SAINT PIERRE ET MIQUELON.
_Nine miles from...._
Nine miles from Newfoundland lies Sainte Pierre et Miquelon, Island
Colony of France, her last remaining colonial possession in the “New
World”, north of the West Indies.
It lies, geographically, in the group of island stepping-stones, a
stone’s throw, a night out of North Sydney.
It is attended by “an old character” among sea-going craft, by name “Pro
Patria”, which has been on the route between Halifax and Saint Pierre
for perhaps more than a quarter of a century. She is little and worn and
old, so that when she came in to the wharf on the morning of our sailing
we were afraid to board her. But after awhile, seeing that the world
around took her as a matter of course, we stepped across the little
gang-plank, into a medley of general cargo, including several sheep on
foot. Next morning we were at Saint Pierre, the harbour which has made
it worth while to France to keep these “little rocky island-waifs of the
western Atlantic.”
Rounding Cap l’Aigle, a little Saint Malo lies outspread before us. And
from the mastheads of shipping at anchor, the tri-color of France waves
spiritedly in the ocean breeze.
The “Pro Patria” drew up at the Quai de la Ronciere. The Quai was black
with the crowd come to witness her coming and to welcome old friends
among the new arrivals.
* * * * *
All the maisons and shops about the Square that faces the Quai, have
steep roofs like the parent roofs back in France and like their sisters
in Quebec. On the way to the door of Madame Coste’s pension, which had
been recommended, we passed the door of “The-Trans-Atlantic-Cable”,
which lifts its western end out of the water here, and saw the little,
yellow telegraph blank in a frame outside the door--the little sheet
that is Saint Pierre’s one daily newspaper--a small “daily” this, but
one the truth of whose news is wholly to be relied on. Every morning saw
us reading the news with _tout-le-monde_ gathered in front of this
journal, itself literally wet and dripping from the Ocean! Marine
Intelligence, indeed.
One of the earliest “signs” seen in a grocer’s window, read “Beurre
frais de Cheticamp a vendre”. We looked out on it from our casement
window at Madame C’s. And though “France” was written in every line of
street, in every shop window, in the great feather bed on which we
slept, on the smaller one with which we were supposed to cover
ourselves, who could feel themselves cut off in a foreign world, with
Cape Breton speaking each morning, just across the way? And when we
started out anew each day, a little water-soaked schooner as often as
not came gliding in to the Quai with “Down North” and “Up Along” written
in every line from masthead to water-line. Ottawa, Saint Pierre and
Saint John’s may be far apart, but Lamaline in Newfoundland, Cape North
to Cheticamp, C.B., and Saint Pierre are as “The Three Musketeers” for
brotherhood, drawn together by the ties of Trade, and the adventure that
lies in “smuggling”.
We had not been long at Saint Pierre before we began to realize that the
arrival of the little coastal Noah’s Arks with their floating
menageries, the pigs grunting, cocks crowing, sheep too stunned to
bleat, made a difference in our own menus. Madame C. chuckled whenever
we were able to report a fresh arrival at the Quai.
Other old acquaintances beside these coasters were not long in coming to
light. Cod is here, answering to the elegant title of “Monsieur Morue”.
Boats for his capture are rated in this island fleet as bateaux.
France operates on the “Grand Banks”; Saint Malo at home, and Saint
Pierre on the West, being her “bases”. But the fish-trade of Saint
Pierre is not what it was when ten thousand fishermen came here every
Spring to re-fit the “Bankers” put into winter-quarters here the
previous Autumn. Most of the fish now goes to France “green”, the dinner
tables of the world calling for more fresh fish than of old. Still, now
and again the steam trawlers come here, and there’s always a cargo or
two in “the making” on Ile aux Chiens, as well as on the south shore of
the harbour.
It is over there across the harbour that one sees the fishwives and the
women stevedores--women who take the fish in hand the day it comes from
the boats and put it through every process up to the stowing in the
transport’s hold. The master-stevedore chants the number of fish passing
through her hands in a loud, clear voice heard across the harbour. She
has evolved a dirge, a rich Litany to fish, “Un”, “deux”, “trois”,
“quatre”, “cinq”, etc., as they go headlong to their last ocean voyage.
[Illustration:
NEARING THE END.]
[Illustration:
AN ISLAND-WOMAN OF
SAINT PIERRE ET MIQUELON.]
On Ile aux Chiens, women meet the incoming dories and aid in splitting
and cleaning la morue. Strong personality and sweet womanhood mark these
island women.
Ile aux Chiens has a trade in Caplin-curing. A host of women work among
these small fish, so much in demand in Paris restaurants.
* * * * *
There are no trolley-lines in Saint Pierre and but few voitures. The
ox-cart is here, attendant on the Salt Vessels, carrying off the salt
from them to the warehouses. It is a decidedly French cart, with high
sides. And the oxen wear a curious neck-yoke adorned with a fluffy
sheep-skin. A French driver urges the oxen to move, with many a “_Marche
donc_”.
Not the least interesting sights on Saint Pierre streets are the gay
uniforms of the gendarmes. But even these give place to the little
dog-carts everywhere, looking as if they had been transplanted out of
Belgium.
Two important and rather unique landmarks stand out at Saint Pierre
above all others; one, the figure of the Blessed Virgin, life size, set
in a deep niche of the cliff-side; the other, a huge Crucifix, mounted
high on a slim wooden Cross, standing on the hills above the town, and
silhouetted clear and strong against the sky.
Many stories centre around the origin of this cross. Some say it was
erected by the citizens to show their gratitude for a miraculous
preservation at the time of some great winter storm; others, that it was
erected in order that sailors leaving port might be reminded to turn
their thoughts and prayers to Him, Who alone has power to still the
waves and give prosperity. Still another story runs, that it is for
sailors entering port, to remind them to return thanks to Him Who has
brought them safely out of dangers and given them, perhaps in addition,
“a good catch”. To those who have lost--it points the only Comforter.
The street passing under the shadow of this Cross goes by the
distinctive name of Rue Calvaire. It is not surprising, therefore, to
have some fishwife, whose photograph you have just taken, tell you, when
asked for her address, that she lives “up ag’in the Cross”; that is, if
she is of Newfoundland origin, and speaks English; if she is French,
“‘Rue Calvaire’, Madame, s’il vous plait”--the street of the Cross.
The women of Saint Pierre wash their clothes in the streams, of which
there are several running down the hills at the back of the town. They
dam up the water with stones so as to form little pools, and kneel in
wooden boxes on the edge of these to wash. They slap the linen with a
flat piece of wood to make it very clean and white, and when all is
done, they carry it in a wet bundle on their backs up the hill, to
spread it to dry on the great rocks at the foot of the Crucifix.
A long way below this curious landmark of the hills, lies the cemetery,
one of the most beautiful spots in Saint Pierre. It has been made so by
a great deal of work, for so solid is the barren rock here that each
grave has had to be blasted out with charge after charge of dynamite.
But in the end each grave is surrounded by a wooden coping surmounted at
one end by a wooden cross painted black or white. The coping is filled
in with earth sifted from the debris of the blasts or brought from a
distance. In these enclosures flowers are massed till the entire
cemetery has the appearance of one great garden.
Love of flowers is a marked characteristic of the Saint Pierrais people.
Though there is practically no soil in the place, every window is a mass
of potted blooms. All these lilies, geraniums, oleanders, cacti,
begonias, etc., were brought from France. It is even said that the soil
in one little garden was brought here from France. Every Saturday
morning a little boy goes the rounds of the pensions and perhaps the
cafes, on his arm a small basket with a few nosegays of sweet
old-fashioned flowers. And these are bought up at once.
The central building of interest in Saint Pierre is the fine white
church, built to replace the old Cathedral destroyed by fire several
years ago, together with the Palais du Justice.
The new church possesses rare and valuable appointments. The stained
glass windows, most of them with Biblical motifs having to do with the
sea, are supported by rich altar appointments; but the note of
originality is struck by the score or more of tiny sailboats and
schooners which hang gracefully on wires suspended from the ceiling.
These miniature craft appear especially appropriate in this church that
owes its being to the sea. Each little boat is of course the votive
offering of some grateful mariner for miraculous preservation in some
great hurricane, collision or shipwreck, while pursuing la morue in one
of its many haunts, immediately off-shore or on the Grand Banks.
The Curé of this church has possibly the best garden in town. And
morning and evening he may be seen--a gardener in a soutane--doing his
best to coax along the flowers and vegetables. _Mais, oui._
The celebration of _La Messe_ and “Benediction” in this French-Colonial
church is attended with an unusual degree of pomp and ceremony. A
military air of precision is supplied by the commanding figure of Le
Maitre de Chapelle wearing the uniform and hat of a soldier of the Swiss
Guard, carrying a battle-axe over his shoulder, a sword by his side, and
in his gloved right-hand a tall, heavy black mace surmounted by a
massive silver ball.
In the processions, this imposing figure is followed by acolytes in
crimson and white gowns, each carrying a pole supporting a red, violet,
or blue lantern.
The music is wonderful, the “time” being kept by the “Suisse”, who also
precedes the two demoiselles down the aisles when they take up the
collection.
The church is situated at the opposite end of the town from the cemetery
and, whenever there is a funeral, the procession passes afoot, heralded
by a small boy with a beautiful voice, singing so ringingly the solemn
chants set for these occasions, that he can be heard far across the
harbour and distant points of the town, from which by reason of turns in
the streets the procession itself is invisible.
* * * * *
Because of the geographical situation of the Saint Pierre et Miquelon
group, and the fact that they are a French Colony, conditions are found
here, possible nowhere else.
French wines and liqueurs flow here as naturally as in France itself.
Prohibition in Canada and the United States has made this font of wines
so close to the coast “a gift of the gods”. Smugglers deem it a good
“base” from which to operate “spirits” in general. In this new trade,
agents of the best Old Country distilleries have opened salesrooms here
and consignments and cargoes are constantly coming and going or being
placed in warehouses to await their chance of re-shipment.
In the cafes of Saint Pierre there is every variety of French wine. In
all the general shops, on shelves, neighbouring dress material,
sardines-in-oil, or _petits pois_ in tins, Vin ordinaire, Cassia, Eau
de Vie, Ginebvre, Anisette and Noyeaux appear as a matter of course.
During the war, trade came almost to a stand-still in Saint Pierre. The
shops, usually so overflowing with good things, had their stock entirely
depleted, and the women storekeepers were reduced to tears, as they
lamented “_La guerre, la guerre, Madame_”, as the cause of their
inability to supply this or that.
But now all this is changed. The Sun of Trade once more has sent its
enlivening rays along this foreign, island-waterfront. Gallic spirits
have recovered themselves in the forests of masts springing up in the
harbour.