by Julie Lawson
Carpe diem. Time to start practising.
Epilogue
Overseas, the war news was grim. A string of German victories in the spring of 1918 made Charlotte more fearful than ever that Luke might not return safely, but she kept her worries to herself. Nor did she express them in the diary he’d left for her. She was saving that diary for when the war was finally over.
She wrote long, breezy letters to Luke, recounting the small events at home and at school in as lighthearted a way as possible, so he wouldn’t worry about her and Duncan.
By the end of April 1918, Charlotte was well into the daily routine of home and school, and happy with her decision to attend Tower Road with Duncan and Eva. She knew several other children from the old Richmond neighbourhood, and made new friends among the South End girls.
It was during this time, when life was seemingly getting back to “normal,” that the full impact of Charlotte’s loss hit home. In the days following the Explosion there had been such an overwhelming amount to bear, it was as if her mind had gone numb. She often wondered how she would have coped had it not been for Duncan and, later on, her grandparents and Luke.
“You’re Charlotte the Fearless,” Duncan would remind her. “You would have managed.”
She found it helpful to talk to someone during her worst bouts of sadness, and found sympathetic listeners in Gran and Eva. Duncan, while sharing and understanding Charlotte’s grief, continued to suffer from recurring nightmares and steadfastly refused to talk about his experience during the Explosion. They supported each other through the difficult times, although Charlotte was the one who most often eased Duncan’s worries, rather than the other way around — a pattern which would continue for many years.
Luke wrote as often as possible after his return overseas, but when six weeks went by without a word, the twins began to suspect the worst.
Finally, near the end of May, they received a letter from a convalescent hospital in England. Several weeks earlier, while in France, Luke had developed acute bronchial pneumonia. He would be returning to Halifax on a hospital ship and continuing his convalescence at Camp Hill Hospital.
It was the very thing Charlotte had prayed for — as long as Luke’s condition didn’t get worse.
“Luke the Lucky,” she said, on her first visit to the hospital. She reminded him of their father’s quip about “raining soup,” and hid her concern over his frail appearance. Later, as he began to recover more fully, she teased him about losing weight on purpose so that Mary would have even more fun fattening him up.
By the end of September he was well enough to leave the hospital. A good thing, too, for by then the world was fighting a new and deadly enemy — Spanish influenza. The epidemic reached Canada in mid-September and, by early October, it was raging in Halifax. Schools, churches and businesses were closed, all public meetings were cancelled, and people were advised to stay indoors. By the time the epidemic had run its course, it had taken the lives of some fifty thousand Canadians.
Charlotte, her brothers and grandparents held a quiet celebration on November 11, the day the Great War ended, and she started her new diary that evening. “A new beginning,” she wrote. “I am determined to take Mum’s advice to seize the day, and I am taking hold of this historic day, November 11, 1918, with thanksgiving — thankful that the war is over, that Luke, Duncan and I have survived, and that we have found a loving home in the most unexpected of places.”
The year she turned fifteen, Charlotte left Tower Road School and attended the Halifax Ladies College, where she graduated in 1923.
The Halifax Relief Commission provided pensions for victims of the Explosion, and orphans who had lost both parents were entitled to receive a monthly allowance of sixteen dollars, payable until their seventeenth birthday. Charlotte’s grandparents had encouraged her and Duncan to save their allowances to further their education, and promised they would provide whatever additional funds were needed.
Charlotte would never know why her life had been spared, but she vowed that it would not be wasted. In the fall of 1923 she enrolled in Dalhousie University to study medicine.
It was an unusual choice for a woman, but not unheard of, and certainly not impossible for one as determined as Charlotte.
Besides, things were changing in the world. The Roaring Twenties, as the decade came to be called, was an exciting time, marked by a break with traditions and the feeling that the world was on the brink of a different era. Listening to the radio was a popular craze in the Twenties. Radios had become affordable, and the new, innovative sound of jazz was hitting the airwaves. Along with jazz, a new dance called the Charleston was spreading in popularity. Whenever possible, Charlotte would abandon her studies, coax Eva or Duncan into doing the same, and go off to kick up her heels. It was at a New Year’s Eve dance in 1928 that she met the man who would eventually become her husband — Rory MacPherson, a trumpet player in a dance band.
The fun of dancing and listening to jazz served as a much-needed respite after the horrors of the Great War and the Explosion, even though such horrors were still present in everyone’s mind. Charlotte never “got over” her loss. The pain softened over time, but certain occasions, such as Christmas, were always tinged with sadness.
For many years, Charlotte worked as a family physician in Halifax. She continued to live in her grandparents’ house following their deaths, and insisted that Mary stay on as cook and housekeeper for as long as she liked. By now Charlotte was used to Mary’s scolding about not eating enough, and secretly enjoyed being spoiled. Her two Brittany spaniels had their share of spoiling, too.
Duncan became an Anglican minister and served in several small parishes in Shelbourne County, the area where his father grew up. When the Second World War broke out in September 1939, he went overseas as an army chaplain. He returned to Halifax four years later with an English bride, and settled in the South End, not far from Young Avenue. They had one son.
Luke became a history teacher. His romance with Helen ended soon after the war, and in 1921 he married a young teacher from Truro. They settled in one of the new hydrostone houses in Richmond, where they raised four children.
Charlotte kept up with her piano playing, both classical and jazz, and often performed at concerts. In the spring of 1936, at a fundraising concert for the Children’s Orphanage, she was reacquainted with trumpeter Rory MacPherson, now teaching music at Dalhousie. They were married the following year and had one daughter, Lily.
Many of the survivors Charlotte had known in her childhood moved away following the Explosion and never returned to Halifax. She kept in touch with as many as possible, and remained lifelong friends with those who stayed. Haggarty, Muriel, Eva, Carl — they and their families were among the many visitors to the house on Young Avenue, where Charlotte continued to live as a wife and mother.
Those who had opened their homes and their hearts in the aftermath of the Explosion were not forgotten, either. Helen, who married before completing her medical studies, became a close friend of the family, as did the Kesslers.
Throughout their lives, Charlotte and Duncan remained best friends. For those who knew them well, it was no surprise that Charlotte died just two months after her brother, at the age of eighty-eight.
The extended families of Charlotte, Duncan and Luke continued the tradition of attending the memorial service held on Fort Needham, every December 6 at 9:05 a.m.
One more thing (as Charlotte would say). As Lily was going through her mother’s belongings, she found several diaries, including one old and weathered diary written at the time of the Explosion. She kept it for many years, and eventually donated it to her local library.
She also found a dozen letters marked Return to Sender. They had been opened and read many times, judging by the well-thumbed pages, and Lily lost no time in reading them herself. Knowing the family history, she discovered no trace of anger, bitterness or regret in her grandmother’s letters. They merely recorded, often with humour, alw
ays with love and pride, small moments in the life of the growing Blackburn family.
Historical Note
Thursday, December 6, 1917, dawned crisp and clear in Halifax, Nova Scotia. It began like most days during the Great War, with Haligonians following their regular routines. It would end like no other.
The war had made Halifax one of the busiest and most prosperous ports in the British Empire. Most troops heading for Europe passed through its harbour, as well as enormous quantities of supplies — horses, foodstuffs, hospital supplies, munitions, and tons of grain and lumber. The dry dock echoed with the building and repairing of ships. Piers, barges, freighters, foundries and factories were scenes of constant activity.
It wasn’t the first time that Halifax had prospered in war. From the moment the British discovered the huge natural harbour that breaks into the Atlantic coast of Nova Scotia, the strategic importance of the site was recognized. Halifax would be built as a military fortress and naval base on the western side of the harbour, a perfect place for the British to uphold their interests in North America and to offset the French stronghold in Louisbourg, Cape Breton.
The choice was ideal, as the harbour is one of the finest in the world. It’s shaped roughly like an hourglass. One end is the landlocked Bedford Basin, an inner harbour where over thirty vessels can lie in safety. The other end, open to the sea, is the harbour itself. Connecting the two is a narrow passage known as the Narrows.
Halifax was first settled in 1749. By 1917 its population had risen to fifty thousand, ten times that of Dartmouth, its neighbour across the harbour. Who could have foreseen that the city, prospering from the war, would soon know devastation beyond anyone’s imagination?
When war broke out in August 1914, young men eighteen and older enlisted with boundless enthusiasm. Off to the battlefields, give the Germans a pounding, and be home for Christmas, they thought — the adventure of a lifetime. The reality was something else.
From the very beginning, Canada and other Allies (supporters of Britain) suffered heavy losses. Hospital ships carrying wounded men arrived in Halifax regularly. Before long, the number of volunteers enlisting in the Canadian army fell behind the increasing number of casualties. In an effort to solve this problem, the Canadian government under Prime Minister Robert Borden passed the Military Service Act, to bring about what was known as conscription. Under this law, all unmarried men aged twenty to thirty-four were required to register for military service, unless they could claim an exemption.
The losses were not only heavy, but costly. The Allies were losing so many ships to German submarines, they began crossing the Atlantic in convoys, escorted by heavily armed destroyers.
By late 1917 the situation in Europe was desperate. Munitions were in such great demand that cargo ships of every description were pressed into service — no matter how old or battered. One such ship was a French steamer called Mont-Blanc.
Mont-Blanc was a floating bomb. She carried 2,300 tons of wet and dry picric acid, 200 tons of TNT, 10 tons of gun cotton and 35 tons of benzol (a high-octane gasoline), which was stored in iron drums and placed on the open deck. The steamer also carried guns for defence and more than 300 live rounds of ammunition.
By all accounts, the cargo was stowed with every possible precaution. Dockworkers loading the ship in New York were required to cover their metal-studded boots with cloth, since one spark could set off an explosion. And since matches were strictly forbidden on deck, the crew resorted to using chewing tobacco instead of smoking cigarettes.
The Mont-Blanc’s Captain LeMedec had never intended to sail to Halifax before crossing the Atlantic. He and his forty-one man crew had expected to travel in a convoy from New York. But his ship was rejected for being too slow, and he was ordered to proceed to Halifax and join a convoy there.
The ill-fated journey began on the night of December 1. Mont-Blanc left New York on her own. Her arrival in Halifax was delayed by a gale, but late Wednesday afternoon, December 5, she arrived at the mouth of Halifax Harbour.
Regular procedures were followed. Local pilot Francis Mackey boarded the ship and directed her to the nearby examination boat for inspection. The examining officer boarded to interview Captain LeMedec. He also inspected the ship’s cargo manifest, which listed the explosives.
Mont-Blanc passed inspection, but she was unable to enter the harbour. Not because of the dangerous cargo she carried, but because she had arrived too late to pass through the anti-submarine nets.
Halifax Harbour was protected by two such nets, an outer one and an inner one. Each net consisted of steel wire netting suspended from the surface of the water to the harbour bottom, and was held up by a long line of wooden floats. A “gate” in the net’s mid-section could be opened by the two civilian tugboats assigned to act as “gate vessels.” The outer net was kept open until an inbound ship or convoy had passed through. Once it was closed, the inner net was opened.
The nets were not opened between dusk and dawn for security reasons. So, because of Mont-Blanc’s late arrival, she was required to anchor off shore and wait until the morning.
That same night, another ship lay in wait. Imo was a Norwegian-registered ship leased for Belgian Relief. Much larger and faster than Mont-Blanc, it had anchored in the Bedford Basin two days earlier. Her Norwegian captain had obtained permission to leave Halifax on December 5, but a coal tender had arrived later than expected. By the time it filled up Imo’s bunkers, the anti-submarine nets were closed.
The next morning, at 7:30 a.m., Imo pulled up anchor and proceeded towards the Narrows. A steamer wanting to anchor on the western side of the Basin turned to the left (to port) instead of to the right (to starboard), and forced the Imo towards the Dartmouth shore, the wrong channel for out-going ships. A local tugboat with two barges in tow, following in the wake of the steamer, forced Imo still closer to Dartmouth. Meanwhile, Mont-Blanc was coming into the Narrows. She signalled to Imo that she was in her correct channel. Imo, however, signalled that she was intending to continue even farther to port.
Again the Mont-Blanc signalled that she intended to pass to starboard, the normal rule for ships in harbours or narrow channels. By this time she was close to the Dartmouth shore. She expected Imo to give her room by swinging towards Halifax, but once again Imo signalled that she intended to stay her course.
The ships were now dangerously close. Both took emergency action. Mont-Blanc decided to go hard to port and changed her path diagonally towards Halifax, right across the bow of Imo. At the same instant, Imo signalled that she had reversed her engines.
The action taken by either vessel would have avoided a collision had the other ship stayed its original course. But with the reversal of her engines, Imo’s bow swung into the path of Mont-Blanc and cut a deep wedge into her starboard side. It was 8:45 a.m.
Almost at once, Mont-Blanc was on fire. The crew and pilot took to the lifeboats and rowed furiously to Dartmouth, leaving the abandoned ship to drift into Halifax Harbour, Pier 6, just off the community of Richmond. Before coming to a halt, the ship brushed against the pier and set it ablaze.
To the crowds gathering on both sides of the harbour, the burning ship was not a floating bomb, but a spectacle. Men, women and children rushed to windows and rooftops and hurried down to the waterfront to watch the excitement. Passengers on the Dartmouth–Halifax ferry, halfway across the Narrows at the time, watched from the decks. On every ship in the harbour, sailors and stevedores abandoned their duties. Several vessels in the harbour made for Mont-Blanc with fire hoses, and the Halifax Fire Department was quick to respond. They were positioning their new, motorized fire engine when Mont-Blanc exploded. It was a few seconds short of 9:05 a.m.
The force of the explosion blasted the 3,000-ton ship into a spray of metallic fragments. The barrel of one of her cannons landed almost 6 kilometres away, near Dartmouth. Part of her anchor shank, weighing over half a ton, landed 3 kilometres to the west of Halifax. Chunks of metal crashed through roofs, and d
amaged ships. Windows were shattered within a radius of 80 kilometres, and the report was heard as far away as Prince Edward Island. The shock was even felt in Sydney, Cape Breton, more than 430 kilometres northeast of Halifax.
The blast and shock waves flattened much of the Richmond area — railway terminals, docks and residential areas — while across the harbour, damage in the less densely populated Dartmouth area was almost equally severe.
The explosion also caused a tsunami. Sweeping in as high as eighteen metres above the high-water mark on the Halifax side, and crashing against the shore on the Dartmouth side, the wave added greatly to the loss of life and property.
Over sixteen hundred people were killed instantly by the blast. Subsequent deaths caused by the tsunami or the numerous fires, or by critical injuries, brought the total close to two thousand.
Nine thousand were injured, including the hundreds who suffered eye damage or permanent blindness due to flying glass. The North End of Halifax was almost completely destroyed, leaving some twenty-five thousand people without adequate housing, and six thousand homeless.
Four residents of Africville were killed, likely while working in Richmond. The community itself, situated beyond the Narrows on the south side of Bedford Basin, suffered minor damage. The Mi’kmaq village at Tufts Cove, on the Dartmouth shore, was destroyed and never rebuilt. Nine of the twenty-one residents lost their lives.
Amazingly, the Dartmouth–Halifax ferry continued its morning run to Halifax, and kept on running throughout the day, allowing survivors to reach loved ones or to find shelter. There were no deaths among the 9:00 a.m. passengers, only minor injuries from shattered glass.
Relief efforts were rapidly set in motion. There were some five thousand soldiers in Halifax at the time, as well as sailors from the Canadian and British navies. Military medical facilities were available to provide personnel and supplies. By noon on December 6, city officials had met with army and naval commanders to organize transportation, food, shelter and rescue teams. The Halifax Relief Committee was established to oversee all aspects of the disaster, and over a dozen sub-committees quickly set about their tasks.