Manchester Producer

Sun March 7th

Dear Friend,

You will no doubt have all your heart and soul interested in this wonderful ship so I will try and outline the rest of the voyage to you.

It is just a week ago since you two fellows left us, and we have had some fun since then. No doubt you heard of the battle of Horta which occurred last Sunday p.m. when Paddy struck the apprentice boy and fought the 2nd mate, while Capt. and 1st mate were ashore.

After tea the police were notified and called to his arrest but never showed up till Mon 9 a.m. An old fellow came in armed like a warrior with a long fancy sword and two other big fellows. Paddy was paraded into the saloon before the Capt. and 2nd mate and these officials. He had tears in his eyes and shook like a leaf.

He sure put in a terrible night of misery after the deed. Mate had 4 stitches in his eye lid but is better now. Well Paddy handed me his roll of bills and apologized and pleaded to the Capt. but he had to go. He wanted me to follow and bail him out. He was to stay in jail till we sailed.

But he never went to jail. He went and told the British Consul and he let him off. Paddy got glorious drunk and after dinner Roy, Jim, Billings, Platt and I went ashore and passed Paddy on the water but he didn’t see us. He has been a different man since. He was drunk for two days after it and tried to make friends with the cattle men but they wouldn’t sympathize with him.

Now he eats in the pantry and not at the table with us. He gave the calf away to the ship chandler at Horta and I suppose it was through that he got off easy and got liquor instead of the jail. Well the night watchman wouldn’t let the calf go at midnight and the fellows were sore. Of course the customs guards would have stopped it. Ham reported it to the Capt. and told Paddy right to his face. Paddy tried to deny it but Ham told him off and cursed him. Paddy kept quiet.

The calf is here yet and the boys sure did rejoice and celebrate over losing their foreman. The 5 of us when we got ashore last Mon. went to the restaurant and hired a Ford for a tour around the island. The boy drove us and we left at 4 p.m. We went up and down hills all the way. Our first stop was to see a farmer ploughing. We got out and Roy, Platt and I had a try. I plowed once across the field and turned them [the horses] around to come back again. The share and mouldboard turns under the plow by releasing a hook. Like a side-hill plough. That’s the first time I ever drove oxen and it’s 11 years since I used a walking plow.

Next we stopped to pick roses and wild flowers. We saw some sheep and goats. A place where they thrash (a large flat circle of stonework). The oxen tramp the grain out on this stone. Then in a stable we saw a wooden mill — hopper, cog wheels and yoke all of wood with two flat round mill stones for grinding. Some machine. The old Dutch windmill is used for grinding.

We saw a 1926 Ford at the other end of the island at a small village. Shortly after, it came in dark and the last part of the trip was done in the dark so we didn’t see much but received great experience in fixing tires. Only had four punctures and one blowout. The roads were full of gutters and stones. On one steep hill the car refused to pull as the gas was low and the tank was too low down so we had to get out and push. We land back at 9:30 p.m., eat 6 eggs each and the boys bought some liquor after which we left for the boat. The end of a perfect day.

The trip cost us 25 escudos each. We went into the wine cellar under the cafe and you should see the liquor. Why the shelves all around were full of bottles. I bought a bottle of scotch to treat the boys on my birthday, Mar 16th.

Tue. we went ashore to spend all our money and some got tight again. The cooks were all tight for two days and the second steward too. First steward and Ham cooked for us and the cook on the tug baked our bread.

Slim left on Tue. night on the “Lima”. Capt. Steele came in on her and was 9 days coming so Slim will not get home very early as it takes her 7 days going to all the islands. The grub on her is terrible, all cooked in olive oil and garlick.

Wed. we were ready to leave but it was too rough so we stayed till 10 a.m. Thurs. and up to Fri noon made 119 mi. Then up to Sat. noon another 105 mi. and 95 till today at noon. So we are decreasing and the weather is calm and mild. Couldn’t be better only we get no sun.

Last but not least we had boat drill on Fri. and one boat was stuck fast and took about ten minutes to loosen it.

We got some baled straw from the islands; it came in on the “Lima.” It’s mostly wild oats and they sure are wild looking too. Manchester is a very quiet and refined boy now. I have got moved up on the next deck with the Capt. and the sailor with the broken leg has my room. Capt. Steele took his room.

We are back on the Liverpool track now and well over half way there. This last two days we have had a heavy swell and some wind but we made 133 mi on Tue. and 155 today. The crew are busy painting the ship again so it will be like new when we arrive.

The boys are having some fun trying to chew this tough oxen meat we got at Fayal.

Sun. March 14th.

Ha! ha! You’re missing the fun, a time of your life. I’ve laughed all day and night yesterday and all forenoon today, it gets more exciting all the time. The boys were making more escudos yesterday, cleaning the manure out again from 6 a.m. to 10 p.m. All the boat had to be cleaned out and of course, 1st one would get Paddy’s goat, then another. After they finished, I treated them to whisky and Nic. he was absent so Roy told him the mate gave us all a drink, well he began to rave and he lit into the mate this a.m. about it. The mate asked him what was the matter with him. So they had a joke on Nic.

Today they had to throw out all that beet root pulp and hay and straw overboard. No feed or manure allowed to land. Nic and Paddy got to fighting words twice. The boys couldn’t work for laughing. Now we are going up the river against the tide with the aid of ‘Zwartzee’ and three Liverpool tugs. Some procession. On Fri. Ham and Platt came up to my room to have a friendly game of cards and so we played for a couple of hours when in comes the Capt. He says “Say doctor, you can’t bring these fellows up to your room, why you’ll behaving ____ in the saloon next.” In a few minutes he was back again to see if they were gone.

Poor cattle stiffs. That same morning we began playing coits  at No. 3 hatch and the mate ordered us away from there. Dogs life eh!

Capt. finally took responsibility to mix the isolated cattle after calling me a damned ass and a few other favourite expressions behind my back. I was laid in bed taking it all in. I can here all in my room through the single board partition.

Tue March 16th

We are still on our way inch by inch going up the canal. We got into the canal yesterday about 1 p.m. It’s fine scenery but early this a.m. was foggy so we couldn’t start till it cleared. One tug ran ashore in the mud yesterday and they got so scared they couldn’t cut the tow rope hence we almost capsized them. The boys had several photos taken yesterday by reporters. You’ll see them in the Mirror and Sketch. Last night they were ashore and got drunk while the ship was tied up. The vets were aboard and all cattle go as fats for immediate slaughter. The men and crew threw all feed over and now we have no feed for the cattle. They are starved.

You left that address in the foc’sl. Mr. E Bostock Smith, Heaseland, Barham, Canterbury, Eng (poultry man). We have plenty of inspectors, spectators and officials aboard. Expect to arrive tonight but probably in the morning. I must close now. Drop me a line to,

Yours truly,

Dr. P. Priestly, B.V.Sc.

23 Allen Croft, Birkenshaw nr Bradford, York, Eng.

S. Frank Bruce, 1929

Same old breakfast — cornflakes and powdered milk, eggs and bacon, thick toast browned hastily on top of the stove, hotcakes and syrup, black coffee. I gulp down the coffee, take a farewell forkfull of hotcake, grab from the bench en route to the door my dirty old waterproof jacket, and dinner pail in hand, join the passing stream of miners headed towards the mine portal

Here, in an open-fronted part of the warehouse building, I become a link in the chain of men passing the wicket. As I pass a small window I callout my identifying number to the clerk within. When the shift comes out of the mine the numbers are checked to ensure that no men are missing. I take a time-card, and carbide for my lamp, and join the other men waiting outside for the train that will take us nearly a mile underground to the main shaft

The miners stand in small groups, smoking, passing around a salty joke, or hailing a late-comer. Their work -clothes, stained a greyish-black with the mixture of oil and rock-dust from the drilling machines, distinguish the miners from “non-producers” – tracklayers, timbermen, electricians, mechanics.

With the arrival of the train, the office is beseiged by the out-coming crew, the “graveyard” shift, dirty, tired, but still vociferous, grinning, glad to be out, ready for breakfast and bed. We climb onto the rough cars, leaving a seat at the end of each car for the bosses, who emerge from the office stowing papers in their pockets. As the big whistle on the powerhouse nearby blows seven o’clock we start into the tunnel. The air is cold and dank, musty and sulphurous.At about ten miles an hour we trundle along in semi- darkness; the roof, illumined faintly by an occasional lamp to one side, seems low enough to touch. After the early morning rush I can now relax. The dim figures around me are silenced by the noise of the wheels, and sit hunched up against the cold draught. It is true that the imagination is most active when the senses have least to do.

Cut off from my companions by the noise and darkness, I compose a fiery speech, or explain to an imaginary and dumb disciple the cause of economic depressions. Almost immediately, it seems, we arrive at the shaft station, brightly lit, blasted from the living rock, with the marks of the drills on walls and roof.

Underfoot is heavy planking. The roof is about four feet from our heads and carries a maze of compressed air pipes, flumes carrying drainage water, of power-lines and light and telephone wires, the nervous system and sap-stream of this dendritic growth reaching into the heart of the mountain.

At the far side of the station, heavy timbering and extensible iron gates mark the foot of the shaft. A short ladder and platform give access to the top deck of the cage, which now stands waiting. The cage carries twenty men, ten on a deck. I join the general movement towards the gates, which close behind us.

With his hand on the bellrope, the cagetender waits to signal the hoistman twelve hundred feet above us. “All clear” comes from the top deck, the bell rings, we rise slowly from light into sudden darkness and feel the speed increase until the cage with its freight of twenty men is rushing upwards at a thousand feet a minute.  The movement is steady, powerful, and silent but the sigh of the shoes on the guides, and the rhythmical drumming of air on the shaft timbers, passed by the cage with little more than an inch to spare.

Cold draughts of air blow about erratically. A leap into light, and again into darkness; we have passed the first level, two hundred feet from the bottom. The flashes come at two hundred foot intervals every twelve or fifteen seconds. With the swiftly increasing altitude my ear-drums respond to the lessened pressure and crackle uncomfortably. I swallow hard in the darkness, hold on to my dinner-pail, and listen to the shiftboss in his easy confident tone giving the men their instructions for the day. He says nothing to me. I think that’s all right; I’ll be working in the same place.

The cage slackens speed, slows down, slides upwards into the lighted station, and stops with nice exactness. The iron gates fold and swing before us. We have climbed twelve hundred and fifty feet in less than a minute and a half and are not even out of breath. I look out for my partner, light my lamp, and walking gingerly in my worn rubber boots on the muddy planks between the tracks, start out along the level for our working-place.

Sweating men and fear-crazed horses race the flames to save the grain

For a month the sun had dealt with us pitilessly. The wind, robbed of its moisture by the mountains far to the west, swept burning and parching over the rolling grain fields of South Saskatchewan, drawing the last trace of dew from the stooks of cut wheat, from the stiff stubble and the powdery, dusty summer fallow. From the train one could see the threshing outfits working at top speed while the dry weather lasted. The separators, half hidden by the loaded wagon on either side, lay in the hollows of the fields like sanguinary dragons, each with its long neck upthrust, spewing straw in a fine cloud onto the strawpile.

At the wayside station I watched the train leave, trailing behind it a swirling dust cloud. Close beside the railroad track, like giant tombstones stood the grain elevators, darkly red, springing from a tangle of dry grass and weeds to the brilliant sky. That night I slept with the threshing crew. There was a spare team and harness in the barn. I would take out a bundle-rack with the rest of the crew in the morning.

Sun and dust

The farm was large. We threshed for two weeks, moving the outfit from place to place, working south. Each day the sun blazed from a brazen sky. In the morning the dry wind sucked up the dew from the stooks, so that the machine for the rest of the day threw out suffocating clouds of dust. It was not so bad if one used a handkerchief as a mask. The horses stood nervously by the roaring separator, while the dust sifted down on them in a white coat. Very often they would start forward as one of them interpreted a squeak of the machine as a whistle from the driver. The man, balanced on the uneven load above the whirling knives of the cutter, would curse and grab the reins, while the menacing knives, swallowing the last bundle, would race all the faster.

We filled two granaries in the field, and then moved west to the last set-up near the house. There was no granary here, so we let the grain run out onto the ground, and built up an edging of planks around the pile as it grew higher. When a grain tank came back from the elevator empty, the driver would draw it up close to the separator, unhitch his horse and leave us to swing the spout over the pile to the tank. Things were going well for the farmers. Nearly all the grain was threshed, much of it drawn, and still the weather was dry. A wheat stalk powdered between the fingers. At this place the growth had been lush, leaving a long stubble. Then one day it came.

Fire!

 I had finished pitching off my load into the separator, had scraped up the loose wheat with a shovel, stuck my fork between the bars of the rack and gently untied the reins ready to move off. The horses laid back their ears expectantly, but I stood for a moment looking at the man coming towards us from the far side of the field. That in itself was not unusual, but it was remarkable that he should be running in this heat and waving his arms. There was no load waiting behind me.I chewed a straw and looked again. He was still running and waving his arms.

Suddenly the meaning of it drove my heart into my mouth. It was fire! Above the great strawpile was a wisp of smoke. I jumped from the rack, ran to one side. It was fire right enough. The far side of the strawpile was twenty-five feet of leaping flame. It was already in the stubble, twisting, flickering, flying before the wind. The wind had depressed the smoke and hidden it from us behind the straw.

My first thought was for the horses. I swung onto the rack, turned them from the already silent separator, and with the reins slapped them into an agitated trot. The flames were over the top now. As we went, I saw out of the corner of my eye the full grain tank. Sixty bushels of grain, a box and a wagon, waiting to be burnt. At a safe distance, we stopped. I pulled the pin from the doubletree, and drove the unwilling horses back for the grain tank. The whole straw pile was now blazing furiously. The flames were lowdown on the windward side and reaching for the wheat, the grain tank and the separator. The horses were pretty good, but badly scared.

As I turned them on to the wagon tongue, the farmer’s son appeared from nowhere and grabbed their heads. As a man who had a lot to lose, he was pretty excited. He was white and sweating, but habit steadied his hand at the bridles, and helped to slip the ring of the neck-yoke on the wagon tongue. He yelled at me all the time that the harness was rotten. I knew it was rotten. I was the latest comer on the crew, with rotten harness and twenty-year old horses. If they cracked up now it was his loss. The heat was blistering the plunging horses. I dodged their feet, hauling back on the doubletree, and got the pin in somehow. The smoke was bad. As the pin went in, I yelled to the horses, dived clear and went for their heads. They needed no urging. They went hard and fast away from those flames and took with them a load that, next day, took four horses to move it on the soft ground.

A Running Fight with Fire

 With the grain tank clear of the fire, I unhitched and tied the horses, grabbed a shovel, and ran towards others of the crew, fantastic figures in the dust and smoke, racing the flames, beating at the blazing stubble with pitchforks, shovels, anything. One drove his horses through the flames, cut a fireguard of a few furrows before the fire ate up the filled granaries and the best of the year’s work. But the wind was master of the situation, played with the flames and with us, blasted a smoking path two hundred feet wide, straight between the two granaries to the summer fallow a quarter mile away, where the fire died on the edge of the dry soil.

Exhausted, sweating, parched, we drifted back to the outfit and surveyed the damage. The farmer’s son, in the heat and excitement, had fainted and had to be dragged out of the fire, the threshing machine was scorched, and damaged as the tractor-man in a panic dragged it clear with the driving belt, some grain was burnt, half a day lost. But it might have been worse, we thought, even as we spent the night stamping out smouldering roots, and hoping that the wind would not change. As for the horses, they had been magnificent.

S Frank Bruce
294 Windsor Rd West, North Vancouver, BC
Phone: North 1654-Y