Lizzie, the Lakers and the Lumbermen: A Story of the North Country

By Lillian M. Henry

From the 1880s through the 1930s, Lizzie, the Lakers and the Lumbermen tells the story of love lost and found along the north county border between Canada and the United States well before the Saint Lawrence Seaway was built. Prim and proper Elizabeth Foster falls in love and marries the burly sailor and lumberman George Burns despite her fathers objections. They raise their large family in several small towns on both sides of that long and busy waterway.
Inheriting their parents determination, each of their children will demonstrate they also have minds of their own and choose their lifes paths accordingly. Surrounded by the beauty of the majestic river and the gorgeous foliage of the maple trees, the family creates a legacy of love to be valued by their descendants.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: May 30, 2017
• ISBN: 9781524692216

Lillian M. Henry

Continuing her exploration of the family past, Lillian M. Henry is following this account with a more recent tale of life along the Saint Lawrence River before the construction of the Seaway. Her husband’s grandfather was a lake boat sailor during the days when the river was navigable only duing the summer and a lumberman during the winter months on the American-Canadian border. Lillian and her husband now reside year-round in Florida. Their family of five children and ten grandchildren has recently welcomed three grandsons-in-law. Her next book will be titled Lizzy, the Lakers and the Lumbermen A story of the North Country. Lizzy was Elizabeth Foster Burns, grandmother of Mrs. Henry’s husband.

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© 2017 Lillian M. Henry. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 05/18/2017

ISBN: 978-1-5246-9222-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5246-9220-9 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5246-9221-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017907537

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. 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.

Contents

Acknowledgments

Song Of The Saint Lawrence By Lillian M. Henry

Preface

Prologue

Part One The Early Years 1877-1878

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Part Two On The Lakes 1878-1879

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Part Three Charlestown Lake, Ontario 1883-1884

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Part Four New Life 1884-1886

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Part Five Morristown, New York 1886- 1889

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Part Six Ogdensburg, New York 1898- 1900

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Part Seven Here, There And Everywhere 1901-1911

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Part Eight Ogdensburg New York 1911-1921

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Part Nine Ogdensburg, New York 1921-1940

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Finis

Dedicated to the memory of

Mary Elizabeth Foster Burns Henry

I spent many an afternoon enjoying a good cup of coffee with her while she recalled and reflected on her mother’s life.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

My sincere thanks to all who have helped me bring this story alive. It does, of course, contain fictionalized portions necessary to the telling but all names, dates and places mentioned are accurate to the best of our collective abilities. Thank you, Paul, Gladys, Mary Katherine, June and Betty for sharing your memories. Thank you to the friendly people in Brockville and Athens, Canada for your generous assistance. Multiple thanks to my intrepid researcher and computer whiz, Jean, my artist son, Michael for his eye-catching cover design, and my ever patient husband, Dave for whom this story has been written…

SONG OF THE SAINT LAWRENCE

BY LILLIAN M. HENRY

Bits of sunlight sparkling like diamonds caught in the ripples of the broad expanse of blue water that today serves as a friendly divider between two sovereign countries…

A shared heritage for many generations

A shared highway for commerce and culture

A shared sense of dependence upon each other’s good will…

The crude dugouts and hand hewn rafts of the First

Americans…

The French explorers’ bateaux …

The wooden hulls and billowing sails of larger craft as the need arose…

Depths so clear fish could be numbered and named as the current quietly carries them past the onlooker

A summer paradise from May to October

For swimmers and sailors

Fishermen and foresters …

A winter wonderland of ice and snow

One slipped, slid or skated

With fur-lined boots, wooden sleds or shoes with metal runners…

Gateway to the interior of a mighty continent filled with wonders

To be sought after and savored…

PREFACE

The Burns cousins have frequently mentioned Grandma Burns having been the lumber camp cook where their grandfather worked during the winter months. His professed occupation was sailor but with the St, Lawrence River frozen over each year from December to April some other form of work was necessary if a man was to support a family. Lizzie as her husband, George, called her, is said to have married him against her father’s wishes. One wonders what those objections might have been.

With time on my hands and Jean, my always ready collaborator, we thought it might be fun to fantasize about the interesting lives of George and Elizabeth Foster Burns…so, try to picture and smell, if you can, the smoke from the cook fire pouring out from the makeshift chimney. The sooty cloud hangs heavy in the branches of the surrounding trees while the long icicles clustered along the edges of the camp kitchen’s rooftop drip with the melting snow.

The names and dates mentioned are correct but the events described, while based on known facts, have been enhanced by our imaginations.

PROLOGUE

Late afternoon at a lumber camp near Croghan, New York

Winter, 1884

Lizzie, pregnant with her first child, straightened her stiff and aching back while giving the beans cooking in the large iron kettle one final stir. She brushed the long hair that had come loose from the twisted knot at the back of her neck and flinched as the hoarse cry of tim-m-ber-r-r! echoed through the early evening air. She felt the earth beneath her feet shake. The teeth-rattling sound like bones breaking from the fall of yet another great tree caused her swollen stomach to flinch again.

How long is it I’ve been in this god-forsaken place? She muttered, hearing the lumberjacks, as they called themselves, raucously bantering with each other while making their way back into the camp from the surrounding forest. Many were like her husband, George, who sailed the Saint Lawrence River and the interconnected Great Lakes during the summer months and kept bread on the table for their families during the winter by cutting timber for the pulp and potash industries that were flourishing throughout the North Country along the Canadian and upper New York State border.

Small, sinewy and fiercely erect, Elizabeth Jane Foster Burns, one of the lumber camp’s cooks, waited now for George to disengage himself from the rowdy group of men stripping down for the ritual evening attempt to wash away the results of their day’s work before sitting to their supper. Taking another look around the rough-hewn wood-paneled dining hall, she went about setting the maple syrup jugs and baskets of skillet-baked corn bread with the pots of hand-churned butter on each of the many long tables hoping there would be enough. She chuckled to herself. The men ate like ravenous bears after working all day felling the trees with the cross-cut saws and the long-handled axes needed to de-limb the trunks once they had fallen.

Trying to avert her eyes from the scene outside the windows she flushed a little redder while she pretended not to see or hear the ribald conversations of the now naked men as they cleansed themselves of the pine tar and sawdust clinging to their long hair, beards and heavily muscled bodies. The washing up process more often than not turned into a rowdy water and towel slapping fight before the high-spirited lumberjacks were reasonably clean. When George and the others emerged from the lean-to with its narrow counter lined with the skimpy metal basins the men could fill with hot water from the large pots the women had set on the open fires earlier, they scattered to their individual quarters and emerged moments later dressed in clean dungarees and flannel shirts. She smiled to herself now as he ambled toward her with a twinkle in his eye knowing all too well that she had been watching the whole affair. His broad shoulders and hefty chest, with the piercing blue eyes and thick, dark curly hair revealed his Irish heritage. He displayed a bravado in his walk that always made Lizzie smile to herself as she watched his approach and remembered that rather long ago day she had first sighted him on the dock in Brockville. Ontario.

PART ONE

THE EARLY YEARS

1877-1878

CHAPTER ONE

On the St Lawrence River

Brockville, Ontario, Canada

August, 1877

The steamer from Kingston tugged impatiently at its tethers while the roustabouts unloaded the cargo. A fine mist of soot from the fires that fueled the ship’s engines drifted down over the buildings that lined the broad wooden dock. The bi-lingual crewmembers lounged either on the deck that towered above the line of wagons waiting to collect their orders or here and there among the collection of coiled rope or containers that awaited loading. The multiple French and English dialects blending into the warm air created a patois of indecipherable sound like the gabble of a mixed flock of birds.

Eighteen-year-old Jack Foster’s wagon was third in line for his family’s coal and lumberyard supplies. Not too far behind was young Tom Burns with the butcher’s rig. Jack sniffed, pulled his hat farther down over his eyes and glanced at his slightly older sister Elizabeth who, soon to be nineteen, sat primly atop the board seat trying her best to hide her excitement at being this close to the bevy of burly sailors that were swarming all around her like bees attracted to honey. Grinning, he hoped she wouldn’t realize she was the object of their interest. Apparently I’ve been too busy to notice, he murmured to himself, even though she is my big sister I’d not until just now paid attention to just how grown up she has become. Might be I shouldn’t have brought her down here with me, but she begged so prettily I couldn’t refuse. Pa will have a conniption if he finds out. He doesn’t have much use for sailors.

Oh well, he shrugged and shouted, "Watch yourself there, we paid good money for that!" He’d noticed a dockworker who was about to drop one of the bulky sacks full of small items. Jumping down from the wagon still grinning, he was aware that he had no idea what was in the sack, it was just the principle of the thing. These Canucks needed watching every minute so far as he was concerned.

Meanwhile, Miss Elizabeth was very much aware that she was definitely the object of the sailors’ surreptitious looks. Flushing, she eased out the handkerchief she’d tucked into her sleeve and daubed at her face and neck. It truly is hot today, she smiled at her sturdy little brother. I must look a fright. Grateful that she had been able to persuade him to bring her along she noticed, not for the first time, that he was developing into a fine figure of a man. Goodness, the thought came unbidden, how fast we are all growing up. It seems like just yesterday I was chasing him around the fields trying to keep him out of trouble.

A loud crash and audible curse startled her and looking up she suddenly noticed the dark-haired young man standing above her on the ship’s deck. An intense set of deep blue eyes the color of the summer sky met hers. Thrilled, she felt her cheeks grow warm and turned away praying that Jack hadn’t been watching. Oh, my, she whispered softly to herself. I wonder who he is

The sweaty sailor caught his breath when he realized she had focused on him. He hadn’t meant her to see him looking. Quickly bending to his task of coiling some of the mooring lines that were not in use he stole another look over his shoulder wondering what a fine-looking woman like that was doing in a place like this? She did seem somewhat familiar but he couldn’t imagine where he might have seen her before.

Elizabeth struggled to compose herself as Jack, satisfied that his order was complete, climbed back up to his seat and urged the horses forward to make room for those behind. Glancing sidewise at his sister he couldn’t help but be aware of her pleasingly pink complexion and demure demeanor. What he couldn’t see were the butterflies in her stomach as she glanced back over her shoulder at the mustachioed Irishman who seemed mesmerized by the tailgate of her retreating wagon.

As Tom Burns moved his butcher’s wagon into place he recognized George and laughed at his brother’s preoccupied expression. Hey sailor, you just seen something you like there?

George leapt down to the dock to greet his younger brother and helping heft the carcasses of meat into his wagon, he grinned. Seems I’ve been away longer than I thought, I don’t remember seein’ her around these parts before.

"Come on, you know her. That’s Lizzie Foster. We used to see her and her folks in church. She sure is all grown-up now, I’d say. Funny how those giggly little girls turn out to be such pretty women. If you’d hung around here a bit more often you’d’ve noticed. Course it wouldn’t have done you much good with the way her old man feels about sailors. Never heard him say a good word about any of you fellows.

George frowned feeling Tom slap his back affectionately before he’d hauled himself back up to his seat in the wagon. Flicking the reins he urged the horse forward. With a wave of his arm he called back over his shoulder, Gotta’ keep moving so’s the folks behind don’t get too riled. See you next trip. Chuckling to himself Tom shouted back, Say hello for me to all the pretty girls in Kingston! Have a good one and stay out of trouble!

George, feeling uncharacteristically morose, wiped the sweat from his face while fighting back the urge to jump ship and head for home. Don’t be daft, man, he mumbled under his breath, she’ll not be goin’ anywhere, I’ll wager. If I know old man Foster he’ll not be lettin’ her out of his sight any time soon.

By evening George’s ship had finished off-loading, taken on cargo intended for other ports along the river and cleared the harbor. Watching the lights of his hometown flicker and fade into the distance as the sharp snapping of the wind-filled sails accompanied their progress, he was enjoying a smoke while standing his evening watch.

Bemused by the young woman he’d seen, George dredged his memory for what he knew about the Foster family…I was always too busy out at the farm or messing around in the river to notice the girls. We never did have much to do with the Fosters that I can remember. Their place is out by Charleston Lake so our paths didn’t cross very often. Used to see them in church once in awhile and I do remember that Pa and old Foster didn’t seem to get along. Why that was, I can’t say…couldn’t be that we came from the American side of the river. We didn’t move from Grenville over to Morristown until I was ready for school. Gramps is as Canadian as anybody around here. Half the people from around here in the North Country all came from the same county in the old sod, he used to remind us when we would visit. Wicklow, he said it was.

George knew there’d been bad blood on both sides of the river in the past, but why that should matter after all these years was beyond his understanding. From what he’d learned he knew that it wasn’t distrust of the Americans so much as it was the Canadians themselves who had trouble getting along with each other. Catholics and Church of Englanders did not coexist very well and then, of course, even within the two religions there were factions. His father had mentioned secret societies and even actual battles that occurred during his early childhood but George could not imagine why anything from so long ago would provoke old Foster’s animosity. Could be, he shrugged, muttering to himself, He just doesn’t think much of sailors.

Of course, George had no way of knowing the impression he’d made upon Miss Elizabeth Foster. All the way home from that excursion to the wharf the intense look of interest on that young sailor’s face hovered in the back of her mind. As they rode along the dreamy look in her eyes drew her brother’s attention but he refrained from commenting, quite sure she would have an acerbic reply. He grinned while busying himself with the reins and succeeded in keeping the horse trotting along at a brisk pace. Trying to maintain her seat on the bench and her hat on her head, Elizabeth rode in silence afraid he would not invite her to go along with him again if she should complain.

How often do those big boats stop here, Jack? she finally asked.

Her brother smiled indulgently. A great deal depends on the cargo. Summer time, as I’m sure you know, we get grain or fruit from the west. We also get ore from Michigan and all sorts of manufactured goods from Montreal that come in there from the ocean-going ships. Of course, come winter we don’t get any ships at all because of the ice, but you know that, too.

What do the sailors do when they can’t sail?

Jack smiled to himself at her questions. From what I hear, a lot of them take jobs with the lumbering companies we deal with. As you well know seasoned wood is always needed for all sorts of reasons especially by the pulp and potash outfits. Sure am glad we don’t have one of them nearby.

Oh? Why is that?

The smell from the processing is enough to make you wish you could move anywhere else when the wind is in the wrong direction. Jack laughed at the look on his sister’s face and wondered about her sudden interest in logging.

Well, she said slowly, I did enjoy coming into town with you today even though we couldn’t stay long. Please bring me again next time you go. I would love to know all about the places they go and the sights those men have seen. Did I understand that someone said our river goes all the way north and past Montreal out to the sea? Is it true the sea, or ocean, that’s what it’s called isn’t it, lifts up in big waves which crash down upon the shore and you can actually hear the sound it makes from quite a long ways away?

Jack looked with renewed interest at the young woman’s face. Lizzie, you know well as I do that I’ve never seen the Atlantic either, but I do believe it’s like what you said. I suppose if we were to ask the sailors they could tell us. Come to think of it, I have no idea how many of these river boat men have actually seen it themselves but they must have met men who have. Shall I ask one of them next time a ship from Montreal comes in?"

Elizabeth caught her breath and bit back her excitement at the very idea. Oh, yes, please do, if you can.

Several days later Jack found Lizzie already settled in the wagon for another trip to town Well, he smiled as he climbed aboard, I did just as you asked me to and I think I have the answer to your question. The man I spoke with was full of stories after I had Sadie bring him a drink or two at her place the other afternoon. It’s kind of complicated, but I think I have most of it right.

This man, he has actually seen the ocean? She shivered at the thought and waited. Jack urged the horse into a trot as they cleared the yard and took his time answering her. I wish I had a map to show you because it is hard to picture what he had to say. Our river begins several hundred miles west of here where it flows out of Lake Ontario. He took rather a long while explaining to me how those Lakes were formed and where all this water is coming from but I knew you were mostly interested in the ocean so I asked him to skip over most of that. The reason we don’t have ocean-going vessels stopping here in Brockville is because they can’t sail past Montreal. The water there is too shallow for those big ships. You know about the rafts of course, but I don’t think even they go past Montreal out to the Atlantic. Anyway, he explained that ships of a certain size can sail from the ocean into what is called St. Lawrence Bay and make their way up river as far as Montreal through canals and locks that have been constructed over the years even as far back as before the French arrived. Someday, he said, the Government intends to build bigger and deeper canals so the salties can reach us and sail all the way into the big Lakes. As it is right now all those rafts and flat boats you see are what we call the forwarders. Cargo is unloaded from the bigger boats onto the rafts so that it can be carried over the rapids that appear here and there in the river. It’s what they’re doing in Prescott. You do understand what I mean by rapids, don’t you? It’s where the river is too shallow and rocky for a boat with a keel. Jack paused and looked to see if Lizzie was getting all this, I’m certain you know this river of ours is the border between Canada and the United States. Actually the northern side is ours and the southern side is theirs, but I don’t know how you could tell just where this imaginary line is. Supposedly it right down the middle, but I don’t think anyone is really measuring unless the Border Patrol keeps track somehow."

Lizzie frowned and murmured, This is all well and good, Jack and very interesting, I’m sure, but what about the ocean? I want to know what it looks like and how it sounds. I’ve heard folks say one can hear it quite a long ways away. I read in my books about the crashing of the surf. I can’t imagine what that must be like.

I’m sorry, Liz, Jack answered. He looked at me as if I was simple-minded when I asked him how it sounded. He laughed, then chuckled and said, ‘It can sound like a woman emptying out her bucket of wash water on the ground or it can roar and splash like all Hell is breaking loose. Depends on its mood, I’d say. It is full of wild beasts the like of which we’ll never see this far inland but aside from the whales calling to one another I’ve never heard any of the others make a sound. You tell your sister that the ocean is a thing all unto itself and no words I can give you will describe it to you or to her. It has to be seen and felt and even then you will never understand it.’

Brother and sister rode silently for awhile before Lizzie spoke. "What did this man look like, Jack?

Look like? Like he’d been in the wind and wet for too long, I guess that’s as good as I can describe him…not too tall, but broad chest and strong arms. His eyes were kind of squinty as if he’d had too much sun. Skin was kind of weathered and brown, I almost took him for an Indian. I’d not want to meet him in some dark alley at night, I can tell you that.

The horse whinnied in response to a wagon approaching them. More boats are in, the driver of the other rig called out. Busy time of year… season’s winding down. It’s only August but old man winter is startin’ to stir. I can feel a nip in the wind. He tipped his hat to Lizzie and urged his horse back into its trot.

CHAPTER TWO

Dockside at Brockville

Late Fall, 1877

George clambered down the rope ladder slung over the side of the ship as the bow swung in. The mooring lines had been tossed to the waiting dockhands and he grinned and added his strength to the job of securing the bulky craft. The nip in the air sent a shiver down his back. It will feel good to be off the water for awhile, he thought, letting his eyes roam the area for a familiar face. This trip had been a rocky one with storms on the big lakes and a rough ride up the long river.

With the ship firmly lashed to the iron cleats on the dock he signaled to the Captain and received notice that he was clear to leave. Making his way to the nearby pub he downed a large mug of ale and sat hoping the meal he’d ordered would be quick in coming. The fare aboard had been worse than usual. Too many beans and not enough beef, he muttered to himself and leaned back wearily in his chair as the pert little waitress plunked a plate of fried ham and eggs down in front of him. Nodding his thanks he playfully reached to pat her backside and found his hand stung by the slap he received in exchange. Ah! Sadie, me girl, the ‘divil’ made me do it, he paused with a grin then added, … and a hunger your eggs won’t fix.

Be off with ye, George Burns, you and your hungers! You men are all alike, ya know. The ‘divil’ be damned. I’ll put up with your pattin’ just so far and no farther. I need the wages. She laughed and tossed her head. Come see me later, if you’ve a mind to. Just don’t let me Da see you first.

The stocky sailor laughed