Last of the Rinkrats and Other Stories

By Donald A. McKellar

Do you consider yourself well-versed in Canadas history?

Ever heard of Domagaya, the Laurentian Iroquois who saved Jacques Cartiers expedition to the New World by teaching him the cure for scurvy? Or Charles Lennox, the Governor-General who died from the bite of a pet fox?

Theres the Chief Justice of Upper Canada kept a pet alligator in his historic home, and Constable Pedley of the Mounties, who transported a sick missionary hundreds of miles through the Northern Alberta wilderness to get medical help while putting his own life at risk.

Learn about the American bankers yacht, the S.S. Ramona, which faithfully served in the Royal Canadian Navy during the Battle of the Atlantic and ended her days plying the South Seas as a shrimp boat.

All of these were true heroes of Canada.

A collection of little-known tales of heroism from Canadas history, Last of the Rinkrats and Other Stories tells twenty-three unforgettable true stories of Canadas unsung heroes and forgotten characters.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Oct 28, 2010
• ISBN: 9781426942778

Donald A. McKellar

Donald A. McKellar works for the Bank of Nova Scotia and is a student of his beloved country’s past. He makes his home in Toronto, but his heart dwells in the camps, cabins, and footpaths of Canada’s past. This is his second book; his previous book, Rinkrats I Have Known and Other Stories, was published in 2007.

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Last of the Rinkrats

AND OTHER STORIES

DONALD A. McKELLAR

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© Copyright 2010 Donald A. McKellar.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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Table of Contents

Acknowledgments

Introduction

985

1534

1610

1763

1775

1819

1824

1840

1845

1877

1885

1893

1894

1919

1898

1903

1904

1938

1942

1943

1945

1958

1973

Photo Credits

Bibliography

About the Author

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Acknowledgments

THIS COLLECTION OF SHORT STORIES BEGAN AS TWO ADDITIONAL TALES WHICH I THOUGHT MIGHT BE SLIPPED INTO A NEW EDITION OF "RINKRATS I HAVE KNOWN AND OTHER STORIES," WHICH WAS PUBLISHED IN 2007.

However, twenty-one more stories followed those two, and three years later, cousin and author Ken Robertson, said to me as we sat in front of his wood-stove one cold winter evening, I think you have another book here.

I’ve written some stories that I hope will interest Canadians in their past: the fight for responsible government, our war efforts in Italy and the Battle of the Atlantic, the story of Crowfoot, the search for a route to the Orient by the early European explorers, and a few more tales about our early hockey stars.

My grandfather’s story of the HMCS Lynx is included here, as is my grandmother’s story of Corinne the Peerless, whom she saw perform at the old Jacobs and Sparrow’s theatre in Toronto in 1894.

My old friend, Lewis McLauchlan, the last surviving member of the old North-West Mounted Police, inspired me to write the Griesbach Story. He knew both Griesbach men – father and son – well.

Thanks to my pal Allan W. Brown, of Ottawa, whose schoolboy exploits and those of his great childhood friend BB Eyes, are recounted in this book. Those two kids cheered on the Toronto Argonauts to Grey Cup glory while standing on the signboard above Bloor Street in 1938. They followed that up by watching the 1942 Leaf Stanley Cup winning game perched high upon a steel girder at Maple Leaf Gardens. Thanks to Allan too, for his photograph of Nijinsky II, which he took at the Claiborne Farm in Kentucky in 1973.

Four war veterans assisted me with the Italy Campaign and the Battle of the Atlantic stories: Thanks to Murray Westgate, for many years the voice of Imperial Oil, who served six years in the North Atlantic; cousin and D-Day veteran, Ken Robertson; British Army veteran Don Geater, who served in Italy; and Allan W. Brown, who served in the campaign in North-West Europe. I also want to thank the Westhead branch of my family who supported me in this project: my Aunt Marion, for her memories of early St. Thomas, Ontario, cousin Tim Westhead, noted speaker and author who edited my manuscript; and Jessica Westhead, author and editor, who also read and edited the stories. Thanks also to Mike Cresswell and Regina Silva Robinson, who read and commented on the stories.

I particularly enjoyed writing a story about the Montreal Canadiens. I saw Rocket Richard play at Maple Leaf Gardens in Toronto on November 12, 1958. He was 37 years old and still one of the league’s top scorers. He had played 13 games up to that point in the season, scoring eight goals and six assists. I watched him closely that night. I had hoped to see him bulge the twine; however, Leaf goalie Ed Chadwick stopped him cold on his one good scoring opportunity.

Archie Lapointe was a security guard I knew back in my teenage years. He enjoyed telling young rinkrats about his try-out with the Habs way back in the 1920’s. He never made the team unfortunately, but can you imagine his delight if he knew his name was featured in a story about that fabled hockey club?

A special thank-you goes out to my friend Stephen Ashmeade, whose companionship I have enjoyed since he was seven years old, as my Little Brother. For many years, Stephen and I spent our Saturdays enjoying a wide variety of activities together. This second collection of short stories is also based on our weekly adventures.

I must tell my readers how the Brendan and Linus stories began. After I had met Stephen, I immediately recognized his great sense of humour. One of his comments gave me such a hoot that I sent it to the Reader’s Digest,[1] who, much to my surprise, published it in their September 2001 issue under the title, "Like, Listen Up."

"As a volunteer Big Brother, I questioned my 11-year-old Little Brother’s use of the word ‘like’. I explained that ‘like’ is not an adjective but is a comparison word. We then tried to think up some similes. I moved on to ask him about other figures of speech, such as metaphors and personification. He knew what a metaphor was, but not personification."

‘What’s the word to describe what I’m saying when I point to that old willow tree and say he’s saluting us with his branches? What if I asked Old Sol to send us some sunshine? Or what if I say that field of tall grass is waving at us? What word best describes what I’m doing when I speak like that?’

My Little Brother thought a moment, then said, ‘Hallucinating?’

This book is for you, Stephen.

— Donald A. McKellar, Toronto, Ontario, April 27, 2010

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Introduction

On this road where autos speed,

In days long past, some laden steed

With a heavy rider on his back,

Or provender in hempen sack;

Plodded on its weary way,

O’er rock and mire from day to day.

And years before the horseman came,

Some pioneer of sturdy frame,

A hatchet from his waist belt hung,

A flintlock o’er his shoulder slung;

And tump rope taut from heavy pack

Trudged bravely on the forest track.

Son of an Orkneyman was he,

Of Erin, Yorkshire, Normandy,

Seeking a place more free to roam,

Hoping to build himself a home

Of rocks and logs, a cabin warm

To shelter loved ones from life’s storm.

On this road many feet have trod,

Surveyor carrying his tri’ pod;

LaSalle, Champlain, the fierce Iroquois,

Lumberjack with axe and saw.

Macdonald, Brock, a great Shawnee,

All walked this road from sea to sea.

M.J. Shiels, 1952

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The Norsemen Return

A Sea-Faring Saga

BRENDAN WAS A TRADITIONALIST. He just didn’t know it.

When are we going to have our annual boat race, Grandpa?

While it was true there had only been one previous race, to the boy, that was all the more reason for it to become an annual event.

You mean that race we had last spring with those popsicle-stick rafts you made?

Brendan remembered that race well. He had lost. His raft had hit something; one of the popsicle-sticks became loose, and the raft was soon entangled in plants, beyond his reach and hope. It had been a tough race.

But you didn’t deserve to win, either, complained the boy. He rightly pointed out that Linus’ raft hadn’t finished either, however, because his grandfather’s raft had been ahead when last seen – a technicality in Brendan’s view – Linus had been declared the winner.

What bothered Brendan more about his loss was that he had built both rafts. His grandfather had done nothing – aside from putting his raft in the water – yet the man had walked away with all the marbles. This year we both have to build our own, Brendan reminded him, and the winner has to actually finish the race to win, not just be ahead when they were last seen.

Does it have to be a raft or can it be any kind of boat? Linus asked.

Any kind, Brendan replied quickly, only you have to make it. You can’t buy one.

Don’t worry about that, Linus said. I’m going to make one.

I’m making the best raft ever, this year, Brendan vowed. It’s going to be unsinkable.

"That’s what they said about the Titanic," his grandfather said, giving the boy a gentle pat on the back.

On the morning of the big race, Brendan arrived at his grandfather’s home. He was feeling extra confident about his raft. This year he had applied strong glue to a couple of weak areas for greater adhesion. The lad didn’t want a repeat of last year’s disaster. "I’m calling my boat ‘Brendan’s Revenge’," he announced with pride.

Think that name will help you? Linus asked. Wait until you see what I’m bringing to defend my championship. With that remark, he went into his bedroom and returned with a package in a plastic bag which he placed on the coffee table. Are you ready for the unveiling? he asked, with a wry grin.

Brendan gazed at the mystery package. It looks pretty big, he said.

I built a ship, Linus said very modestly, as he slowly dragging the contents from the bag.

Brendan’s eyes almost popped out of his head when he saw it. His grandfather had built a Viking longboat. He had used cardboard for the hull, buttons glued along the sides for battle-shields, a straw – securely embedded in a marshmallow – for a mast, and a large cardboard sail which was stapled to the straw. The marshmallow was glued to the bottom of the boat. The outer hull had been reinforced with duct tape. It was all very impressive.

"I named her the ‘Viking Chief’," Linus said.

She’s a beauty, Grandpa.

I’ve been working on her all week, he said. I wish I had time to make one for you, because the Vikings sailed these in fleets.

They did? asked Brendan.

They were great sea-farers, my boy, his grandfather answered, picking up the ‘Viking Chief’ to admire his handiwork. Their longboats were sleek and deadly like this one.

I know, agreed Brendan. We studied them in school. I think the Vikings came from Scandinavia.

From Denmark, Norway and the Baltic, I believe, Linus answered. They were marauders who raided England, sacked Paris and pillaged Hamburg. I even read that they reached Russia.

They were sure busy, the nine-year-old said.

It’s a shame we don’t know more about them, Linus said. We’re limited to what has been handed down to us through the Norse sagas.

You should have asked me, the boy said. I know a lot about them.

Tell me, then, Linus said.

Brendan cleared his throat. Well, they wore pelts, chain mail and helmets with horns on them. Then for good measure, he added, And they all had scruffy beards.

I’m not sure about the helmets with horns, the man said. That was probably a myth, but I agree with you that they had scruffy beards. What else do you know about them?

They were great drinkers.

Linus raised an eyebrow. I suppose they might have been, he agreed.

They had camps in Newfoundland too, Brendan said. We learned that in school.

That was back in the 11th century, wasn’t it? Linus answered. They settled at a place called L’Anse aux Meadows, which is a National Historic Site today. I don’t know for sure how long they were there, but they apparently hauled their ships ashore and stayed for a couple of years. They built a few buildings with turf walls.

They should have built forts.

Why do you say that?

Because the ‘Skaelings’ sent them packing, Brendan informed him. Do you know who they were?

I’ve heard of them, replied his grandfather, but I don’t think anybody knows very much about them.

They were the natives of Newfoundland, the boy answered. They must have been as fierce as the Iroquois if they beat off the Vikings. I wish we’d studied the ‘Skaelings’ in school. That would have been great.

Did you learn about Leif ‘the Lucky’ in school? Linus asked.

That name sounds familiar, the boy answered.

His real name was Leif Erikson, Linus said. He was the son of ‘Eric the Red’, another famous Viking. I vaguely remember reading that a man by the name of Bjarni was the first Norseman to see the shores of America, but Leif was the first to actually set foot on it. That’s according to Norse saga. No one knows for sure, of course. Linus rubbed his chin. Apparently those old folk tales mentioned his finding grapes or berries or something like that and naming the area, Vinland, but it seems all very shadowy to me.

Our teacher said there was a real Viking settlement in Newfoundland, Brendan said. That what our teacher said.

Yes, that part is true – the settlement has been excavated, Linus answered. The Vikings found that place by way of Greenland. It seems they had been making trips to various parts of the North American coast for more than 350 years.

Where was Vinland, anyway? the Grade Five pupil asked. I could never figure that out.

Vinland could have been anywhere along the east coast – from Labrador to New England, his grandfather replied. Our knowledge about those days is very limited.

That’s too bad, the boy said.

Linus put up his hand. However, there’s some evidence that they entered Hudson Bay, and traveled into the interior of North America.

In their longboats?

I think they sailed them up the Albany River, Linus said. Many years ago, a Viking battle-axe was found in Northern Ontario. I find that fascinating.

I’d love to find something like that

Linus continued with his history lesson. Anyway, all the Norse tales about Vinland seem to begin with Bjarni in 985 AD.

Brendan picked up his raft and waved it happily in the air. "And they all end up with a victory by Brendan’s Revenge over the Viking Chief!" he exclaimed proudly. The nine-year-old was enjoying the moment. He’d had enough of the Vikings. His thoughts were now on the race at hand. He was determined to finish ahead of his grandfather and his fancy ship.

Once you’re finished waving that raft around, we can head out to the ravine, Linus said.

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The local ravine was a desolate place, home to a very narrow creek. It was full of slippery rocks and mud, with sandy islands sprouting up here and there. In the summer, the creek shrank to a trickle, but during the spring thaw, it flowed like a river.

Will we start the race at the same place we did last year? asked Linus.

Sure, replied the boy, if we can find it. All he could see around him was a tangle of briars and brambles and overhanging willows.

Come over here, Linus called to his grandson. This is it, he said, waving him on. Brendan followed. His grandfather was waiting for him, holding his Viking ship carefully in both hands.

When I say ‘go’, launch your raft. Linus said, acting as official starter. Are you ready?

SET! called out the boy.

GO!

Both captains gently placed their boats into the creek and nudged them into mid-stream. The race was on. Immediately, Brendan’s raft took the lead. Unfortunately for Linus, his cardboard sail was top heavy. The Viking Chief wobbled as soon as it was in the water and immediately capsized. Linus threw up his hands in despair as he watched his ship struggle to remain afloat. All that work for nothing, he moaned. But just as quickly, the Chief regrouped. All was not lost, however; his longboat, half-submerged, was still drifting forward.

Brendan watched and acted. He picked up a rock and heaved it towards his grandfather’s boat.

Not a direct hit, but close enough to create a few waves that drove the Viking Chief into the shallows.

What are you doing? Linus cried out. You can’t throw rocks at your opponent.

Brendan ignored the comment and looked around for his own boat. He was delighted when he saw the size of his lead. However, this was no time to rest on one’s laurels. There were rapids ahead – although unseen from where he stood. The boy knew that few homemade boats – no matter how much glue was applied – could survive such an ordeal. Row, men, row! he sang out, as Brendan’s Revenge approached the moment of truth.

Meanwhile, Linus had found a dead tree branch and was dragging his boat forward. Then with a grunt, he lifted it with a mighty heave and the Viking Chief flew over the surface, much to Brendan’s chagrin, and splashed down within striking distance of the boy’s raft. Linus’s longboat was back in the race, trailing the Revenge by several lengths. Now a silence came over the ravine. Both Linus and the boy watched with fascination as their boats floated quietly down stream, drawn to white water and glory – and then both were lost from view.

Linus had already considered it a full day. Let’s get out of this undergrowth and see if either of them made it through, Linus said. They scrambled up the ravine bank until they reached the grassy ridge. Neither spoke. They walked to a bench which they had marked as the finish line. Linus sat down first and sighed. Tough race, he admitted.

Brendan sat down beside him. Just like last year, Grandpa, he agreed. I wonder if my raft will get through.

Linus was philosophical. Now it’s a waiting game, he said.

I just hope my raft doesn’t end up like last year, commented the boy. That was a bad ending.

This whole thing reminds me of a story, Linus said. I remember a little ship that made it through a tough patch like this and it had a Viking connection too. Do you want to hear it?

Sure, Grandpa, if it’s about the Vikings.

"I was thinking of the story of the St. Roch," Linus said.

"The St. Roch?"

"Yes, she was a Royal Canadian Mounted Police