“Now of course, the great thing about the solar system as a frontier is that there are no Indians, so you can have all the glory of the myth of the American [Canadian] westward expansion without any of the guilt. (Sarah Zettel, brackets mine)
The Meeting, Ottawa, Canada, 1868
A small group of very powerful men sat in the room, on chairs pulled closely together, bent over talking quietly. Almost in whispers as if not wanting to be overheard. On seeing this meeting one would wonder. Why? Why are they whispering? There’s no one else in the room.
One of the more prominent members of the group was speaking. “We must act soon if we are to join the Territories to the rest of Canada. The Americans just bought Alaska and are beginning to look north at our North-WestTerritories, now mostly run by the Company. Soon their greed will overcome them and they will find an excuse to move north. First, we have to buy Rupert’s Land from the Hudson’s Bay Company. We must acquire those territories at all costs.” Everyone nodded in agreement.
“And, I think if we promise British Columbia a railway, linking them to the east, they may join the Confederation.
The speaker sighed as he mentally went through the long list of things that needed doing. “We can’t build it until the Indians are removed from those territories. We need to deal with that issue as well.” He looked over at the others. Again, they nodded their heads in agreement.
“Then our course of action is clear, gentlemen. If we are to unite this Country we must face these, shall we say, somewhat distasteful realities.” At those words, the speaker’s mouth twisted into a shape suggesting he had just sucked on a lemon.
He wasn’t finished. “First we buy Rupert’s Land from the Company. Then we remove the Indians and Metis from the territories and settle for treaties and reserves. Next, we search for capital to build this blasted thing. It won’t be cheap.” He hesitated, scratching his head, as if there was something he had missed. The others looked on expectantly waiting for him to continue.
Finally, after some pause, he spoke. “Oh yes, there is one more small problem. We need cheap labour to build the railroad. Many hands will be needed which will increase costs. The work will be dangerous and there may be fatalities.”
Those present waited for him to continue. As if expecting a solution. “At this moment I don’t have a solution, but will start looking into the matter.” Again, heads bobbed in unison all around. As if this last statement was merely another one of many obstacles to overcome in their eventual quest. Nothing, it seemed, could get in the way of the national dream.
Kisikawasan (Flash in the Sky), 1882
The Cree leader and his band, the Young Dogs, were tired from their long ride. His one name was Piapot or Payipwat (One Who Knows the Secrets of the Sioux). The other Kisikawasan. In his hands he held his Winchester repeating rifle. He sat on his horse, looking out onto the rippling prairie grasses at the territory he had chosen for his people, just north of the Cypress Hills. And smack in the way of the proposed new CPR mainline.
He turned to one of his men. “First the Blue Coats humiliate us, escorting us back like children to our lands. Now this man closes the fort of the Red Coats and stops feeding us unless we move to another territory. The buffalo are gone. Our people are starving. Gather them. We must move. Or many will die.”
Edgar Dewdney, recently appointed Lieutenant Governor of the North-West Territories as well as Indian Commissioner, which brought him an additional stipend of $2,000, looked on as the bands began to move north and east to other territories.
One of his subordinates, also looking on, turned his way. “Well, I guess your plan worked, Sir. You sure showed them. They go willingly enough when starving. And, finally we have removed them from the railway right-of-way. That defiant one, they call Piapot, would have put his tipi in the way of the proposed railway line if we hadn’t interfered.”
Dewdney only grunted and shook his head, in a noncommittal manner. He had just closed Fort Walsh to the Natives and stopped giving the Cree rations, unless they cooperated and moved off these lands. It was a grim business this railroad building but that was what Macdonald wanted. Even if it meant breaking the treaties, which they were already doing.
Some of the other men in Dewdney’s party overheard his assistant’s comments. And soon the rumors and stories spread. ‘The great lieutenant governor stood up to Piapot and his Young Dogs, and along with the NWMP, kicked them off their lands.’
Truth was soon twisted. And the new truth became myth.
………………….
The Saskatchewan family were driving down the newly built Trans Canada Highway on the Canadian Prairies alongside the Canadian Pacific mainline. A young Harry Reed peered out the window in the back seat of his father’s car. As they passed the little village and the road sign bearing its name, Harry asked, “Piapot? What does that name mean, dad?”
“I don’t know, Harry. Makes no sense, this word, Piapot. Maybe something to do with a pot.” Harry shrugged. His parents didn’t know much about Canadian history. He would ask his teachers.
“Well, according to the stories I heard, Harry, that is the name of a prominent Cree Chief who at this very place put his tipi in the way of the new CPR line. He claimed these lands as his and was going to battle the Canadian Government for them. The NWMP came and kicked over his tipi and dragged him off the line. He was then moved to other lands.”
Harry thought about the teacher’s answer. He shook his head, imagining that past. Thinking to himself. ‘But, if he was so bad, why did they then name a village after him? To mock him?’
Myth is embedded in history. So, how can it not be true.
Put A Tax on Their Heads, 1884
“It is simply a question of alternatives: either you must have this labour or you can’t have the railway.” (John A. Macdonald, 1882, Canadian Parliament, speaking in defense of bringing in cheap Chinese labor, against the wishes of many Canadians, to build the Canadian Pacific Railroad)
Williams, one of the CPR herders of the Chinese work crews, opened the door and entered the crowded Chinese living barracks beside the CPR track, deep in the Canadian Rockies. The crews were building the Canadian Pacific Railway through one of its toughest stretches. The Fraser Canyon, British Columbia.
A large plume of blue tobacco smoke, and the smell of sweat of fifty men, passed him on its way out. Williams looked at the scene. They were gambling again. Hands thrust in the air with money frantically trying to place their bets.
Williams leaned over to one the of Chinese workers who spoke broken, but decent English. And yelled at the top of his voice. “What are they doing, Li Qiang?”
Li Qiang only shook his head. “You must speak louder.”
“Are they placing bets?,” roared Williams almost losing his tonsils in the process.
“Yes, Mr. Williams. New game.” Winner makes lots of money.”
“What new game, Li Qiang? How do you fellas have enough energy for games considering how hard you work?”
“We bet on everything. Even how many railroad ties needed for certain section of track. Or, maybe how many spikes bent laying that track. You want play? Cost you your four dollars a day wages, not my one dollar a day wages.”
“That’s rather sad, Li Qiang! Why do you bet on such trivial things?”
“Why sad, Williams? Everyone count, then bet. Might as well gamble. It keeps our minds off the hard, dangerous work.”
“But why do you gamble away your hard-earned money? You should be saving to go home or bring your families to Canada.”
“We not save enough to go home. Or bring families. Only way is to gamble. This way at least some get rich.”
“Maybe we even gamble when you have accident herder, or that pig, Oderbunk.” With those words, Li Qiang spat on the floor as if trying to remove a bad taste from his mouth. Oderbunk was the Chinese contractor who brought the Chinese to work on the railway. The mere mention of his name raised the hackles of these men.
A now somewhat worried Williams noticed the room had gone silent, with the mention of Oderbunk’s name. Many of the workers were looking at him. And in a not too kindly way. He only shook his head and left, opening the door and taking more smoke and smell with him on the way out. Behind him he heard the shouting and betting start again.
‘That stupid, greedy Andrew Oderbunk is behind a lot of this madness. Treating them like animals. No wonder they almost killed him in that strike in 1881. Given their work and future, what have they got to lose? Besides their lives.’
…………………
The railroad work crews were having lunch outside one on the many tunnels in the Fraser Canyon, below the majestic peaks of the Rockies. Suddenly the blast came, followed by the concussion of air knocking them off the rail cars and onto the shaking ground. Then silence as the large plume of dust enveloped them.
Eventually out of the silence and debris, a dust-covered Chinese worker staggered, barely coherent screaming in Cantonese. Most of his clothes had been torn off, his hair and eyebrows singed, still smoldering.
“The tunnel entrance. Cheap explosives go off too soon. Everything smashed, everyone gone…” His last words failed him as he collapsed in a heap on the ground, blood now coming out of his ears.
…………………..
At the end of the month Williams walked into the Chinese workers’ barracks again to the same commotion and racket that had greeted him before. On the bench beside the booky stood a rather forlorn looking young Chinese man. The booky had propped his hands in the air as if in victory.
Williams looked for Li Qiang, finally seeing him among the men. “Are they betting again, Li Qiang?”
“No. First announcing winner.”
“So, I take it that’s the winner standing on the bench. He guessed how many rail ties it took to build that stretch this month? Or, whether I would die? If he won, why is he looking so gloomy? He probably won a month’s wages, or more.”
“Won bet, but lost brother in explosion.”
“But why are you betting on these things ? Surely, without betting, you can save enough money to go back to China.”
Li Qiang cocked his head to one side considering Williams. “We save little. That swine, Oderbunk take much money. We hear head tax coming. Must pay head tax to bring our families from China.”
Then Li Qiang walked off getting ready to place another bet, leaving a gaping Williams only shaking his head. Head tax? So the rumors really were true.
…………………….
Victoria, British Columbia, 1884
“So just how many Chinese workers died, Oderbunk? I’m getting writing cramps trying to keep up with the Prime Minister’s telegrams.” The chief commissioner was not a happy man. And he sensed this man was not being forthright with him.
The nervous Oderbunk fidgeted in his chair, licking his lips. Beside him sat Williams, one of his chief foremen to help with the details. Finally Oderbunk answered. “Well. We’re not quite sure, Commissioner, how many we’ve lost.”
The now fuming Commissioner next asked like what seemed a series of very sensible questions. “What do you mean you’re not sure? Don’t you record the deaths? You’re responsible for compensation to their families and returning their remains back home, are you not?” You pay them. When they don’t show up, well, they must be dead?”
“Well, Sir. Often we can’t recover the bodies. They fall into the canyon or the river and are swept away. And, many of these men desert to find work elsewhere. So, when they don’t show up, we’re not always sure what happened.” Oderbunk hoped this answer might appease the Commissioner. And avoid that nasty little business about not recovering the bodies or compensating the families. It did not.
After the meeting a rather shaken Williams walked away thinking some nasty, nasty things about Oderbunk. Almost ready to return to the camps where the Chinese were betting. ‘No, no, I can’t do that. Put that thought out of your mind, Williams.’
Later Immigrants and the CPR
Harry Reed sat in the living room listening to his father and uncle talk about their days with the CPR. Occasionally the conversation became quite animated. In fact, almost hostile.
“Why don’t you agree, Walter. The Company was good to us. We made a living, fed our families. Yes, we had to work a little, but at least we had work.”
‘That’s an understatement,’ thought Harry. ‘Work a little?’ But then that’s what Uncle Bob thought because Harry, in his short years on earth, had never met a harder worker. While others grumbled, Uncle Bob thrived. He loved the work.
Walter did not. Unable to listen any longer, Walter got mad. “The CPR, Robert, was SCHEISSE! They treated us worse than animals. Vie Verschissende Hunde, Robert. “While Walter’s English was a little rough, his vocabulary in swear words seemed well rounded. In English. German. Even a few Polish and Ukrainian gems occasionally thrown in there.
Walter picked up the silver railroad spike opener from the table and cracked a few beer. Red-faced he needed a drink when talking about the CPR with Robert. He looked down at the silver opener.
“See this spike, Robert. This was given to me by my son’s friend. That’s more than that God………… CPR ever gave me. One-hundred and sixty dollars pension a month after thirty years of working for them. And a piece of paper thanking me. That’s all I got. You know what I’d like to do with this spike. Shove it up some big-shot CPR’s as….” Della, also listening cut Walter off before his words landed him in the abyss.
“Now Walter. I don’t think swearing at the CPR is going to help anything.”
“Cripe-No-Mighty,” grumbled a still steaming Walter. He had designed a unique series of cuss words all his own.
Then he touched the permanent reddened part of his ear, which always itched, remembering what else he got while sitting on the little open railroad scooter inspecting the tracks on a breezy winter Saskatchewan day with windchill of minus forty degrees Fahrenheit.
But Robert, ever the optimist, continued. “Well, if you had joined the CPR extra gangs, you would have made more money and been promoted. And now your pension would be much better. Like mine.”
“Those were nothing but slave camps, Robert. What kind of life is that? Being months away from your family with little time off. How could you like that life? Nothing but a sweat house for dumb, uneducated immigrants like us. Who couldn’t find any other work.” Words that perhaps were a little over-exaggerated, but Walter didn’t care anymore. Finally he stopped and drained half his beer, hoping to drown the memories of the CPR and all it stood for.
Uncle Bob continued, but Walter had tuned out thinking about one of the many dark times he had on that cursed railroad.
Harry kept quiet and just listened. When Walter and Bob talked railroad, it was best to just stay of out of the way. Pretend he wasn’t even there.
Harry was suddenly jolted out of his referee, realizing that Uncle Bob was talking to him. “See Walter, even your son got along with the CPR extra gangs. He liked it. Even got promoted. Right, Harry?”
Harry, out of respect for his uncle, simply nodded and said nothing. ‘Wrong, Uncle Bob. I love and respect you. But on that count you are wrong. That was an awful job.’
Then Harry thought back to the CPR extra gangs. Glorious times indeed. He’d hoped those memories had disappeared into the past. But, some of them were hard to erase.
Myth, if repeated long enough, becomes the new reality.
College Boy Meets the CPR Extra Gangs, Spring, 1973
Harry had just been interviewed by Parks Canada for a summer job as an interpreter at the historic National Site, Fort Walsh, Saskatchewan. It would have been the perfect job. It was close to home, paid well, and was the kind of work he was studying at the University of Alberta. But it didn’t happen.
“I need a job, Uncle Bob. I have to pay my university tuition and board. There’s little work out there.”
“Well, maybe I can get you on the CPR extra gangs. It’s good, steady work and I think you can handle it.”
“When can I start, Uncle”, asked the somewhat forlorn looking Harry? Walter was standing by, shaking his head. He said little, thinking. Maybe this was a good thing. His son needed some harsh lessons in reality. He was treating university like a training ground for the fine art of partying.
“O.K. Harry, give me a few days, and then I’ll phone you. We’re working on the main line near Medicine Hat. Not too far from home with your one day off.”
Harry gulped. Did he hear right? ‘One day off.’ That of course meant working six days a week. But, the worst was yet to come.
……………………
It was still dark outside. Pitch black in fact. Suddenly someone was walking through the rail sleeping car, shouting. “Time to get up boys. Breakfast is on the table. The cook grumbles when you’re late.”
Harry and others groaned trying to wake up. Sleeping was tough on the mainline. When every two hours another freight train raced by them at fifty miles an hour, eight feet away.
That voice almost had a cheerful ring to it, which made it even harder to listen to at four AM in the morning. His friend Phil, bunking next to him finally sat up. “One of these mornings I’ll strangle that cheery bastard.”
“They’ll just replace him with another one. I think they get paid extra for that voice.”
Harry finally got up and dressed. Ready for the day. After three weeks working on the gangs, his muscles were no longer screaming in agony. The blisters on his university hands had finally healed and hardened up. “Well let’s get something to eat and see what cookie burned this morning.”
As they neared the rail cook car, the noise and hubbub grew louder. Suddenly one of the the windows of the cook car blew out, closely followed by what looked like a platter of cold meat.
Then there was a lot of yelling inside the cook car. Harry heard one of his other friends, Jim’s voice, screaming. “How can you put that shit on a plate and serve it to us? Look at it. It’s green. Meat isn’t supposed to be green. I’m going to kick your ass all the way to Medicine Hat…” Then Harry heard running as cookie, fearing for his life, quickly existed the cook car. Never to return.
Well, another day starts on the gangs. What will happen next? There was still twelve hours of back-breaking work ahead. The day was young. A lot could happen.
…………………….
The ballast crew was running beside the ballast cars, on the sloped, rocky rail track trying to open the bottom doors with their hand cranks. To pour out the crushed rock around and between the new ties and track. It was a smoldering hot prairie afternoon, the air was choked with dust from the ballast.
This was one of the toughest jobs on the gangs. But, you got a little extra time off at the end of day because of the hard work. And if you wanted to get promoted to a machine, this was one way of doing it.
The train had to go at just the right speed so that the ballast could be poured evenly onto the rail bed and tracks. Too slow and too much ballast came out, derailing the cars. Too fast, and there wasn’t enough ballast to fill the tracks.
As the train reached the slope heading into Medicine Hat, it sped up. Harry’s lungs were about to burst as he ran along his rail car, trying to keep up. Someone screamed. “We’re going too fast. Tell that engineer to slow down or this will be a disaster.” In the distance Harry heard foremen screaming into their radios.
But the engineer didn’t slow down. And soon Harry’s buddies started to abandon ship. He saw John, bent over puking up the ballast dust he ingested. Then out of the corner of his other eye, he saw Amos desperately trying to hang onto his crank, sent tumbling off the grade disappearing into the rail ditch. Finally the rest of crew, including Harry, had stopped cranking.
Another day, another dollar on the extra gangs. Well, not quite that bad. Thirty-nine dollars to be fair.
………………….
The work crews stood in line for their midday lunch beside the tracks. Which was brought out to them by the cooks. One half-hour to eat and then it was back to work.
The prairie sun was blazing down on the exposed track sending heat waves into the air. The shimmering railroad track looked like a mirage in the distance. It was exposed, lying naked on the rail bed with no ballast to keep it in place.
Someone in the lunch line started pushing. And the yelling and cursing started. “Out of the way, turban-head. We need to eat and get back to work.” One of the crew, who seemed to have a particular dislike for the East Indian workers, was trying to butt in line and get his lunch before disaster struck.
Then the fighting in the lunch line broke out in earnest. Pushing, shoving. Kicking and punches thrown before the foremen stepped in and broke it up.
“Stop it, Kenny. They don’t understand English very well and you’re not exactly Mr. articulate either. They think you’re butting in. Here, step aside and I’ll sort this out.”
Uncle Bob was patiently trying to explain Kenny’s rudeness to the East Indians. “These men have to eat first. There’s no ballast on the tracks…”
His words were cut off by a loud SNAP. Followed by another SNAP. And then it happened. The Canadian Pacific railway, which had lain on this track for nearly one-hundred years, decided to take a walk. Off the rail bed towards the ditch.
Men scrambled in every direction, fully knowing what was taking place. Karl, roadmaster of the extra gang, ran up, breathless. “Hurry up. Let’s get out there before it…”
Everyone stared as the entire mile of rail turned into a writhing steel snake and began moving toward the ditch, as the now hot steel rails expanded in the noonday heat.
“Or what Karl, before the tracks go in the ditch.”
The CPR mainline was shut down for many hours. Backing up freight trains in both directions. Because of one overzealous gang boss who was trying to repair too much track at once and not paying attention to the weather. Or the laws of physics.
Harry watched with fascination. How could a mile of steel rail suddenly look like a wet noodle? And then he realized what this meant. Overtime. The men wouldn’t leave here until eight or nine tonight. Maybe midnight. That mainline had to be opened or heads would roll.
And another day on the extra gangs was finished.
………………….
“See Walter. Your son could do it. He worked on the gangs and made some good money.”
Harry rolled his eyes. Hardly. He’d managed to get on one of the machines for three weeks and did make twice as much money as before. And then they all went on strike because of the poor working conditions and wages, and Harry went back to school.
“Those were good boys, Walter and Della. They worked hard and sometimes they got into a little trouble. Some were a little rough around the edges. Like the time they got into a fight in a bar and spent the night in the Calgary jai…”
Harry, having taken lessons from his mother, cut off his uncle’s words. “Uncle Bob, I’m sure mom and dad don’t want to hear that story.” Harry anxiously looked at his mother who now had that knowing look on her face.
“Come Harry, tell your mother the rest of that story. I like stories. I can hardly wait to hear it.
……………………
EndNote:
I am not a great fan of the Canadian Pacific Railway. Or other similar corporations. I’m not anti-capitalist. I just don’t like it when large corporations become greedy. Yes, a transcontinental railway was sorely needed to tie together an enormous country and its shareholders and owners had to pay off the $100,000,000 it cost to build it. But throughout its history the CPR made considerable profits off the backs of immigrant labourers, treating them poorly, or worse. There was a lot of labour unrest and discrimination against some minorities even in the 1970s when I worked there. And today the Company still makes tremendous profits. In 2016, the CPR had a $6.2 billion revenue and $1.6 billion dollars in profit and held assets valued at $19.2 billion dollars. Its top CEO made close to twenty million dollars a year, with perks and shares in the Company.
When I was a kid, we learned that the Cree Chief Piapot tried to stop the building of the CPR mainline by pitching his tent in the way. Presumably somewhere near today’s Piapot, Saskatchewan. The story goes that he was forcefully removed by the North West Mounted Police. Historians have pored through the documents and there is not a shred of evidence to support that story. But it somehow seems to resonate better among Canadians than: ‘First Nations people were starved to force them off the lands, so that the railway could be built.’
The story of the Chinese immigrants brought over by the CPR to help build the railroad is equally sad. Their struggle and sacrifice is finally being told and recognized. In this story, I mentioned the Head Tax put on Chinese immigrants to prevent them from coming to Canada. Many Chinese workers could not save enough to either return to China or pay it to bring over their families. In the story I have deliberately changed the name of the chief contractor, responsible for bringing in Chinese workers and the horrendous conditions they had to put up with. With a little research you can easily find out his real name. Because of the poor records kept, even to this day no one knows for certain how many Chinese workers died building the railway (everywhere from 600 – 2,000).
Although I try not to judge history, and instead document and research it, I can’t help but have some deep emotional feelings for the many many ethnic minorities who toiled to build the intercontinental railway and then maintain it. My parents, relatives and some of our friends were among them.
As was I for what seemed like one of the longest summers of my life. I saw firsthand the poor working conditions and continued racism even in the 1970s. The East Indian workers were now the new Chinese. After that summer of ’73’, my university career outlook became more focused as I realized that I didn’t want to follow in my father’s footsteps. I ended up shoveling dirt anyway, but had way more fun doing it.
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