Uncle John's Bathroom Reader Plunges into Canada Read online

  At the same time, a 134-meter (440-foot) Norwegian ship called the Imo (much faster and larger than the Mont-Blanc) was leaving Halifax. The Imo’s captain, Haakon From, knew he was behind schedule and ordered the ship full speed ahead.

  Halifax Harbor has a rough hourglass shape. The “waist” is a slim channel of water called the Narrows. Halifax is on the south side of this channel; the town of Dartmouth sits on the north side. During World War I, the waterway was one of the busiest in North America. Two ships passing through had to do so with caution.

  The Imo is beached after the explosion.

  Collision

  On the morning of December 6, sometime before 9:00 a.m., the Imo and the Mont-Blanc both entered the Narrows: the Imo going east toward open sea, and the Mont-Blanc going west to moor up. Harbor rules say ships must pass port to port—left side to left side, but the Imo was veering too far north and was headed directly toward the Mont-Blanc. Captain Le Medec, aboard the Mont-Blanc, signaled the other ship but Captain From didn’t stop; instead, he signaled that he was continuing farther north.

  After repeated and confused attempts to communicate with horns and flags, Le Medec finally steered his ship southward, but Captain From did the same thing at the same time. Result: The smaller ship was broadsided. The collision sent the Mont-Blanc straight toward Halifax.

  The impact started a fire on the deck of the Mont-Blanc. Its crew, knowing the ship could blow up at any second, went straight to the lifeboats, without alerting the harbor patrol of the dangerous cargo. They rowed north toward Dartmouth, leaving the floating bomb heading for Halifax.

  It was an astounding sight: a flaming ship drifting slowly toward shore. People stopped to watch. The Mont-Blanc drifted for about 20 minutes until it came to rest against Pier 6 in the Richmond district, the busy, industrial north end of Halifax. As firefighting crews rushed to put out the fire, the flames moved closer and closer to the massive stores of TNT on the lower decks.

  Explosion!

  Shortly before 9:05 a.m., a white flash filled the harbor. The Mont-Blanc exploded and a giant mushroom cloud rose above the town. More than 1,600 people on shore were killed instantly; thousands were injured. Schools, homes, factories, and churches were leveled by the ensuing shock wave. An 18-meter (59-foot) tidal wave swept away what was left of the waterfront, drowning many of the initial survivors and sinking dozens of ships. Shattered pieces of the Mont-Blanc were hurled as far as three miles away. The wave also rushed over the shores of Dartmouth and up Tufts Cove, and washed away a Micmac First Nations settlement.

  The blast was so strong that it was heard in Charlottetown, 217 kilometers (135 miles) away. At the time, it was the largest man-made explosion in history, and its devastation and size wouldn’t be eclipsed until the atomic bomb was dropped on Hiroshima in 1945.

  More than 1,600 homes were gone; 12,000 more were damaged from the fires. At least 6,000 people were left homeless at the onset of a powerful winter storm that dropped more than a foot of snow within the next 24 hours. Hundreds who had survived the blast, the tidal wave, and fires froze to death.

  Canadians attend a funeral for several Halifax explosion victims.

  Relief

  Rescue efforts were slow at first. Power, water, gas, telephone, telegraph, and railroad lines were all obliterated. The dead and dying crowded the streets, and thousands were buried under debris. Making things worse, medical supplies were in pitifully short supply. But help was on the way. Money started pouring in from all over the world; even places like China and New Zealand sent donations. For its part, the Canadian government appropriated $18 million for relief efforts, and surrounding towns donated shelters, blankets, and other necessities. But much of the immediate help came from America, especially from Massachusetts. A train full of supplies and medical personnel left Boston for Halifax the day of the explosion. In all, Bostonians donated $750,000 through the Massachusetts-Halifax Relief Committee. (To this day, Halifax sends an annual Christmas tree to the City of Boston in gratitude.)

  The Blame Game

  Something this horrible had to be somebody’s fault. First, survivors blamed the Germans—if Germany hadn’t started the war, the disaster wouldn’t have happened. Every surviving German in town was rounded up and arrested, in spite of the fact that they had suffered like everyone else. But as rebuilding began and cooler heads prevailed, people realized that if anyone was to blame, it was the ships’ captains.

  Captain From and most of the crew of the Imo perished in the blast; Captain Le Medec of the Mont-Blanc survived and was brought to trial. After months of inquiry and many civil suits, there was insufficient evidence to establish criminal negligence. Captain Le Medec’s license was revoked, but in the end, no one was ever convicted.

  On January 22, 1918, Canada appointed the Halifax Relief Commission to handle insurance claims, pensions, rebuilding, and the rehabilitation of survivors. The extent of the damage was so great that the commission remained open until 1976.

  Saints, Preserve Us!

  How do you get to be a Catholic saint? Step one:Move to a wild new country. Step two: Get slaughtered in the line of duty.

  Replicas of some of the gardens and buildings of the Sainte-Marie-Among- the-Hurons mission still stand in Ontario.

  Spreading the Blessings

  In 1639 Jesuit missionaries from New France arrived at a site near modern-day Midland, Ontario, to spread the word about Christianity and civilization to the Native populations. They built a mission called Sainte-Marie-au-pays-des-Hurons (“Sainte-Marie-Among-the-Hurons”) near a large Huron settlement and set up a working town to show the blessings of modern European living.

  Their intentions were good. While soldiers would stop by on their way to other places, the Jesuits disdained a permanent military presence, fearing soldiers would “bring the worst of Europe” with them.

  Yet the presence of the mission had its own devastating effect on the Huron living nearby. Bitter intertribal conflict developed between believers in the tribal gods and the new Christian converts, and the Europeans also brought devastating diseases. Smallpox in particular ravaged the settlement, and the neighboring Iroquois, seeing their advantage against their weakened rivals, bought guns from Dutch traders and began encroaching on Huron territory. Then the conflict started picking off Jesuits as well. Here are the earthly ends of the saintly eight.

  Jean de Lalande

  Isaac Jogues and Jean de Lalande

  In 1642 Isaac Jogues headed an expedition back to Quebec to gather supplies. On return the group was captured by Iroquois. Jogues was brutalized (his beard, hair, and nails were ripped out, and parts of his fingers were bitten off) but he survived as a slave for more than a year and tried to convert his captors until Dutch traders helped him escape and make his way back to France. There, the pope allowed Jogues a special exemption from the rule that the bread and wine be touched only by the priest’s thumb and forefinger during holy communion, so he could still conduct mass.

  Jogues wasn’t done with Canada, though. In 1646 he and another Jesuit, Jean de Lalande, traveled back to the Iroquois camp to try to make peace between the tribes. The Iroquois, suffering horribly from both smallpox and crop failure, accused Jogues of being a sorcerer and the cause of their tribulations. They beat Jogues and Lalande to death and decapitated them.

  René Goupil

  René Goupil

  René Goupil was also captured on that 1642 supply trip with Jogues, but he wasn’t so lucky. When he made the sign of the cross above a child’s head, the adults went from thinking he was a spy for the French military to believing he was putting a curse on the kid. The Iroquois beat Goupil so severely that his face was mutilated nearly beyond recognition. Failing to take the hint, Goupil was later discovered teaching the sign of the cross to children, whereupon a warrior killed him with a tomahawk to the head.

  Antoine Daniel

  Antoine Daniel also worked with the Huron, but in Teanaostaye, near present-day Hillsdale, Ontar
io. When Iroquois attacked the mission in 1648, he gathered the Huron women and children, quickly baptized them and gave them general absolution. Then he calmly marched out to meet the invaders, carrying a crucifix.

  The Iroquois were momentarily taken aback, but then they killed him in a volley of arrows and bullets, set the chapel on fire, and threw his body into it.

  Jean de Brébeuf supposedly named the sport of lacrosse after the sticks Natives used to play the game—he thought they looked like crosiers, bishops’ staffs.

  Jean de Brébeuf

  Jean de Brébeuf was the uncle of the poet Georges de Brébeuf; he was also the author of the “Huron Carol,” a song still sung at Christmas today. Brébeuf spent time with the Hurons, learning their language and writing their first dictionary. (He was also said to have named the sport of lacrosse; he thought the sticks Natives used to play the game looked like a bishops’ staff, or crosiers.) Brébeuf’s charismatic presence was responsible for many of the conversions that split the Hurons into feuding factions.

  When the Iroquois did attack in 1649, Brébeuf and a fellow Jesuit, Gabriel Lalemant, were captured. According to church tradition, Brébeuf stayed calm during the assault, preaching until he was gagged. His nose and lips were torn from his face and boiling water was poured over his head in a mock baptism. Impressed by his bravery, some Iroquois cut his heart from his chest and ate it in the hopes of attaining his stoic courage. When the Jesuits reclaimed his body, they did something similar, dissolving his flesh in lye to save his bones as church relics. The bones now rest in a reconstructed mission near Midland.

  Gabriel Lalemant

  Little is known about Gabriel Lalemant, not even the definitive spelling of his name. (Lallemant is also used). He had been at the Huron mission only six months before being captured and tortured to death with Jean de Brébeuf. His torments were captured vividly, however, by the people who collected his body. According to one account, Lalemant

  had received a hatchet blow on the left ear, which they had driven into his brain, which appeared exposed: we saw no part of his body, from the feet even to the head, which had not been broiled, and in which he had not been burned alive—even the eyes, into which those impious ones had thrust burning coals.

  His bones were also kept as relics.

  Charles Garnier

  When the Iroquois attacked on December 7, 1649, Charles Garnier was one of just two priests still living among the Hurons. He reportedly did his best to baptize children and grant absolution as quickly as possible. While trying to reach out and help a dying man, Garnier was shot by a musket and then killed by a hatchet that penetrated his skull.

  Noel Chabanel

  Noel Chabanel had vowed never to leave the mission; he was still there after the other seven were killed. But on December 8, 1649, he was killed by what one Jesuit described as “a renegade Huron.”

  What Became of Them?

  When the eight martyrs were sainted in 1930, the pope named them patron saints of both Canada and North America. And what happened to the mission? The remaining Jesuits burned it to the ground to keep it from being overrun and desecrated. Then they relocated to a new mission, which they named Sainte Marie II. But after less than a year, they were running out of food. That and the constant threat of Iroquois attacks sent them back to the safety of New France.

  Raging River Rescue

  Hundreds of people have gone over Niagara Falls accidentally and left no evidence except a single-paragraph newspaper obituary. But the relic of one near-miss remains a prominent feature just above the falls.

  Scow’s on ’Er

  If you stand upriver from Niagara Falls, you’ll likely be impressed by the speed and power of the rapids as they roll, roar, and tumble toward the watery abyss. Where the white water starts, about 200 meters (650 feet) offshore from the ruins of the historic Toronto Power Station, a rusting wreck of an old barge is wedged firmly against a rock shoal. It’s the famous Niagara Scow, and that barge has an intriguing history.

  On August 6, 1918, Gustave F. Lofberg and James Harris were anchored on a scow, working for the Niagara Falls Power Company to dredge sand and rock from the hydroelectric plant’s water channels. Once the scow was full of sand and rock, they signaled tugboat captain John Wallace to tow them to the shore. It was a fairly routine procedure in the slower-moving water above the rapids. Except this time, things didn’t go as planned. On the way back to shore, the tugboat’s tow cable came loose. Wallace looked on helplessly as the barge floated away from him and down the river toward the rapids that end at Niagara Falls.

  Death Becomes Them

  Without a motor or even a rudder, all Lofberg and Harris could do was hang on as the river propelled them into the rapids. Accelerating toward speeds of 34 kilometers (21 miles) per hour, the two men lurched and rolled over stomach-churning waves of white water, staying upright only by virtue of the boat’s flat bottom and tons of ballast. Well aware that in about a 90 seconds they’d be plunging to certain death, the men screamed, prayed, and hoped for any miracle that might save them.

  As if answered by angels, Lofberg and Harris suddenly lurched forward, deafened by an ungodly screech of metal against rock. The heavy scow shuddered, swiveled, and skidded to a stop, sitting dead in the water while the rapids raged around them. Somehow, the boat had gotten firmly lodged on a shoal of sand and gravel just 760 meters (2,500 feet) upstream from the edge of Horseshoe Falls…close enough for the men to see mist rising over the drop-off.

  An aerial view shows the Toronto Power Plant, c. 1922. The old scow rests in the center background.

  But Now What?

  When Lofberg and Harris picked themselves up off the bottom of their boat, they heard only rushing water, but could see people running to the nearby bank, talking, pointing, and gesturing helplessly. Until somebody figured out what else to do, the two men knew they needed to make sure the barge didn’t get dislodged from the gravel bar where it sat precariously. So they started redistributing their cargo of sand and gravel by hand, hoping to keep the scow firmly stuck for as long as necessary. As the men worked, fire trucks arrived, joining the spectators who lined the shore. Their hope for a quick rescue was fleeting, however, as Lofberg and Harris realized that the trucks’ crews did not have a workable plan, either.

  Give ’Em Enough Rope

  Rescuing the men via boat was impossible—any craft would be swept into the falls that the scow had narrowly escaped. Eventually, though, the fire crew came up with something and waved their arms, pantomiming the plan as best they could.

  The local fire department had a small “lifesaving gun”—a cannon that shot a projectile attached to a light rope. They set it up on the roof of the nearby Toronto Power Station and hoped to get the rope to the stranded boatmen. When that happened, the people on the shore could tie their end to a series of progressively heavier ropes until there’d be a strong connection between boat and shoreline. With that firmly in place, they could pull the men back to safety using a breeches buoy—a kind of zip line made up of a life preserver with a leg harness attached.

  The fire departments of Niagara Falls, Ontario, and Niagara Falls, New York, made several rope-launching attempts, but their projectiles fell well short of the barge. Finally, a rescue crew from the U.S. Coast Guard arrived with a larger gun that had a longer range; it did the trick. Eventually, the two men in the scow had in their tired hands one end of a light rope. Rescuers on the shore tied their end to a heavy rope and signaled the men to pull it in. As the day headed into twilight, and after hours of labor—during which the rope dragged in the water and threatened to pull the barge off its perch—Lofberg and Harris had their vessel securely fastened to a long rope whose other end was attached to the top of the electrical building.

  O, Restless Night

  Of course, even though that felt a little more secure, the men were well aware that their situation was still precarious. Even tethered by the rope, their barge could come loose in the dark, swing out in a
quarter circle, break the rope, capsize, or be dashed against rocks, dumping them into the water.

  Luckily, they were set up in front of an electric plant, so lighting wasn’t a problem. Searchlights shone on the men all night. The New York Times reported the next day that the power station rigged up a one-word electric sign saying “Rest,” so the men would know they had not been abandoned.

  The old scow remains at Niagara Falls many years after being stranded.

  Breeches Buoy’s Greatest Hit

  At daylight, work began again in earnest. Up on the power station’s roof, the coastguard crew hung a breeches buoy on the rope and began guiding it down the rope’s incline with thin ropes. At first, its pulley rolled easily down toward the scow. But suddenly, the contraption came to an abrupt halt halfway across. Somehow, the guide ropes had gotten tangled in the pulley and no amount of pulling would get them free.

  Then an extraordinary thing happened. A local fellow named William “Red” Hill volunteered to go out there and fix things. Just 30 years old, Hill had been a fixture on that part of the Niagara River for years and had become famous in tales of derring-do and saving people from certain death around the falls and the town. Hill won his first Canadian government lifesaving medal at the age of nine and eventually was awarded four of them—more than anybody before or since. During his lifetime, he rescued 28 people and retrieved the bodies of 177 victims of suicide, accident, or foolhardy stunts from below the falls. (Sadly, his son, “Red” Hill Jr., was killed attempting a feat too daring for even his father: going over Horseshoe Falls in a barrel.)