by Ray Argyle
Edward thought about looking elsewhere to sleep, but he was tired. Rather than venture back down the ladder, he chose a cot that stood in the far corner of the loft, its head and one side protected by the walls. He decided to sleep in his clothes. Extracting a small blanket from his satchel, he lay down, put the little bag under his head for a pillow, and tried to fall asleep.
But he couldn’t get to sleep. After awhile, he could hear and feel men coming up the ladder. The lone candle had burned out and it was dark, except for the chain of light coming from the crack in the floor. Once in the loft, the men stumbled about, swearing at each other before falling onto the cots in drunken stupors.
A man dropped onto the cot next to Edward. He could sense the heat and the smell of the man’s body, as well as his drunken breath. Edward was trembling, wishing he had gone somewhere else. Eventually the men quieted down and Edward managed to fall into a fitful sleep. He woke up often, disturbed by the loud snores coming from the cot next to him.
CHAPTER 4
THUNDER IN THE PASS
It was barely dawn when Edward awoke to the first light of day. He looked around and realized the kind of place he had fallen into: the Royal Hotel was nothing more than a room for men to sleep off their drunkenness. Bodies were sprawled across the cots and on the floor. On the cot next to him, Edward saw a huge Black man lying with his mouth wide open. He rose quietly, picked up his satchel and blanket, and tiptoed between the rows of beds. He had to get away from this room of evil-looking men, and the smell of stale tobacco and whisky.
Edward’s first thought was to head down to the dock and take the steamer back to Van Horne. He was tempted to give up on his big idea of joining the militia. At that moment, he wanted nothing more than to be at home. But the dock was bare; the Peerless had sailed during the night.
Edward was miserable. His first night at Eagle Landing had sickened him: he wasn’t accustomed to this kind of rough life. Then he started to itch and remembered someone on the boat saying that everyone in Eagle Landing was lousy. He didn’t know exactly what that meant, or what to do about it. But he thought the water might help.
Since it was a warm July morning, Edward decided to go for a swim. He took off his clothes behind a tree and waded into the lake. The water felt wonderful! When he got out and dressed, he washed his blanket, hoping to remove any trace of whatever might have gotten on it during the night. He was feeling better, so he decided to walk back to the main part of town to try to find some breakfast.
People were beginning to move about the rutted street that ran half a mile along the lakeshore. As he walked along, Edward noticed something strange: there seemed to be hundreds, perhaps thousands, of playing cards scattered in the dirt along the side of the road.
He bent down and gathered a handful of them. He picked up an ace of clubs, a king of hearts, and a jack of diamonds. He wondered why all these cards, which seemed to be perfectly good other than being a bit weather-beaten, had been thrown out.
A few men were loitering around the J. Fred Hume and Company dry goods store. Edward decided to ask about the cards lying in the street. He got a quick explanation.
“That’s how we keep the gamblers honest,” a man with a great bushy beard told him. “A fresh deck of cards for every round of poker. Only use it once. Then throw it out the window. We don’t want anybody stacking the deck.”
There was a small frame building with a sign hanging in front that said Eats — Chinese and Canadian near the store. He went in. A Chinese man was standing over a stove cooking for the three customers who were already there. Edward took a seat at the counter and asked for breakfast. The cook gave him a slice of salt pork, a chunk of bread, and tea in a tin mug. The whole meal cost a dollar. At this rate, Edward thought, my money won’t last very long.
After breakfast, Edward explored the side alleys that ran off the main street. It was clear to him that Eagle Landing was one of those places that spring up like a mushroom, and sometimes die in just a few days, like the gold mining towns he’d heard about. He thought everyone must be eager to make money at the expense of the workers, selling them whisky, getting them to gamble, and over-charging for everything. He wondered how long the town would last after the railway was finished and there was no call for the lake steamers to stop there.
Eagle Landing seemed to be made up of one makeshift wooden building after another. There were some general stores, a post office, and a stable that ran a stagecoach service the eighty kilometres over the Monashee Mountains to Farwell. Edward inquired about the cost of a ticket to Farwell.
“It’ll cost you twenty-five dollars, that’s if there’s a seat open on the next stage,” the man in the office told him.
Edward was shocked. “That’s too much for me, I’ll have to walk it.” But he didn’t like the idea of striking out by himself on a lonely road through the wilderness. He’d been told there were mountain lions and bears in these parts. He decided to walk around some more while he contemplated his prospects.
While Edward was mulling over the mess he’d found himself in he encountered a young man a little older than himself, who was leading two horses. Edward decided to strike up a conversation.
“What are you doing with those horses?” Edward asked.
“They’re pack animals, can’t you see the stuff they’re carrying?” the stranger answered. He went on to explain that he used them when someone wanted stuff taken to the railway camps.
Edward introduced himself; the stranger said his name was Jim Gillett. He seemed friendly. Edward thought it would be good to travel with someone who knew the country, and explained his predicament.
“No point in your hanging around here,” Jim told Edward. “You can ride along on one of my horses if you want to go to Farwell. Get yourself some grub down at the general store and meet me in front of the stagecoach office in an hour.”
At the general store, Edward chose a pound of ham, a dozen potatoes, and a few ounces of coffee. Then he decided to add three eggs he’d seen sitting on the counter. The storekeeper charged him three dollars and twenty-five cents. Good thing I don’t have to pay for water, Edward thought, but kept it to himself.
By the time Edward met Jim, it was the hottest part of the day. It took Edward, who had never been on a horse, a couple of tries, but with help he was soon astride his new friend’s white mare. They had ridden only a little way before Jim suggested they have another look at the lake. Edward didn’t mind, but he found it almost as hard to get off the horse as to get on it! The horses grazed on grass while the two young men lay on their backs and talked about their hopes for the future.
Reliable pack horses were essential. Without them, the surveyors would have faced an impossible job.
“I’m gonna get me a farm,” Jim told Edward. “Then I won’t have to wander all through this God-forsaken country tryin’ to find a square meal.”
Edward said the idea of farming didn’t much interest him. He was still intent on joining the militia.
It was at this point that Jim produced a bobble of twine and two fish hooks, which he attached to the string, placing them about a foot apart. He waded into the lake, threw out the line as far as he could, and waited for the fish to bite. A half hour later, he had four nice trout. At five o’clock, they made a little fire and cooked the fish. Edward decided he’d save his eggs for the morning. It was too late to start out now, so they rolled out their blankets and made preparations to bed down for the night. All this time, they hadn’t seen a single person.
Early the next morning, the pair set out on the tote road built by George Wright, one of the first European men to traverse the Monashee Mountains. It wound its way out of Eagle Landing, zigging and zagging eastward. The tote road wasn’t much wider than a path, wandering through valleys and passes that kept them to the lowest part of the mountains. Contractors used it to haul supplies and equipment for the railway.
As Edward discovered, it took horse and mule power, as well as human labour, t
o build the railway.
It was hot again, and the bugs and mosquitoes made good meals of Edward, Jim, and the horses. By the end of the day, everyone was exhausted. Edward and Jim threw down their blankets under some trees and slept soundly — until they were awoken by the coyotes howling. Edward had never heard such sounds before.
By mid-morning the next day they reached the line of railway construction. The whole place was alive with activity. Gangs of Chinese workers were busy with picks and shovels preparing the roadbed for the steel rails, while the supervisors stood back at the edge of the forest, smoking and watching the work. Trees were being cut down, stumps were being blown out by explosives, and men were drilling into rock overhangs so they could be blasted out to make way for the rails.
That was when Edward heard the thunder. He looked into the clear blue sky and wondered where it was coming from. Jim explained that he was actually hearing the echo of nitroglycerine blasts being set off in Eagle Pass. Thousands of tons of rock were being moved to make way for the railway.
Every now and then they came upon a camp made up of tents and log buildings. Twice over the next few days, they got hand-outs from the camp cooks, which kept their bellies full without any need to tap into their own supplies. On the third day, they found themselves outside a crude log shack that stood by itself midway between two camps. A man was lounging on a wooden bench out front.
“You boys all want a drink?” The man was wearing dirty corduroy pants held up by tattered suspenders. Woollen underwear that must have once been white covered his stomach and chest. Edward assumed that he was inviting them to have a drink of water.
“Ain’t got no water here,” the man corrected him. “Just good whisky — made it myself.”
Edward realized that this was one of the bootleggers he’d heard infested the route along the railway. As well as selling liquor, the shack would probably be set up for gambling, if it was like other places that Jim had described. He’d explained that whisky was not allowed to be sold within twenty miles on either side of the railway. passing by lakes and streams amid the dense forests that lay below the towering mountains, which rose all around him.
Edward came upon this hastily built railway work camp deep in Eagle Pass.
“The North-West Mounted Police come along every now and then and raid any places that ignore the rules,” Jim said. “But that don’t stop nobody. The bootleggers set up wherever they can find a place to throw up a table and some stools.”
Jim told the bootlegger he’d take a shot. He paid twenty-five cents and was handed a small, dirty glass with about an inch of brown liquid in it. He raised it to his lips, cocked back his head, and let the whisky slip down his throat.
“Arrgh, that’ll put hair on your chest. Why don’t you try a shot?”
Edward knew his father took a drink of whisky sometimes before dinner. He thought there was no reason he shouldn’t try a drink.
Handing a coin to the bootlegger, Edward accepted a ration in the same glass from which Jim had just drunk.
As he brought it to his mouth, the smell of the whisky rose to his nostrils. He almost gagged. The only way to get rid of the smell, Edward thought, was to drink the stuff. He took a great gulp, swallowing it all at once.
For an instant, Edward couldn’t figure out what was happening to him. His scalp seemed to be lifting itself off his head. His ears rang. His eyes watered. His stomach rebelled.
Edward threw up. The whisky he’d drank spouted out of his mouth, along with various other things, liquid and otherwise, that had been in his stomach.
Jim and the bootlegger laughed uproariously.
“You’ll learn, kid,” the bootlegger chuckled. “But you’ll have to keep it down longer if it’s going to do you any good.”
“Come on, Edward,” Jim said. “We’d better get out of here.”
Afterward, Jim apologized to Edward for failing to warn him about the bootlegger’s booze.
“That’s not real whisky. It’s just moonshine that he makes up himself. Rotgut. Don’t let that turn you against the real stuff.”
Edward still felt queasy. He wasn’t sure he’d ever want to try any kind of alcohol again.
Jim thought that they would make better time if they left the construction line and followed Eagle River as it flowed down from Eagle Pass.
After another night in the forest, they came upon Griffin Lake, where a makeshift village had sprung up to cater to the railway workers. They cadged breakfast from a camp cook and debated how best to get to Farwell. The lake was a mile long and they were tempted to cross it on a scow that was being loaded with half a dozen teams of horses pulling wagons loaded with supplies. The scow looked like a big platform floating on the water; four men stood on either side of the scow, each holding a large oar.
“You can come aboard if you each pay a dollar,” one of the men told Edward.
“I’d rather take the trail around the lake and save the dollar,” Edward replied.
Edward and his friend Jim walked around Griffin Lake, shown here, rather than pay to take a barge across.
The path ran the length of the lake. It rose up and down with the uneven terrain. Sometimes, it even dipped into the edge of the lake before emerging on dry land. Edward wasn’t used to riding a horse, and every bit of his body hurt — especially his bottom. He decided to get off and walk the rest of the way. He made his way through a tangle of grass and ferns that came up to his shoulders. Whenever he veered off the path, he found himself walking on a carpet of green moss three or four inches deep. The moss even grew up the sides of trees to their lowest branches.
Ferns and moss didn’t bother Edward, but a shrub called the devil’s club did. Jim had warned him that its luxuriant green leaves hid sharp needles that could pierce the skin at the slightest brush. Edward’s hands were soon raw and swollen from the pricks of its sharp spikes.
They got back on the main path at the end of Griffin Lake and soon came upon Three Valley Lake, named for the three valleys that met at this point. From there, the terrain was easier leading into Eagle Pass, the notch in the mountains that had been discovered by the surveyor Walter Moberly. Without this pass, it would have been impossible to put a railway through the mountains.
As they rode along the river bank, Edward could see the valley narrowing. It soon became just a gap between mountains that rose, sheer and almost completely vertical, for several thousand feet. The mountains were covered with forests of fir, pine, and cedar trees, like a green blanket over the hillsides. He kept his eyes peeled for an eagle, but he never saw one.
It was getting dark when the Columbia River came into sight, far below them in the distance. The river looked wide and deep, but the boys were happy because it meant they would soon be in Farwell, which was on its east bank. But first, there was one more obstacle to be faced: how to get across the river?
Edward was overjoyed when he saw that a rough wooden bridge had been erected across the Columbia. His happiness faded when the toll keeper told him it would cost twenty-five cents for himself, and another twenty-five cents for his horse.
“Everybody’s out to get rich from this railway,” Edward complained, before paying the man.
I’m just about out of money. How will I pay for my ticket to the Prairies? Perhaps I can get work in Farwell. Just long enough to earn what I’ll need until I join the militia.
Edward was worried that he had heard no news of the fighting anywhere along his journey. He hoped he was not too late to help put down the Rebellion and wished he knew what was happening on the other side of the mountains.
“Maybe the militia’s been wiped out,” Edward said to Jim. “Just like General Custer and his men at Little Bighorn in ’76. Nary a one survived.”
Jim looked at him quizzically. “Our men aren’t as foolish as that Custer.”
“Maybe not. But if I don’t get to the Prairies soon, I’ll miss everything.
The Town with Two Names
Arthur Stanhope Farwe
ll thought he had put his name on a place, as well as having earned himself a place in history, by founding a settlement, which he named after himself: Farwell, British Columbia. Instead, his efforts earned him only a footnote in the history books.
Arthur Stanhope Farwell was born in Derbyshire, England, the son of a clergyman. He learned to survey land and lay out routes for streets and roads. When he got to British Columbia he was hired as surveyor general, and when a wagon road was needed to move supplies from Eagle Landing on Shuswap Lake to the Columbia River, he was sent out to survey the way.
Farwell knew he was in on something good. He figured out where the CPR would have to cross the Columbia River, and he got a grant from the British Columbia government for over a thousand acres. Then he got busy laying out the townsite of Farwell, never suspecting that he’d be outwitted by the railway.
When Edward landed in Farwell, the straggly little mountain outpost was home to only a few hundred people and residents were anxiously awaiting the arrival of the railway. Workers were laying tracks through the Selkirk Mountains, and the outpost on the Columbia River was smack on its route.
After agreeing to pay Farwell to use his property for a station, the railway company took possession of a large area of flat land half a mile east of Farwell. This land was within the Railway Belt, the strip of territory across the country that Ottawa gave the CPR in return for building the line.
George Stephen, the president of the CPR, decided the town needed a different name. In 1886, he chose to rename the town Revelstoke in honour of Lord Revelstoke, a British businessman who had invested in the railway.