by Ray Argyle
“Him and Smith are cousins. But Mr. Stephen’s off in England, raising money to finish the line.” His quest had been successful: the English banker Edward Baring, of Barings Bank, was advancing them the money.
Edward was one of the first to see the train, with a big number 148 on its front, steam into Farwell. He caught sight of the distinguished passengers as they alighted to walk about the town. Mr. Ferguson was right up there with them, showing them around. Of course, Edward didn’t dare speak to any of them.
The train sat on a siding for several days, waiting for the two work gangs to meet each other at Craigellachie. Steady rain turned the thin mountain soil into mud, holding up the last few miles of construction. Edward checked every day for news of the work. Finally, on Thursday, November 6, 1885, word came that the last supply train, consisting of an engine, a tender, and three flatcars loaded with steel rails, would leave that afternoon for Craigellachie. The fateful hook-up would take place the next morning.
Leaving his satchel at the Columbia Hotel, Edward hurried down to the tracks just in time to see the flatcars being shunted into place behind the engine. He saw several men clamber on board. He ran to catch up, and swung aboard the last flatcar just as the train began to pick up steam.
Huddled among the cold rails, he thought of his earlier ride from Golden when he also clung to a flatcar loaded with rails. It had been warm that day, but not today: he was facing a cold, cheerless, and rough ride. A few miles outside Farwell, it started to snow.
The snow made the tracks slippery and the train had difficulty making its way up the grade into Eagle Pass.
Three times it ground to a halt before sliding back. Finally, in desperation, the engineer ordered the last car to be cut loose. Edward hurried to jump aboard the second of the two remaining flatcars.
Edward’s flatcar was pulled through an overnight blizzard by a steam locomotive like this one.
Through a bitter night of driving snow, Edward shivered along with the other men who were riding the rails. He felt shaken almost to pieces as the little train made its way slowly over the rough roadbed. No one was able to sleep. The snow turned to sleet, and Edward was thoroughly soaked by the time the train pulled onto a siding at Craigellachie. It was pitch dark, and Edward was stiff and half-frozen; he couldn’t see where he was. It was all he could do to make out the shape of an empty boxcar on an adjoining track. He crawled inside and, exhausted, fell into a deep sleep.
CHAPTER 11
EDWARD AND
THE LAST SPIKE
Edward tumbled from the boxcar cold, damp, and tired. He wiped the sleep from his eyes as his boots scrunched on the gravel where the boxcar had been shunted. He could just make out, through the bleak light of dawn, a shadowy gathering of men of various shapes and sizes. They were fitting the last steel rails into the final gap in the Canadian Pacific Railway. Edward drew his watch from his pocket and squinted to check the time: just after seven o’clock. He heaved a sigh of relief. There was still time to see the driving of the Last Spike!
Looking at the men, Edward saw several he recognized from his days in Farwell. He’d gotten to know a lot of them while riding the mail through Eagle Pass. He recognized some of the most important men connected with the railway. There was Major Albert Rogers, famous for discovering that pass through the Selkirk Mountains, which bore his name. He was directing the navvies as they hauled the final rails into place. His long white beard and his fancy vest and watch-chain gave him an air of importance. Colonel Sam Steele, one of the members of the original group of North-West Mounted Police that came West in 1874, stood guard over the lot. Colonel Steele looked like he was about to burst with pride, as if what was happening here today was all his doing.
“What’s Major Rogers doing?” Edward asked one of the workers.
“Can’t you see, kid? He’s having us measure how to cut the last rails.” As the man spoke, workers brought forward two rails which they laid beside the gap. Then they measured them for cutting: just over 7.77 metres. A foreman scored both rails to show where they should be cut. Edward winced as Major Rogers took up a huge bludgeon and began to pound first one, then the other, with a series of sharp blows. They both cracked just where they were supposed to and were quickly lifted into place. Major Rogers took it on himself to pound in the iron spikes to hold one rail in place. The second was left untouched for the ceremony.
With the driving of the Last Spike, the railway linked Canada coast-to-coast, and John A. Macdonald’s promise to British Columbia was fulfilled.
Things were happening quickly now. Edward heard several sharp blasts of a steam whistle as the official train drew into sight a few hundred yards down the track. Slowing now, Locomotive 148 chugged to a stop. It had brought the ceremonial party to Craigellachie in comfort during a leisurely overnight trip from Farwell. The men had slept warm in their berths, while Edward and his companions clung to their bed of cold steel rails.
American contractor Andrew Onderdonk brought thousands of Chinese labourers to build the Canadian Pacific Railway. He was given orders by Ottawa to cut costs, and hiring Chinese workers at low wages was the easiest way to do this.
How Edward wished he had been on that train! I’ll bet they’ve just had a big breakfast, he thought hungrily, as he watched the arrival. Steam escaped from the engine as if the great black monster was pausing to regain its breath. Everyone stood quietly and waited for the passengers to get off.
One after another, the distinguished men for whom this day had been arranged stepped from their parlour car. The photographer, Alexander Ross, was one of the first off the train. He was a stunted little man, with a crooked back. He walked all bent over, carrying his camera in a large black box. He held what looked like a tripod over his shoulder.
When it seemed as if everybody had dismounted, yet one more figure appeared on the step of the Matapedia. He was tall and exceedingly erect, with a tremendous white beard. On the top of his head he wore a large black top hat.
By now, Edward had worked his way around to a spot next to Mr. Ferguson.
The Man Who Drove the Spike
Donald A. Smith, the son of a Scottish tradesman, came to Canada to work as an apprentice clerk for the Hudson’s Bay Company. He died rich and titled, as Lord Strathcona, remembered for having driven the Last Spike in the great railway in which he was an important investor. Forever after that day, he lived in the glory of his accomplishments for the CPR.
Smith worked his way up the ranks of the Hudson’s Bay Company, eventually becoming its governor. He was as successful in politics as in business. While a member of parliament for the Selkirk District in Manitoba, he voted against John A. Macdonald’s government for its involvement in the Pacific Scandal, which was caused by contributions Macdonald took from the railway’s backers. Smith then became an investor, along with his cousin George Stephen, in a new company formed to finish the Canadian Pacific Railway.
Two years after driving the Last Spike, Smith became an MP again, this time for Montreal West, and was appointed president of the Bank of Montreal. In 1896 he was appointed Canada’s high commissioner to Britain. He held that post, as well as that of governor of the Hudson’s Bay Company, until his death in 1914.
In 1900, Lord Strathcona financed his own cavalry regiment of 500 men and horses, called Lord Strathcona’s Horse, for the South African Boer War. He served as the chancellor of McGill University and founded Royal Victoria College for women in 1896.
“That’s Mr. Smith, the man I told you about,” he whispered to Edward. “They say he’s a financial genius for having raised all that money.”
No sooner had these men stretched their legs than Edward heard the echo of a whistle in the opposite direction. A train was coming in from the Pacific! It was pulling Andrew Onderdonk’s private car, Eva, which came to a rest on the siding where the boxcar Edward had slept in still sat. It was Mr. Onderdonk’s furious energy that had driven ten thousand workers to punch twin lines of steel through the moun
tains from Port Moody, at the head of Burrard Inlet, to Craigellachie.
Nothing stood between No. 148 and the Pacific Ocean, except one seven metre rail that needed only to be spiked to the wooden ties on which it rested.
The first man to greet Andrew Onderdonk was William Van Horne, the railway’s general manager. He told Mr. Onderdonk that the CPR could never have been finished without him.
“You’ve done a marvellous job,” Mr. Van Horne said before taking him over to say hello to Donald Smith and Mr. Ferguson. Edward thought Mr. Smith looked like Father Time himself, his great white beard falling down over his waistcoat, a stark contrast to the black stove pipe hat he was wearing. All the important men were gathering around them.
“We’re all set for you to drive in the Last Spike,” Mr. Rogers told the old patriarch of the CPR. Everybody crowded around the two of them, while Alexander Ross set up his tripod and camera a few feet down the track. He had one of the newer cameras of the time, which opened like an accordion and captured pictures on a plate of glass, storing it forever. Mr. Ross was wearing only a thin coat over his tweed suit and Edward saw him draw his hands to his mouth, breathing warmth onto his fingers.
Edward decided it was time to make his move. He pushed his way toward where Donald Smith held a large spike maul in his hands. The roadmaster, Frank Brothers, had tapped an iron spike into place.
“Can I get in?” Edward asked one of the men. He wanted to get as close as possible.
“Whadda yuh doin’ here?” someone demanded. “Get away, kid!”
“Let him in, he can stand right there,” a loud voice said. It was Mr. Ferguson.
“Don’t you know that’s the Craigellachie Kid?” he added.
Edward’s heart was beating fast, and he forgot about his wet clothes and sodden boots. He straightened the black cap he was wearing, bent a bit to one side to avoid the flight of the hammer, propped his left foot on a tie, and held his breath.
Mr. Van Horne was standing directly behind Donald Smith, hands plunged into the pockets of his overcoat. He seemed to have a glum look on his face. A few steps from Mr. Van Horne, and right next to Edward, stood a mountain of a man, Sandford Fleming. He had a huge, flowing white beard and wore a big top hat. On the other side of the track, wearing his derby hat at a jaunty angle, was Mr. Van Horne’s personal cook, Robert Pearson. Beside him was James Ross, the construction manager. Andrew Onderdonk and Colonel Steele were at the back of the crowd.
At exactly twenty-two minutes after nine o’clock, Donald Smith raised the heavy hammer over his head and brought it down on the spike with a crash. His aim was off and the spike lay there, half-in and badly bent. Frank Brothers, the roadmaster, quickly yanked it out and propped another in its place. Again, Donald Smith raised the big hammer over his head. This time it came down squarely on the spike. At the exact moment of the hammer’s flight, the photographer pressed the shutter. More blows rained down on the spike and the camera snapped away. Everyone was silent as the Last Spike was driven home.
Edward Mallandaine inserted himself into the picture when Alexander Ross took this Last Spike photo.
Even after Mr. Smith put the hammer aside, no one spoke for a moment. Edward sucked in his breath, amazed at what he had just seen. Then, as if on signal, a cheer broke out. It started with one man and spread through the crowd. Soon, train whistles were blown, adding to the noise.
“Speech, speech!” someone shouted.
But Mr. Smith remained silent. He looked at Mr. Van Horne, who turned to the crowd and said: “All I can say is that the work has been done well in every way.”
Several more short speeches were made, and hands were shaken. No one seemed too excited, except for Mr. Rogers: there was a big smile on his face. He looked like he was unable to contain himself. The old surveyor grabbed hold of a tie and upended it, then tried to stick it into the ground to mark the spot. Other men started picking up bits of rail and cast off spikes as souvenirs.
The task of keeping trains running fell to a hardy band of locomotive engineers, like the men shown here.
While the executives were congratulating themselves, workmen who had not been in any of the pictures approached the photographer.
“How about a picture of us?” one of them asked Mr. Ross. “We’d like something to remember this day.”
They all walked back down the tracks a hundred yards before huddling together to have their picture taken. The shutter clicked time and again, taking more pictures that would find their way into future history books.
Then Locomotive 148 sounded its whistle.
“All aboard for the Pacific! Next stop, Port Moody.”
The important men of the CPR returned to their parlour car to enjoy cigars and whisky. In a few minutes, the train began to move forward. It passed over the Last Spike and rolled along the twin rails of steel that would take it through green mountain passes and verdant river valleys, down to the blue Pacific and the new world of Canada’s tomorrow.
When construction shut down along the railway, the Chinese labourers were the first to go. One night, weeks before the ceremony at Craigellachie, Dukesang Wong and his crew had been told they would no longer be needed. It was up to them to find their way out of Shuswap Valley, where they had been ballasting the railway.
Very few of the labourers had saved enough money to pay their way back to China, or for a comfortable life once they got there. Dukesong still dreamed of making a life for himself and his future wife, Lin, in Canada. He considered going to Victoria, where he knew there were many Chinese people, but he’d never been to that town. Dukesong had told Edward, he preferred to return to Saltwater City, where he had many friends and he was sure he would find a way to profitably occupy his time.
“Perhaps I will become a tailor. My countrymen must adapt to Western ways, and they will want Western clothing. I can learn to make it for them.”
A few hours after the driving of the Last Spike, Edward scored a seat aboard a work train returning to Farwell. He went to the Columbia Hotel for one last night, where the talk in the lobby was about nothing other than the Last Spike. Edward was able to join right in, proudly telling everyone he met how he got himself in the photograph of the great event.
The next morning, he went to the shack that served as a temporary railway station to inquire about trains to Port Moody. There, he was told that there was no scheduled service, just work trains going back and forth. This meant Edward wouldn’t have to pay for a ticket: he knew enough people to be able to hitch rides from place to place all the way back to the coast.
A Spike for History
The Last Spike remained in the tie where Donald Smith had driven it after the ceremony. The spike was probably discarded, though, at some point during routine replacement of the ties. The second-to-last bent spike that Smith had failed to drive in was given to him some time after the 1885 ceremony and his grandson presented it to Canada’s National Museum of Science and Technology during a centennial ceremony at Craigellachie on November 7, 1985.
The trains to Port Moody stopped often to drop off supplies, and take on water and wood. It took Edward several days, and many train changes, to reach his destination. Along the way, he thought about everything he had seen and done. Of everything that had happened to him, nothing compared with being present for the Last Spike.
He was even prouder of the fact that he was in the picture of the great event. Edward wrote a letter to a friend describing every detail of his trip, and ended his letter with these words: “Thus, was the Dominion of Canada bound and nailed together by bands of steel.”
Edward couldn’t stop thinking about how things had turned out for him. He’d started out for the North-West Rebellion, but even though he was too late his trip wasn’t for nothing. He’d made the most of it — maybe he’d even be in the history books. Who knew what would become of that picture?
CHAPTER 12
HOME FROM THE
MOUNTAINS
The scent of the sea fill
ed Edward’s nostrils. He’d forgotten the tangy smell of salt air during his time in the mountains. His summer had been filled with the aroma of pine needles and alpine flowers. On the nights when he huddled in his bedroll, thrown under a tree on the forest floor at some convenient resting place on his rides between Farwell and Eagle Landing, their fragrance had been like perfume.
Edward stepped from the back platform of the caboose onto the rough wooden deck of the Port Moody station as the work train squealed to a stop. It had reached the tip of Burrard Inlet, the end of the line for the Canadian Pacific Railway. From the station, Edward could see a few boats tied up at the dock. He thanked the conductor for letting him share the comfort of his caboose.
“The next time you want to travel, you’ll have to buy a ticket,” the conductor told Edward. “No more free rides once the passenger trains get rolling.”
Edward considered going down to the dock to see what was happening, but he decided against it. He needed to travel a few miles overland to New Westminster, where he could catch a steamer that would take him home to Victoria.
His satchel under his arm, Edward strode off down the rutted road that served as Port Moody’s main street. It had the usual collection of general stores, cafés, saloons, and ship provisioners. He asked the way to the stagecoach office, and was directed around a corner where he found a sign hanging over a false fronted building: pacific stagecoach.
“Stage’s leaving in five minutes,” he was told. “Fare’s a dollar and a half.”
Edward paid willingly. He had saved up two hundred dollars from his summer riding parcels and the Royal Mail through Eagle Pass. He felt rich.
The first thing Edward did when the stagecoach arrived in New Westminster was to go to the Royal George hotel where he’d stayed on his way upcountry. The desk clerk recognized him.