Letterstime - Ein
Geleitzug - TIOWF, Part III
The Taking of St. Pierre Continues
June 25, 1915
Historical Preface: On June 25, 1915, Theodore Girardin of St. Pierre
suffered his first wounds. He refused to leave his unit,
declaring them too minor to merit it, though he would be decorated for
them, nonetheless - the first of many decorations earned by soldiers
from St. Pierre - Miquelon. For more historical context, see NOTE
---- Dawn + 165 Minutes
Kapitäleutnant Gommel tried to keep the 28 mounted sailors of the
Bruno group at a fast walk, much as Bavaria was doing, as the groups
diverged. During the time at the crest, he had pulled aside the
senior enlisted men in his group - one petty officer, one senior
leading seaman, and one leading seamen - and essentially subdivided
Bruno amongst himself and those three. This was not entirely ex tempore, as the basic mission
and manpower assignments had been hashed out at sea. What had not
been known, however, was how many mounts (if any) would make it to the
ridgeline. The Erzherzog had felt that Bruno required an absolute
minimum of 20 and that 30 or more would be greatly preferred.
Forty paces ahead, a mounted sailor waved broadly.
"Damn!" The street must be blocked further down .
Unlike Bavaria, Gommel had refused to split his force along different
paths. Bruno’s objective might well require mass. He had
spent the time before the ride up to the crest making sure that the
trio of sailors that he had previously identified as decent horsemen
were there and on better-looking horses. This trio had trotted on
ahead as pathfinders. As Gommel neared, the man gestured to the
left and put his horse into a canter in that direction.
"Left at the intersection!" Gommel ordered loudly, turning in his
saddle. Behind him, his three squad leaders called out the
same. Once into the turn, he saw that the scout was stopped one
next intersection over and was now waving back downhill.
"Right at the intersection!" The relay approach was
So far. It would fail if there were more blocks than scouts
before Gommel’s advance could relieve the one posted.
The screams that bedeviled Bavaria’s Anton did not afflict
Gommel. The officer heard them, muffled by distance, and wondered
what had happened. Here, the sight of one man on horseback was
puzzling and not something to elicit shrieks. The sudden
appearance of 30 more, however, was so terrifying as to provoke silent
flight, and women scooped up children and either hid or fled out their
back doors. So, instead of provoking noise, the progress of Bruno
was marked by a stark stillness marred only by slamming doors as a bow
wave of panic-stricken townsfolk silently fled at right angles to the
---- Dawn + 170 minutes, Place de la Roncière
The on-duty gendarmes had seen off the fishermen, as was their
custom. Sometimes there was trouble, but their visible presence
generally kept matters calm. Rarely did they have to do more than
simply tap their batons against their uniformed thighs in
emphasis. Since this was near the height of the season, the town
population had been augmented by many outsiders. Actually, the
trend had already been down these last years, but this year was much
worse because of the war. The 18 to 42 year olds were
elsewhere, so the seasonals who had come were older and, though they
might drink as hard - or harder - as any younger, they were far less
likely to have hot blood in the morning. Oh, they’d start
hung-over, all right, and cantankerous as all hell, but their energy
level was lower and focused on getting aboard ship. The result:
more blustering but almost no fighting at all. What fights they
did get into were almost always in the evening.
Once the boats were off, the gendarmes made their morning rendezvous at
the fountain on the Place de la Roncière, as they had done many
times before. Two were to head back to the Gendarmerie to go off
duty. The other pair remained on the Place to make their
report. They would then tarry on the Place to enjoy a snack
during the mid-morning lull at one of the cafes that operated there in
season. Already, the day was warming nicely and promised to make
their morning beat quite pleasant.
The pairs compared notes, and parted with no more than a few words and
---- Dawn + 170 Minutes
LT Siegfried’s objective - the Place itself - was on the same path as
Gommel’s, but further, and offset by two or three blocks at the
end. However, Caesar had the more inept riders and the weaker
mounts, and so steadily lost ground to Gommel. This had been
expected and - since Gommel might use Siegfried’s men as reinforcements
- not supposed to be too great a concern. Nonetheless, keeping
their path in sight remained important, and each turn made him
momentarily lose sight of the men ahead. In all honesty, he was
afraid of getting lost and had resolved to keep the church in sight and
just head for it should they lose their way.
For several minutes, it was almost as though St. Pierre were deserted -
having turned into one of those ghost towns that they had seen such
bewildering references to in some of the Amerikaner newspapers.
To make matters worse, he kept seeing flickers of motion off to both
sides, though at least none seemed to be coming towards him possibly to
intercept. Here and there, he even thought to catch sight of a
face in a window but, each time he turned to look, the window was
empty. He was constantly twisting his head this way and
that. After all, this was not Wilhelmshaven, nor even neutral New
York, but part of France herself.
It was when he turned the third corner that he spotted his first real
human. A woman, holding her just-past-toddler son, stepped out of
one doorway after Gommel’s passage to stare downhill in
disbelief. The clop-clop of Siegfried’s horse turned her around
in shock. Her mouth opened wide, then closed again. Whatever she might have said was lost on Siegfried, but the slamming of
the door seemed clear enough.
---- Dawn + 170 Minutes
LT Kessock would have been the first to agree that an unfamiliar saddle
was quite an incongruous thing to be bothered about in the middle of an
invasion, but the damn thing was chafing the hell out of his ....
Damn! The last of Siegfried’s Caesar group turned a corner and
Kessock, with over 100 men, all of them on foot, had never had any
intention of taking any route other than the most direct one, threading
around carts, wagons, etc. Thus, the momentary loss of sight of
LT Siegfried’s last hussar should not have come as a surprise, but it
did. The two lieutenants had traded nervous jests last evening,
with Siegfried declaring his force the schwerpunkt (NOTE
2) and Kessock
naming his the main body.
None of it seemed humorous in the cold light of day and he frowned as
he led his group into the intersection where Siegfried’s group had
turned. He stood in the stirrups, but there was so sign of
them. Any thought he might have had of changing his mind and
trying to follow them faded. There was no way he could be sure
which street they had turned down. Furthermore, even if he got
this first one right, the trail was only going to get progressively
He sat back down, wincing at the contact.
The street wound about as it followed the slope and soon he spotted a
large cart. Ah, he thought, this was why they’d turned
aside. As he approached, he caught sight of the draft animals: a
pair of oxen. The cart was stacked high with sticks, cooking
fuel, perhaps. It had been going down the hill but had come to a
stop. Standing up on its bench was an old man scratching his head
at something below and to the left. Kessock, of course, had a
very good idea as to just what had caught the man’s attention, and was
already rehearsing a temporizing Bonjour.
It turned out not to be necessary.
The man whipped around, perhaps hearing their approach. Before
Kessock could so much as open his mouth, the oldster leaped off the
vehicle with startling agility and disappeared between two
buildings. As he neared the cart, Kessock eyed the gaps available
to get by on either side. He was going to have to dismount.
He might even have to abandon the horse. He brightened a bit at
that thought, as it would mean leaving the saddle, as well.
"Petty Officer Sumpfhühn!" (NOTE 3)
"Start the men past on the right. Petty Officer Felsarzt, take
yours by on the left."
Kessock took another look around as the men began to trickle by, then
eased one foot out of the stirrups and began to lever the leg over the
"Nothing, carry on." His skin must be raw meat, he thought, and
could not help glancing down to see if any blood flecked his
trousers. Nothing. Well, at least not yet, he amended,
recoiling as the cloth touched a particularly sensitive spot. He
found himself limping as he tried to lead his horse past on the right
after Sumpfhühn’s group. The gelding balked at the narrow
gap, and made a couple breathy humphs in protest. The right ox
turned its head and made some animal mutter of its own. A lot of
men were walking past it and they did not smell like fish. And
now there was some other noises back there.
The large draft animal’s move made the cart and all the poky looking
sticks twitch, and that was quite enough for Kessock’s mount. It
had been suspicious before, and now it most definitely wanted nothing
to do with that transit. It rolled it eyes and planted its
forelegs in the cobblestone way like spindly masts.
"Fine!" Kessock announced, dropped the reins, and limped through
to join his men.
The horse watched suspiciously as the rest of the men disappeared
though the hole and humpfed again, but this time the noise was more
like what Americans’ might have called a Bronx Cheer. A few
moments later, and it was all alone in a strange and empty
street. It looked about a bit nervously at the narrow street with
walls like an alien canyon and began to edge back uphill, where it had
been much more open, and where there was some visible greenery. One of the oxen made a deep lowing noise, making it flinch, and it
picked up the pace up hill and away.
---- Dawn + 180 Minutes, near Cathedral
Gommel’s first scout pulled to a halt at the edge of the Place (NOTE
4). After the narrow streets, the wide cleared space -
open to eyes from so many directions - was daunting. Ahead
and just to the left, was the front of the church, facing directly onto
the square. Other buildings were densely packed on all sides,
surrounding the Place with a large number of windows and
doorways. The square itself was empty, except for a small group
of bent women in bright shawls who, backs to the German, were working
their way up the three or four steps to the tiny porch at the front
doors. Nervously, the mounted sailor eased his horse back a
couple steps and looked around as best he could from that vantage.
The second scout eased up alongside him a couple minutes later.
"Was ist los?" The voice was so low as to be nearly a whisper.
"The Gendarmerie is there," the first one pointed, also quietly. The large roof was visible between other buildings just a single block
"Yes, I see it. The way must be down that street, and that one,
also," the other agreed. "They both look clear." They could
not see all the way down either street, as the one they were on did not
line up with either of the ones ahead.
Also, they were looking at the back of the building, not where it
fronted the street, so the locations of its doors remained
unclear. The three-story, hip-roofed structure was of masonry
construction, unlike just about every building they’d been riding down
past. In size, it easily dwarfed all around it.
"It looks like an old fort," said the scout, in an ominous observation.
A muffled clunk drew their eyes. The women were out of
sight. The noise had probably been the church door closing, but
it spooked them some, nonetheless. They craned their heads this
way and that, but neither made any move to enter the square.
Another set of sounds made them anxiously look over their
shoulders. It was the third scout and both his tone and question
duplicated the first one.
"Was ist los?" He even whispered it just as the other had.
The first two pointed this way and that. The newcomer made hmmm
noises as he sighted down the pointed fingers, but they all remained
right where they were. The horses looked about even as their
riders did. They were thirsty and, raising and lowering forelegs,
they worked their bits and wished their riders would hurry up and make
up their minds and find them some water.
Diagonally across the square, a wiry, grizzled man stared through a
grimy second-floor windowpane at the mounted men with vast
puzzlement. He was a cook at one of the cafes. With
breakfast done and the noon meal hours away, he had retreated to his
tiny rented room for a bit of a nap, and a bit more of a nip. He
was already chasing one glass of Green Izarra with another as he
blinked and squinted and turned his head this way and that, just to see
if the non-suches would go away. When instead one became two
became three, he decided it called for another drink. Most things
Not far away, far more alert eyes studied the Teutonic
Roland had spotted them first, seven blocks up. He and Rinaldo of
Montalban had been preparing for to enter the lists. The schedule
had been cast aside and Rinaldo had been dispatched to marshal the rest
of the paladins. Meanwhile, Roland stalked their
prey. This was easily done, because the house fronts concealed a
warren of spaces and tracks within each block. Namo of Bavaria
and Salomon of Brittany had arrived shortly thereafter. It had
been Namo who had gotten close enough to hear them speak, though the
debate as to if it really could be Deutsch had lasted for several
blocks. Ogier the Dane showed up next and he was the one who
pointed out the scabbards on each horse. The paladins all had to
see this for themselves, as it was so far beyond precedent as to verge
on fantasy. It was still regarded as unproven, as some had begun
on the off-side of the horses and had not worked their way back to a
good enough position to see for themselves.
While they spied on the Germans, Malagigi the Enchanter arrived with
the truly electrifying news that there was an entire army just like
these strangers further up the hill and coming right this way.
Next, Florismart sprinted in so out of breath that it took him a full
ten seconds to gasp out the same news. (NOTE 5)
"Maybe they’re a procession," Roland offered.
"Maybe," said Ogier, doubt clear in his voice.
"They ARE heading for the cathedral," Salomon conceded.
The others nodded. The entire town turned out for the annual
Fête Dieu procession on the Place de la Roncière.
The paladins stealthily moved to good spots ahead of the strangers, on
the downhill side of the open square at the front of the
cathedral. If this was some new feast day ritual, they did not
want to miss a moment of it. Yesterday, they knew, had been the
feast day of St. John, The Baptist, while today was exactly six months
away from Christmas itself. Whatever it was, the men on horses
had stopped at the uphill side entrance, and gone no further.
"They’re waiting for the others," concluded Rinaldo. It made
perfect sense. The pastor made everyone line up and wait, too,
before they started for the cathedral.
---- Dawn + 180 Minutes, bridge of Strassburg, course (changing), speed
"Here they come," Captain Siegmund said, as the lookout reports began
to come in. The count was up to eight with more sure to follow.
The fog had eased and the schooners were becoming visible, their sails
standing above the last low veils that flirted with the waves.
"Yes," replied Commodore von Hoban. "Let us advance on them,
before they can disperse."
"Ahead Standard," Siegmund ordered. "Make turns for 15 knots."
---- Dawn + 180 Minutes, bridge of Nottingham Star, course (changing),
speed 10 knots
The channel between St. Pierre and I’ile aux Chiens opens to the sea
generally to the north and also to the southeast. Von Hoban had
put the AMC on the north side because its larger silhouette would
nonetheless be a non-warship one, should those on the northern shore
catch sight of her. Von Hoban also hoped that any who sighted
Strassburg might see her as an escort for the old (converted) liner..
"Sir, Strassburg has hoisted ‘15 knots, Immediate Execute.’"
"Very well, acknowledge," replied LT Lionel. "Helm, 15 knots."
That bell meant nothing much to the modern cruiser. For the
former RN AMC, though, it was about all she had to give.
"Steady as she goes," he ordered. The Kommodore’s instructions
had been to fan out to better block egress from the channel. The
ships began to diverge.
The forward six-incher had been repaired and the aft one should
look operable from a distance. Still, thought Lionel, he hoped it
would not come to that. He looked at the armed sailors that were
most conspicuously posted at the rail. They should be enough to
convince a few score fishermen, he hoped, especially with Strassburg
---- Dawn + 180 Minutes, bridges of Rostock and Kolberg, course
(changing), speed 20 knots
Like Siegmund, Westfeldt and Dahm both watched as more schooners began
to emerge from the channel from St. Pierre. Their light cruisers
were advancing to sit astride the southeastern exit. Their guns
were manned and ready. Their orders were not to shoot anyone
unless they really needed to. Better, von Hoban had ordered, to
simply ram any who refused to heave to and be boarded.
One would be enough, the Kommodore had said, but none would be better
It was good they were backed by the u-boats, thought Dahm
privately. The submariners’ own orders were not to be seen if at
all possible, but they were to make absolutely sure that no leakers got
by to sound the alarm.
"Sir, some of the fishermen seem to be turning back."
"Very well," Dahm replied. "Let them."
This had been expected. It was even tidier that way.
"That makes them the Erzherzog’s problem," Dahm added, "and not ours."
The more that turned back the better, Dahm thought. Both light
cruisers were so undermanned just now as to make any game of tag with
scattering fishing boats a bit dicey.
"Sir, Rostock, 18 knots."
Dahm frowned, having expected the order to be to slow sharply. Westfeldt must have decided a bit of a bow wave would increase their
"Very well. Helm, 18 knots."
---- Dawn + 184 Minutes, Cathedral
Gommel saw the cathedral was just ahead and then caught sight of the
three mounted scouts.
"Sir, began the most senior of the three, the Gendarmerie is right
there, one block ahead."
Gommel took a long moment to scan the area, which seemed remarkably
devoid of life.
Across the way, the arrival of still another horseman called for
another glass of Green Izzara. When the rest of Force Bruno
reined up at the corner, he grabbed for the bottle.
"Well done. It was correct to stop here." Decision time.
This represented a change of plan, but either street might be blocked
just beyond their sight. One thing he could not risk was his
mounted force getting stuck at a barricade in plain sight of the
windows of the Gendarmerie.
The paladins practically held their breath when the Rue had become
crowded with horsemen.
"They’re all getting off the horses," whispered Florismart.
"And they’re all lining up," said Rinaldo, hopefully. From there,
the strange group of men would have the full length of the Place for
their procession to the Cathedral.
"Sacre bleu!" Roland blurted. Uttering that expression
would have had certain consequences under most other conditions but not
this one, when the rifles came out.
And rifles they were, unmistakably, and not outsized crucifixes, not
pennants, not staffs bearing silken images of saints. The men
formed up and entered the Place, alright, but their procession did not
turn left towards the Cathedral. Instead, the men began marching
directly at the paladins’ position. It was Roland who made the
prompt and militarily correct decision to retreat in the face of
superior force. There was no dissent.
---- Dawn + 185 Minutes, Gendarmerie
The gendarme was at the desk inside the entryway, writing a
letter. Trying to, anyway.
His partner from the morning rounds had gone up the stairs to the
living quarters on a personal errand of his own. He had snagged a
cuff on a rough crate slat and torn the material and dislodged a brass
button. Presumably, he was attempting to effect repairs, or
seeking help from one of the others up there. As for himself, his
baby sister had been widowed in February, leaving her with three
children in their teens. He had been struggling with her latest
missive ever since it had arrived on the packet boat two days
ago. He figured that gave him a week and, judging from his
progress so far, he’d need every hour of it.
The daughters were distraught, of course, but the son was
vengeance-minded. He gave thanks that the lad was the youngest
and, since he was just thirteen, the war would surely be won long
before he could be called to serve as his father had. He had
never married and was now guiltily grateful for it, as his sons would
surely now all have rifles in their hands.
Revenge was a terrible burden for a boy to bear. It could easily
crush him, but the gendarme had formed a plan to save him. The
question was how to convince his sister, who had so recently lost her
husband, to give up her son. To him. Here.
The newness of the islands, the fishing, and the hard work here would
occupy him, divert him.
If nothing else, it would keep him safe from ....
A gaggle of smudged-faced boys, hardly half his nephew’s age, cascaded
noisily into the entryway. Their running feet had all been bare,
so their approach on the ground had been quiet. Well, until they
entered and ....
It was another one of their games, though today’s was an especially
noisy one. They had been trappers and Indians last week, or cow
herders, or something. He thought it had been knights in armor
earlier this week. Also, they rarely came here! Their
mothers would ....
"Fifty of them!"
"They have guns!"
"Rifles," an older one corrected, and looked back out the door, licking
his lips as he did so.
The gendarme blinked. The cold correction was the first tangible
clue that something might indeed be wrong; he’d known these boys since
diapers and their fantasy worlds were consensus ones. The oldest
was not yet eight, and his expression was worried as he gazed
out. The man looked at the others; they looked terrified.
The youngest was in tears. Something had scared them for
real. He stood up. Guns? His belt with holster was on
the tree in the corner.
"If this is some kind of a prank," he began, but stopped
suddenly. There had been something at the window down the long
corridor that extended the full width of the building. What the
His heart pounded in his chest as he strode the five long paces
alongside the broad up staircase to the wide-open front door. He
leaned to look out, then snapped back like a mongoose from a cobra
He grabbed the door, wasting three precious seconds kicking at the
doorstop, clumsy with emotion. The slamming door reverberated
through the building better than any alarm bell.
"To arms! To arms!" The gendarme shouted up the staircase
and heard startled cries and then the sound of feet. Suddenly, he
realized that there were seven cod-belly-white little faces staring at
"The basement! Now!" The small down staircase was around
the corner, at the junction of the main corridor. "Get down
there, behind something, and STAY there! Go!" He shooed
them to the stairs.
---- Dawn + 187 Minutes, Gendarmerie
Well, so much for surprise, thought Gommel, disgustedly from atop the
one remaining horse. The uniformed figure who’d been visible for
a second as he struggled to slam shut the door had clearly had a pistol
in one hand. Well, maybe they had used up all their luck just
getting this far before discovery. In any case, this was why
they’d brought fire axes along.
The front door looked substantial, and there was a tall metal fence in
front of it. The gate was open, but its location would be quite
well-known to those within. All the ground floor windows,
however, were invitingly full length.
"Ax men forward!" Gommel shouted, and turned to find his petty officers.
"Schmidt, through there," he ordered pointing to a window on the left.
"Felder, take yours through there. These were to the right. Schnell!"
Right this instant, perhaps only one man in there was armed, and with
only a hand gun. Give them even one single full minute, and there
could be a dozen behind those masonry walls armed with rifles.
"I want two volleys," Gommel called out. "Stein, the door. Everyone else, aim for the windows."
The assault teams started forward.
"Ready! Aim! Fire!"
---- Dawn + 187 Minutes, Place de la Roncière
Well, thought LT Siegfried, this was the place, his objective. He
was not sure how he’d gotten here, but here he was.
He had tried to follow Gommel - he truly had! - but he had gone wrong
somewhere. Only staying oriented on the church steeple had kept
them from getting totally lost in this maze. Things were much
simpler at sea, thought the young leutnant for about the tenth time
since coming ashore. The dull ache of driving his ship onto a
rocky beach was fading as the muscle memories of equestrian-ship were
returning. The horse was young and eager - a joy to ride - though
a bit of a busy-body. The brown neck kept going this way and
that, as flower pots and open crates were so very interesting. One particularly fragrant window bouquet beckoned as Siegfried waited
for his men to form up, and he sidled sideways a few steps towards it.
The motion caught the attention of a table of old men across the
way. They were nursing slender glasses of deep red vino as they
once again lamented the failing catch and cursed the Newfoundlanders.
(NOTE 6) The initiator this morning had been
the discovery by one
of their members of still another maison left empty and falling to
ruin. The septuagenarian who had been most directly facing inland
suddenly paused in mid-rant to stare. The others then turned to
see what had drawn his interest so.
What they saw was Siegfried busily scanning the rooflines for
antennae. This was the real underlying reason for Group Caesar
driving directly to this Place, the home of all the government
officers. The Erzherzog had stated that, given the presence of
Western Union atop the cables, there was little likelihood of a
wireless facility but, if one were here, this is where it would
be. The young leutnant had not spotted any but was taking
advantage of the opportunity to take another, more careful visual sweep.
The gendarmes were at a different café and, in any case, were
both facing the harbor. Their batons were on empty chairseats
beside them and their attention was on the sails of a fishing
schooner. It had been one of the last to head out and now, for
some reason, it seemed to have turned back.
"A storm, perhaps?"
"Perhaps, yes, but there is nothing there that I can see."
"A sickness, maybe?"
"Hmmm. Or perhaps ...."
He didn’t finish that guess. The distant boom of the Gendarmerie
door was almost below the threshold of sound. But not
quite. It was not that something had been dropped, as the echoes
were wrong. It had been a door. Few buildings there had
doors like that. The others were on this Place and the cathedral,
and it had been none of them. They could see the former and the
latter was in a different direction.
No, it had been the Gendarmerie. And it had been slammed shut.
They were both rising from their chairs and reaching for their batons
when Gommel, three blocks away, gave his orders.
1 - Theodore Girardin would be wounded much
more seriously on October
16, 1916 when a grenade exploded at his feet. Theodore would
survive the war. George Girardin, his brother, would not, being
killed on June 2, 1918. The first to lead the way to France was
Reserve Lieutenant Eugène Benâtre, age 53, commanding the
mobilized 32-man reserve company in St. Pierre - picture of group
Sadly, Benâtre would also be the very first to die, being killed
near Sainte Menehould at the head of that same company (leaving wife
and ten children). The first person born in St. Pierre (Le
Premier Enfant de Saint–Pierre) to be killed was Paul Daygrand, on
February 27, 1915. He was a sergent who would have been 19 on
March 7; the memorial service was held in St. Pierre on March 17,
1915. Thus, only two of the ~100 deaths had yet to be suffered
Collectively, Miquelon, 1915 population <4,000, would send about 500
men to fight in France and one out of every five died. Though
many left to join the conflict in small groups and even as individuals,
the major departures were as follows:
- 1914, August 4 - LT Eugène Benâtre, with the mobilized
reserve company (32),
- 1915, February 2 - Class 15" (1915) - about 350 - men 20 - 42,
- 1915, May 29 - Class 16" (1916) - 25 young men
- 1916, January 8 - Class 17" (1917) - 20 young men
2) The word schwerpunkt resists exact
translation, though the following
English approximations are often offered: center of gravity,
organizational focus, and point of main effort. Here, the two KM
leutnants meant it in an elitism sense, in that Siegfried was making
the facetious claim that his force was in such a role as a matter of
3) Sumpfhühn’s actual rank is
translates as senior leading seaman. The USN has a leading seaman
rank, but not this one, nor the next one up the chain:
Matrosen-Stabsobergefreiter. I have used what I think is
the closest equivalent title: third-class petty officer. Unless I
get swamped with refutations, this is how I’ll interpret this rating.
4) They were on the (present-day) Rue de
Jacques Carter where it
debouches onto the Place before the Cathedral. They had seen no
street signs, there being very few as directions have always been given
by turns at the names of each maison (which bore the name of the
6) The Newfoundland legislature passed a bill
in 1904 that barred the
export of live bait. The intent had been to reduce the
competition from St. Pierre - Miquelon fishing. It had succeeded
in that, and the consequences on the French islands were
devastating. In fact, that law was the primary reason for the
decline in catch, population, and prosperity described in previous