oh…I do apologise for being so rude. I’m afraid I’m still rather shocked. My name is Catherine…Catherine Phillips.’
Cameron watched her move off towards the main part of the city, before he turned and headed up the street to his new lodgings; and as he wandered up Cumberland Avenue, his thoughts returned to what had just happened.
It had certainly been an exciting moment. His heart was only now returning to its normal beat. Good fortune had smiled upon them, because death or serious injury had been only inches away. He smiled as he recalled the ovation from the surrounding crowd, but as Catherine’s lingering fragrance accompanied him along the street, a long forgotten yearning began to encroach into his thoughts.
The noise destroyed any ideas Cameron might have had for peace and quiet, and the smoke from half a dozen pipes made his eyes water as he walked through the front door of his new
lodgings. The other guests were all in Mrs Baker’s front room waiting for their Sunday dinner, and not one of them could have been over twenty-five years old.
One thing was for sure. In the early spring of 1881, two thirds of all people seen on the streets of Winnipeg were men, and most of them were young or middle-aged. The ones doing the real work could easily be identified by their rough dress, while most of the rest were just trying to make a fast buck selling real estate. The railway had started a boom in property prices, and everyone seemed determined to make a killing. The moment any