“Yes, I do,” responded Alfred, now insulted that his father would assume he knew nothing of Canadian politics because he had been away at school. “The news managed to travel all the way to Boston. Can you imagine?”
“Please, Alfred. There is no need to continue to try my patience. Let’s have a civilized conversation.” He seemed genuinely hurt and Alfred pulled back.
“Sorry, Father. I didn’t mean to be rude. Yes, I am aware that Mr. Sifton is creating quite a stir in his new position.”
“What do you know of it?” Rupert smiled as he stirred sugar into his coffee. Alfred stopped in his tracks at the familiar line from years ago and saw the twinkle in his father’s eyes. Relieved to have the anger behind them, he couldn’t keep from laughing out loud. It was an old game father and son used to play.
“Oh, dear. That’s a clever trick, Father. This is just like being back at St. John’s School with your grilling me over my history lessons.”
Rupert nodded with affection and motioned Alfred to provide the answer, asking again, “Well, what do you know of it?”
Choosing to play along, Alfred poked a finger in the air in the manner of an A student responding to a question from a teacher.
“Our Mr. Clifford Sifton has become a rising star in federal politics. The former attorney general of Manitoba, just thirty-five years old, was elected as a Member of Parliament and is now serving as a cabinet minister in the Liberal government of the new Prime Minister Wilfred Laurier. Sifton was elected in a by-election. Let me think of the date.” He paused for a moment then adopting a pompous tone, “on November something, 1896. In any case, Sifton’s primary responsibility is immigration and he has launched a very ambitious scheme to populate Western Canada.” Alfred crossed his arms smugly across his chest. “How did I do?”
“Very well, indeed.” Rupert brought his hands together in light applause.
“Thank you,” Alfred smiled and bowed slightly. “Now what is it that Sifton’s man Harrington wants to meet with you about?”
“I’m not entirely sure,” answered Rupert, “but I take it as an ideal opportunity to speak my mind. No, don’t worry, I won’t take us back to the earlier discussion, but I must say I wish to have my views on the quality of immigrants heard by Mr. Sifton. That said, I do believe we have a tremendous business opportunity through immigration, particularly if the government is successful in attracting more people from the United Kingdom.”
“I take it this business opportunity you speak of is directly related to asking me to tour our rental houses on Patrick Street this morning,” said Alfred.
“Right you are. I’m set to build several more.”
“I think that is a splendid idea, Father, but I do have some concerns.”
“What kind of concerns?”
“Well, I feel we need to build houses that are larger and of better quality than the ones we have built to date.”
“Whatever for? Better quality means fewer houses, which means less profit,” Rupert said.
“I think we need to build something that is more suitable to the need and I do understand your reluctance in the matter of costs.”
“What on earth are you on about? These are bloody rental houses we are talking about. These people don’t have money for bigger rents. We’ll price ourselves right out of the market.” Rupert was heating up again.
“Father, I think we need to build houses that are better able to keep out the cold in winter and I have great concerns about overcrowding. The houses should be larger than what we are building.”
“Why? The bloody immigrants don’t seem to care.”
“When was the last time you went down there to take a look, Father? I saw things this morning that made my blood run cold. There are sometimes two and three families, maybe a dozen people or more living in a house that isn’t even a total of six hundred square feet. Father, your library is bigger than that.”
“What of it? Do you think I’m new to this, Alfred? Let me explain how this works. We rent each of our little houses on Patrick Street to one little family of five or seven people. How long do you think it takes before they sublet? They put as many beds into a room as they can fit and sell places in those beds at ten cents a night. In the end you have the twelve or fifteen people in the house you speak of, but we will be collecting the rent on just the first seven. Our tenants profit on the crowding, and we don’t. So, we have no choice. They aren’t interested in this notion you have of comfortable living, so why build something better than what meets the minimal need?”
“Father, the answer is because it is just wrong. It is immoral. People should not have to live like animals.”
“Immoral? Oh, dear. You have gone soft, Alfred. They are the ones who are choosing to live in overcrowded conditions. Not us. So, we will continue to build small houses that cost us less to build. You can’t let your feelings get in the way of making money. You’ll never get ahead with an attitude like this.”
“But surely something can be done about the problems of overcrowding.”
“The houses are crowded because the immigrants are poor, and this is the best they can do. How many times do I have to repeat myself?” Rupert breathed in deeply. “Would you care for more coffee? You haven’t touched your dessert.”
“So, we just leave things as they are. Is that it?”
“No. Not at all.” Rupert was anxious to restore his earlier good mood. “We will help by providing more housing. I am now officially naming you as the vice president of Rental Properties of Willows and Sons. How do like that?”
“Well, thank you, Father. But I take it that you make the plan and I put it in place. Correct?”
“Yes, that’s right, but you will be rewarded with a suitable increase in your salary for your trouble. And also, you will have an increase in the number of shares you own in the company. How many men your age are as fortunate as you, Alfred? Your job and your future business opportunities will be waiting for you when you graduate.”
Rupert could see that his son was interested, but also that he was uneasy.
“Alfred. We are on the precipice of very exciting times. I know you don’t see things my way, but trust me. This will work out very nicely in time. Why, to show you how open-minded I am, I will even allow that the houses may be rented to the foreign born if you wish. Anyone you choose may live in those properties as I am officially lifting my previous restrictions of renting to only British subjects. I will even allow Chinamen and Jews to rent there. God help me. How is that for progress? You see, I do listen to you, Alfred.
“Now, I have a couple of new surveyor maps of Point Douglas at the office and after lunch we’ll go back and take a look shall we? There are some nice properties on MacDonald worth considering for development. The street is close to the train station and will become a good location for rental houses in future. It will be even better than Patrick Street.”
Alfred sat silently and played at the edge of his napkin, frown lines furrowing his brow. Rupert was suddenly aware that it was going to take him longer to get through to him than he had thought. Such an innocent was this idealistic young university man, stewing as he was in his concerns for the under classes. Rupert diverted the discussion to non-sensitive matters that dealt with an upcoming garden party at Government House, a shopping trip to Chicago for Alfred’s mother, and finally, as the club dining room starting to empty, Rupert re-introduced his discussion about expanding the number of boarding houses and rental properties owned by Willows & Sons.
“Alfred, what I can tell you with certainty is that if we don’t make money on this housing boom, someone else will. What is wrong with cutting ourselves a generous slice of the pie? And besides, that lovely brick cottage you have your eye on over on Furby Street isn’t going to just drop into your lap, you know. You will have it that much faster if you choose your investments wisely, and this is such an investment.”
Alfred tried to put on a cheery disposition to please his father, but his appetit
e had gone cold. “I do see your point, Father, but I find it very distressing.”
“It would be more distressing to not have any place at all for the foreigners,” Rupert countered. “You saw what happened last year. There were so many that they were living in tents. Each summer there will be more of them. We are performing our civic duty as good corporate citizens in building rental houses. Don’t you see?”
“I am quite surprised that you have not been given an award for your great contributions to the city, Father.”
“What a splendid idea! That’s the way. I knew I would be able to persuade you to see it my way.”
Chapter Ten
Stalwart Peasants in Sheepskin Coats
July 26, 1897
Roger Harrington was running late for his train to Dominion City and was quite annoyed. His entire schedule had been thrown off by that insolent hotel doorman who had told him he would actually have to wait his turn for a taxi. For some reason that remained an utter mystery, the people in Western Canada seemed to have a lot more difficulty in recognizing his status than people in the East. Westerners were so unsophisticated; so brash and cocky, especially those ranchers in Calgary. Oh, he was glad to be finished with that lot! What was wrong with these people? Did they not understand that all of the major decisions regarding their future in the Dominion would be made in Ottawa and that in the long run they would get more if they were gracious rather than behaving like demanding, spoiled children? They got their bloody railway. What else could they want?
With the Western prairies behind him, he was quite relieved that his tour was more than half finished. An ambitious government bureaucrat, Roger Harrington worked in the office of Clifford Sifton, the new minister responsible for Immigration. His assignment was to tour the West to prepare a report on how the immigrants were managing. The government had put a lot of money into the aggressive program to populate the West, and Harrington had been tasked with being the minister’s “eyes and ears” on this all-important tour. Harrington was thrilled with the opportunity to make a name for himself in Ottawa. With a Toronto upbringing and an economics degree from Montreal’s McGill University, he considered himself to be a man of substance, well-bred and well-suited for the rigors of world travel. However, nothing in his background had prepared him for braving the frontier and he found the unbroken West quite distasteful.
As a reward for contending with the hardships he had endured, Harrington chose to spend two glorious days of civilized living in Winnipeg to recharge his spirit before touring the immigrant homesteads in southeastern Manitoba. He was surprised and delighted with the sophisticated culture available in the provincial capital and had enjoyed two matinee touring plays from New York, as well as and a concert by some excellent local musicians.
Winnipeg had an energetic and youthful flair and appeared to be a fine and stylish place to make a home. There also seemed to be a good deal of money about. In all, the city was positively vibrant compared to Ottawa. He was hopeful he would have a chance to enjoy more of Winnipeg’s charms and perhaps see another play or concert when he returned from Dominion City.
The thought sustained him as he set his jaw and entered the dingy wooden building that served as the city’s CPR train station. Almost immediately he found himself caught in a heavy crowd of travelers. Rolling his eyes, he brought his handkerchief to his nose. The station was positively teeming with the bedraggled masses disembarking from the one o’clock train. It had gathered its passengers from Quebec City, Montreal and Toronto. One colony car after another disgorged its human cargo. Harvest time was getting underway, so in addition to the immigrants, hundreds of working men from the East were arriving, expecting to make a year’s wages in the coming weeks.
Harrington grimaced against the noise and the crowd and searched the departure signs to locate his platform. A cacophony of voices went up around him in a variety of languages as the passengers found their way to employment agents, family, or connecting trains. Most appeared worn from months of travel. Having arrived on steamships, the majority of the immigrants had boarded the train in Halifax or Quebec City for the final leg of their journey.
Harrington felt badly for them, but sorrier for himself, and he longed for his comfortable office on Parliament Hill. These people were peasants, accustomed to privations and discomfort. He, on the other hand, was a city man with fine tastes and sensibilities. Gathering his resolve, he steeled himself and plunged into the sea of bodies, desperately hoping to avoid soiling his coat. Holding his breath, he squeezed through the pack out onto the platform, just in time to hear the first call for his train.
“All aboard for Dominion City! All aboard!” Harrington stepped up his pace.
He ascended the steps of the car thinking how underpaid he was for his duties. He quickly found his seat and sat back, pressing his handkerchief against his perspiring brow. To quiet his anxiety, he set about making sure he had everything he needed. He checked that his ticket said Dominion City and slipped it into the pocket of his trousers. He placed his new hat in the overhead rack and then took his time inspecting and smoothing his jacket before folding it and placing it next to the bowler.
Just as he took his seat again, a bustling assemblage of peasants entered the car and headed down the aisle. The men wore thick moustaches and carried bundled sheepskin coats. The women covered their heads with flowered or black scarves and wore skirts of a coarse material. All were laden with baskets and bundles. The children were scrawny urchins, many of them blonde and sandy-haired moppets; all had dirt under their nails and dirty black rings around the collars of their white shirts. They, too, carried bundles. He recognized their costumes as typical of the Ukrainian-speaking immigrants from Galicia and he winced at their smell, a sharp mix of garlic and body odor.
Fearing for the safety of his expensive jacket, and needing air, he leaped to his feet and struggled to lower the window. Just then, the conductor rushed in, shouting.
“Hey, there, mister,” he called to the tall man at the end of the line of peasants. “You are on the wrong car. This is the first class car. You must come with me. Tell them to turn around and come with me.” The conductor motioned to the peasants in the aisle and then saw the look of dismay on the man’s face. Clearly they didn’t understand a word of English.
The conductor shouted louder. “Come with me! Turn around! I will take you to the correct car. This is not your car! Wrong seats!” The shouting was accompanied by wild gestures. Turning to the others, the weary peasant led them out of the car with nothing more than a few quiet comments.
Harrington was weak with relief. He would have plenty of time to acquaint himself with the trials of the Manitoba immigrants but was delighted that acquaintance wasn’t to start this very minute. He intended to enjoy the ride.
He pulled out his valise to check again that everything was properly organized. In it was a thick pile of notes from the immigration office in Winnipeg; from the files he learned that he would be visiting Manitoba’s first group of Ukrainian-speaking settlers. The Stuartburn Colony had been established the previous summer, in August of 1896. Though the pioneers spoke Ukrainian, there was no country called Ukraine. These immigrants were more commonly called Galicians and Bukovinians, for they came from the Austrian provinces of Galicia and Bukovina. They had farmed for generations and, according to Mr. Sifton, were considered excellent immigrants for Canada’s Western prairies.
Harrington read in his notes that the lead party of twenty-seven families had arrived at Quebec City just a year ago, on July 22, 1896, having sailed on the SS Sicilia from Hamburg by way of Antwerp. After a few days in the immigration sheds in Winnipeg, six men in their group went to Stuartburn, about seventy miles southeast of the city, to approve the location and the colony was established. Each family then chose their homestead from a map shown to them by government officials. It was also noted in the file that, as it was so late in the summer by the time they got to Stuartburn, there had been no time to plant a crop. Another
ten Ukrainian families from Galicia had joined the group a few weeks later.
The government was hoping that tens of thousands more farmers from Galicia and Bukovina and other nearby provinces would be attracted to the Prairie Provinces in the coming years. Officials were counting on the new immigrants sending letters home telling of their great success in Canada.
Harrington returned the notes to the file and sorted through the other materials in his leather case.
He had pens and two bottles of ink and plenty of stationery, as well as a portable folding desk. There was also a letter from the immigration agent in Winnipeg confirming that one of the leaders of this group, a man by the name of Cyril Genyk, would meet him in Dominion City to act as his guide and interpreter. The agent had spoken highly of Genyk, who was a member of the Stuartburn colony. Harrington only hoped that Genyk also understood the value of bathing regularly.
Harrington also had in his possession several official documents related to the rules of the homestead program. Every homesteading family was given one hundred sixty acres of free land for a registration fee of just ten dollars. Within three years they would have to build homes and barns and to have cleared enough land to be growing crops. There was a great emphasis on their need to be self-sufficient.
Harrington removed his spectacles and polished them as he thought about the newcomers and the requirements of the government program. He pledged to himself that he would see that every rule was followed to the letter. He wouldn’t hesitate to tell the homesteaders they might lose their land if they didn’t work hard to see those crops established. This was no country for layabouts. Indeed, Roger Harrington wanted nothing but a stellar career in government and he would do everything possible to urge the success of the immigrant program.
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