But what cut deepest was Robertson's
opinion that Allison was the worst troublemaker in the agency--an
odd assertion since Arthur Gurney had long ago earned that dubious
distinction. Sticks was stunned and depressed by this wounding
rebuke. "Capt. I never bothered you with any writing," he
defended himself. "I never Visited the Office But once Since
you took Charge." His neighbours all said "that Mr.
Allison .. [was] a Very decent & Obliging Chap," and he
also had a raft of letters from people in distress he had saved.
Still, it almost seemed as if Deacon's devious manoeuvring might
have its intended effect.
Worse trials lay ahead for Sticks Allison. Mathilda died just
before Christmas 1915. "Now, as I look back, I can see my dad
become a broken man," Devina recalled. "He just lived to
bring up his two little girls and although he was very strict, he
was a good father and we loved him dearly."
Fortunately, Stick's malaise had little effect on his
performance. Early one December morning in 1917, a CPR barge snapped
its tether in the pass. "We herd the whistle blow and my dad
hopped out of bed, and, of course, I hopped right out after him and
trotted outside," Devina recalled. "We could see these
lights and the waves were really tremendous ... When she would go
down to the tide-rip, there was just the top mast that would be
showing, and then she would come up over the wave again."
Allison
and the girls watched as the barge careened back and forth in the
pass, railway cars jumping their tracks and teetering like dominoes
above the water. For two hours the crew clung to the barge's rails
and capstans, until their runaway ran aground on Lilyhill Point,
next to Virago Point. Sticks rigged a breeches-buoy, made the line
fast, and hauled the shaken seamen across, one at a time. The
spectacle of box cars crumpled like accordions, with wheat and flour
running out their seams to fill the barge and the bay, and sides of
mutton and pork riding in the swell, drew scores of scavengers,
whites and Indians alike. "it was just around Christmas time
and it was quite a good cargo," according to Devina.
In the
autumn of 1918 the Spanish flu hitchhiked over the Malahat and
settled down amongst the Cowichan Indian band. Bound to the station
by Robertson's standing orders, Allison waited in dread for their
turn, his alarm mounting with the keening of survivors as the dead
piled up like cordwood on the reserve. It came in January. The virus
attacked the girls first, but Allison barely had time to nurse them
before it debilitated him as well. "When my 2 girls got
delerious & myself only above to get around, I wrote to Mr.
McMurtrie Prop[prietor] of the Hotel Abbotsford at Ladysmith, asking
him to have the Dr. Sent out immediately as we were all sick,"
Allison reported. Fortunately, two doctors were dining together at
the hotel when Allison's letter arrived, and McMurtrie took it in to
them. Dr. Watson put down his napkin, went to the City Boat House,
and hired a launch to go out to the light and fetch them in. He
instructed the crew not to let the Allisons stand up but to carry
them aboard. "I was 72 Hours before I got to sleep,"
Allison informed Robertson, "the fever was so high & only
for the good & Careful treatment of the Dr. and Nurses we all
Pulled through." They spent thirteen "delerious" days
in hospital, during which Allison had to pay a friend, Captain
Beale, to relieve him back at the light.
The keeper had barely
enough cash left to settle up with Beale, and he reeled under a
staggering burden of doctors' bills. Then a B.C. Police constable
appeared at his bedside, holding out a bill for $22.50 from the
three men who had carried him away. He agreed that the amount was
"exorbitant," but told Allison he must pay nonetheless.
Allison refused to sign. The police forwarded the bill to Robertson.
Even the agent considered the amount "an imposition," and
demanded to know why he had not been informed of Allison's
condition.
"Capt. had it been Possible for me to write to you
re the condition of myself & Family I Certainly would have done
so," Allison replied, "but I thought I could fight it out
myself But I was Mistaken & was a Near Call for myself &
oldest Child as My Temperature was on arrival 103 & my Family
102 each." Dr. Watson wrote the department to confirm
the expense was "absolutely necessary": three men were
needed to carry the stricken family to the boat. Allison returned
the bill, explaining, "My Salary is Not Enough as no doubt you
Know what it costs to live. I am now in debt & god knows how I
am to keep out of more." Wartime inflation had already dragged
him into the red with his grocer for the first time, and Sticks
offered to submit past bills as proof. Flour, for example, had shot
up from $5.75 to $13.00 a sack. "As my foods are mostly can
foods," he continued, "it is getting impossible to get
Proper Nourishing food, let alone Clothing & Shoes for Myself
and Family. This, Capt., is my first Request to you Re my salary
.." Robertson wrote the boat owner denying the department was
"responsible in any way for .. individual sicknesses," and
instructed him to collect from the keeper.
Allison began clutching
at straws. Under pressure from the Amalgamated Civil Servants of
Canada, McIntosh, his MP, had extracted a promise from C.C.
Ballantyne, minister of Marine, that lightkeepers would get an
increase in pay. Allison wrote the minister, reminding him that
Parliament had long ago approved the appropriation; civil servants
were to have received their increase in April 1919--over a year ago.
Where was it? "I am one of those lighthouse keepers and as yet
I have received no increase," he revealed.
My time here on this light is fully 24 hours per day, 365 days
per year and responsibilities equal to any first class light from
a seaman's point of view. There are no holidays except I engage
help and pay for a man out of my own pocket and it is impressed
upon him that I am still held responsible for his position and
Gov't stores in his charge. There is no coal or firewood given
free, I have to buy all my fuel for household purposes and with
the high cost of living it is impossible for a man with a family
to feed and cloth them on a small salary of $58.00 a month .. and
pay for medical attendance and fuel.
Allison reckoned that inflation had shrunk his pre-war $58.00
monthly pay to $27.50. Moreover, he had two lights to run, one
offshore, and he desperately needed rain gear and rubber boots. Yet
even in the deepest trough of the post-war economic crisis, Devina
and Frances "were taught to share," and would "do up
a huge box of ... toys" for needy children in Vancouver at
Christmas. "His pay was very low and his hours very long, but
somehow .. [they] managed."
Allison still had received no
reply and no increase by August, when he somehow learned that
Ballantyne was en route to Victoria. "I expect Mr. McIntosh to
discuss My Salary as well as others with Minister Ballantyne,"
he wrote Gordon Halkett, and called upon the superintendent of
lights to shore up his claim. "I trust, Mr. Halkett, you will if
asked Re this Station & Conditions Help to Get me an
increase off Salary you Must Know the High Cost off Living Hits Me
Hard at Present .." He was only paid three dollars a month for
pumping the hand horn, punishing work "worth at Least $3.00 Per
Night & Especially in Cold wet weather."
It is an
indication of Allison's naivete and isolation that he should think
his salary ranked so high on Ballantyne's agenda. He heard next from
Wilby, who explained that writing the minister was "most
irregular" (in fact, in those bleak post-war years it was
becoming a desperate and demeaning routine). Halkett asserted that
it had always been his policy "to advance the interests of
lightkeepers at every opportunity." While promising to do his
best, he pointed out that Porlier Pass had "not been as well
kept as regards neatness of the grounds etc. as what the average
property should be." He called upon Allison to make
improvements at once.
Allison's only solid hope for a raise lay in
the possibility of introducing a mechanical fog horn. In February
1921 Colonel Wilby asked for a monthly tally of the number and types
of vessels plying Porlier Pass. Allison counted 121 tugs with tows,
80 steamships, and 35 CPR transfers. "I can truthfully Say this
is below the average number as there are many boats Pass in the
Night & at times when I am in the Bush Saw wood or for
Mail," he reported, estimating a monthly average of 252. The
number gave an idea of the keeper's workload: in foggy weather he
must have been out pumping the hand horn an average of eight times a
day, at all hours. Colonel Wilby forwarded the traffic summary to
Ottawa, along with his opinion that though a mechanical horn would
obviously improve navigation, it was not yet "an actual
necessity and with the proper amount of caution the existing aid
should be sufficient" --thus dashing Allison's last hope for
improved wages. Sticks was sick all through November 1921 and went
into hospital again, "but could not stay there as [his]
salary would not stand for Hospital & Dr. Bill" In spite
of money problems, however, Allison remarried in March 1922. His
second wife, Elizabeth Gear, was a war widow with a
sixteen-year-old son, Edward.
The loss of the tug Peggy
McNeil with all hands but one on the night of 23 September
1923 was a sobering reminder of the Perils of Porlier Pass. She
had left Vancouver with two scows in tow that afternoon. Devina
remembered, "It was quite .. continued