Deleted Scenes

Explore this collection of supplementary scenes not included in The Salt Man novel.

Use the drop-down links in this section to browse each deleted scene.

Summer 1852 – incident when McEwans are getting established on their Perth County farm

After bells were attached around their necks, the cow and sheep roamed at large to graze during the day, but at night were penned up to protect them from wolves. Usually they found their way home as evening approached, but one June night AnneMarie, the cow, did not return home.

“She’s probably dilly dallying in some patch of sweet grass in the forest,” Mother said.

“I’ll take John and George to find her,” Peter said. They had only gone a little way into the forest when Peter realized George had already wandered off.

“George get back here!” Peter called, trying to stay calm. George had been right beside him only a moment ago, but as an adventuresome three-year-old he almost needed to be kept on a leash. “George! George!” Peter called, his voice muffled by the tall trees. He didn’t want to move too far, so with a firm grasp on John’s hand he began expanding his search in ever-widening circles from where he’d last seen George.

Night was falling quickly, but Peter dared not leave the forest to seek help in case George appeared. Father and Glenn would soon be in from the fields. Surely they’d come looking for them. “George! We’re over here!” he continued calling, his voice becoming hoarse.

The darkening shadows began playing tricks on Peter’s imagination, and he thought he saw the yellow eyes of wolves peering at him from the dense foliage. Was that a growl he heard from the underbrush? His palms sweaty, he held John’s hand even tighter as they continued their search. The night sounds he usually loved — owls hooting, crickets chirping, frogs croaking —reached a crescendo. How would George ever hear him above the din?

“Peter!” Hearing his name, he jerked his head around and saw two torches bobbing toward him in the twilight.

“Over here,” he called to Father and Glenn.

“We’ve come to help you look for AnneMarie. Where’s George?” asked Father.

“He wandered off.”

“What? How could you let that happen? Where have you looked?”

“One minute he was right beside me and the next thing I knew he was gone. I’ve just looked close to here – I didn’t want to go too far in case he came back.”

“You and John stay here, and Glenn and I will look for him,” Father said, handing Peter a torch.

Exhausted with worry, angry with himself for not keeping a better eye on George and frustrated that the dark of night was sabotaging their attempts to find him, Peter sat on the forest floor with John on his lap, telling him stories of their life in Scotland to keep their fear at bay. Every time he heard a twig snap, he waved his torch to fend off the night creatures, the dire prophesies of his boyhood friend Dougie about wolves and bears echoing in his mind.

Just then Peter heard the growl of a large animal. Terrified, he held John even tighter and scanned the dark forest beyond the torch light, ready to run if he saw the beast. They jumped when a shot ring rang out, followed by the thud of something heavy hitting the forest floor. “Shhhhh,” Peter said to John, “Tis only Father catching a fat rabbit for our dinner.”

Peter didn’t know whether it was a rabbit or a deer or a bear that fell, but the one thing he knew for certain was that he had to get John to safety. With the torch in one hand, he scooped his little brother under his other arm and began to run toward the house.

“Peter!” his father called.

“Over here! I heard the shot and I thought John would be safer in the house. Is everything all right?”

In the gloaming Peter could just make out Father and Glenn as they emerged from the woods, with Father carrying George fast asleep in his arms and Glenn holding a torch aloft to light their way.

“You’ve found him!”

“He was curled up asleep in the long grass by the brook,” Father said. “We were not a moment too soon as a black bear was eyeing him up. Such a close call, yet George slept through the whole thing.”

“We’ll come back for the bear’s carcass,” Father said. “We’ll make some bear stew, and its hide will make a fine rug to warm our feet this winter. We were lucky tonight to find George in time, but let this be a lesson to us all. This is a wild land, and if we want to survive we must always be vigilant and watch out for one another.”

The light from the rising moon silhouetted AnneMarie sauntering back to the barn, blissfully unaware of all the commotion she had caused. “You’ll make us a very good roast someday,” Peter heard Father mutter under his breath.
1852 - Women’s work on the farm

More details than in the book

Every morning the smell of fresh bread baking on the hearth reached them in the fields, then once Mother and Maggie cleared breakfast away they set about the household chores. Day in and day out they cooked huge meals to fuel the family, with breakfast alone including meat, potatoes or porridge, bread and jam, pie and tea.

From his vantage point in the fields, on laundry days Peter could see the women spending hours hauling and heating water, mixing in soap, and scrubbing, rinsing and hanging the clothes to dry. At least now Mother is only washing our clothes, instead of the endless loads she did for wealthy families when we lived in Carmunnock, Peter thought.

Loads of water were needed for Saturday bath days too, when the big tin bucket was filled with water and set to warm by the fire. The family shared the same bathwater, with the youngest bathing first and the oldest last.

Evenings saw Mother and Maggie making clothes and quilts and mending, as they took advantage of the last rays of sunshine to light their work.

Sundays were reserved for a visit to the nearby Roy’s Presbyterian Church near Russeldale, followed by an afternoon of much-needed rest— although on the farm there were never any truly restful days—most of the chores inside and out could not wait.
Summer 1852 – just before the storm

When they were working in the fields one day their neighbour Donald Murray, who lived a few concessions away, came calling. “We’d like to invite you to a party on Saturday at the swimming hole,” he said. “Bring a picnic and we’ll make a day of it. Father plays the violin so it will be a grand time.”

Peter looked expectantly at his father, who said, “We’ll be there. It’s time for us to take a break. We’ve worked hard to get our crops to this point, and we all deserve a day off.”

Peter ran to the house and shared the news with the others. With Saturday only two days away, Mother and Maggie set to work preparing food for the picnic including roast chicken, bread and wild blackberries they’d found while foraging in the forest.

When Saturday arrived, the family piled into the wagon. The meadows were splashed with colour from wild violets, daisies and buttercups, and weeping willows surrounded the swimming hole.

The boys couldn’t resist jumping into the cool, refreshing water that cleaned the summer’s dust from their skin. A giant tree limb overhung the pond, with a rope that swung over the water. Finally having the chance to feel like a kid again, Peter and the boys spent hours catapulting themselves over the water and landing with a splash as their whoops and cheers filled the afternoon.

As Peter watched Mother, Maggie and Bella sitting demurely on the grass with the other girls and women weaving daisy chains, he was reminded how grateful he was to be a boy. Feeling refreshed and energized from the swim, the children played hide and seek in the nearby forest, while the men discussed their crops and sipped ale under the shady trees.

After dinner, the McEwans bid farewell to their friends, loaded up the buggy and headed for home, unaware of the pending storm.
Harvest 1852

More details than in book

Nothing could have prepared the family for the grueling hours they would spend working from sunup to sundown in harvest season. While the men toiled in the fields, the women harvested the garden produce, and the younger children cared for the chickens and took noon meals out to the men in the fields.

As soon as the morning dew evaporated, the hired men began cutting the wheat, swinging the scythes through the tall grass and gathering it into stacks in the field where it dried for several days.

Once dried, the wheat was put into the barn for storage until threshing time. After threshing, they waited for a windy day to separate the wheat from the chaff, then gathered the grains of wheat.

Mother’s and Maggie harvested the the vegetables from the kitchen garden and took them to the root cellar, and gathered herbs into bundles that filled the house with aromatic scents. They spent long days over the hot stove pickling, jamming and preserving fruits and vegetables in tightly sealed jars. Later in the fall, when the harvest moon shone bright and a chill pierced the air, they cut the corn.

Father took the bags of grain to the mill and returned with the first bags of flour produced from their own fields of wheat. They felt a tremendous sense of accomplishment to have produced the flour that would help sustain them through the winter.

Next, it was time to slaughter the pigs which had grown to over two hundred pounds each since May. They layered some of the meat with salt and packed it in barrels, put some into a brine made of salt, maple sugar, saltpeter and water, and put the rest in the woodshed where it would stay frozen all winter.

Candles were made by melting, straining and pouring tallow into molds. The children put wicks into the molds and took them outside to cool and solidify. Once solid, they dipped the molds into boiling water to release the candles that would light up the dark nights for the coming year.

Lastly, they plowed the fields and covered them with manure to prepare the soil for spring planting. “It’s like putting the land to bed for the winter,” said Glenn. “Turning over the soil in autumn makes the leftover plant matter decay better. That’s because the soil temperature is higher than in late winter and early spring, so it has more time to decompose before spring planting.”

“It’s so disgusting,” Maggie complained when the smell of the newly laid manure that covered the fields drifted up to the house.

“Let’s hope we’ve done enough to keep us fed till next harvest,” Mother said.
Winter 1852 – Chores in the off-season

More details than in book

Peter learned the men filled their winter days repairing farm equipment, making furniture, putting the finishing touches on the house, and deciding what to plant the coming year. They made sure the animals had enough straw for bedding to stay warm, fed them, and chipped away the ice when the water in their troughs froze. Father’s reputation as a blacksmith had grown, and farmers in the region often stopped in for new tools, or just a good old chinwag.

“On days when the weather is fair, we hitch the horses to the bobsled and haul it out to the huge logs at the edges of the fields that we felled when we cleared the land,” Father said. “We chop the logs into manageable lengths, haul them onto the bobsled using long hooks, then store them in the woodshed till we have a chance to chop them into the right size for the fireplace.”

“That sounds like more fun that school,” Peter said.

“Tell you what lad, if your schoolwork is all caught up on the weekend you can help us haul and chop the logs.”

“Yes!” Peter said, anxious to distance himself from his stifling schoolwork which wasn’t doing him a bit of good as far as he could tell.

In keeping with their agreement with the Canada Company, the McEwans maintained the portion of the country road that bordered on their property. After a snowstorm Father hooked up the wedge-shaped wooden plow to the horse-drawn cart, its wheels replaced with runners for winter travel, and plowed through the snow drifts to keep the roads passable for travelers.

On crisp weekend mornings when the sun struggled to break through the gauzy, grey sky, Peter, Father, and Glenn set out to the forest to hunt for rabbits and deer. Having a delicious rabbit stew or venison roast made for a welcome change from bear and pork and helped to supplement their dwindling supplies.
Winter 1861 – Oil Springs at Lamont’s blacksmith shop

More details than in story

“Say Mr. Lamont, do you know our families go back many centuries?” asked Peter.

“The McEwans and the Lamonts?”

“Aye. On winter nights my father told us tales of the early Scottish clans. The first McEwan chief on record, Ewan of Otter, lived around 1200. The McEwan clan claimed they were descended from Prince Ánrothán, as did the MacLachlan, MacNeil, and Lamont clans.”

“No!” Lamont said, amazed that he might be related to Peter, albeit far back in history.

Settling into the story, Peter caught Lil’s eye and ordered them yet another drink. Even though the ale was going down like water, he was still having trouble keeping up with Lamont.

“Not only were they related, but three of these clans owned most of the District of Cowal. The McEwans lived on a strip of land along a sea loch off the Firth of Clyde called Loch Fyne, the Lamont Clan lived on the land to the south of them, and the MacLachlan Clan lived on the land to the north. So, our ancestors were neighbours.”
Fall 1865 – the first day of drilling for oil in Maitlandville

More details than in story

At noon they all took a break and traipsed the short distance down the road to the Maitlandville Hotel. As soon as they set foot in the door Peter knew it was a mistake. Sure, there was a place for hotels, and he liked a drink as well as the next man, but he didn’t want to set a precedent. Drinking had no place with the dangerous work they’d be doing.

“No beer or whisky or alcohol of any kind,” Peter said, prompting crestfallen looks on the men’s faces. “I don’t care what you do with your time at the end of the day, but you have to keep your wits about you on an oil field and I will not tolerate drinking during working hours.”

“It’s not exactly an oil field yet,” Tom said, a hint of sarcasm in his voice. “We just want to wet our whistles.”

“Wet them with water,” Peter said, not giving an inch. “Let’s order our meals so we can get back to work. By the way, Mr. Platt mentioned a man called Tiger Dunlop. Said he was well known around here. Have you ever heard of him?”.

“Aye, everyone’s heard of Tiger Dunlop,” Paul said, settling into his chair and his story. “He was born in Greenock, Scotland in the late 1700s.”

Peter interrupted. “Small world. “When we came to Canada our ship sailed from the port of Greenock.”

“Interesting,” Paul said, not impressed. “Anyway, back in ’26 John Galt and some other investors in England formed the Canada Company. The British government granted them 1,100,000 acres of land called the Huron Tract to sell to settlers. The agreement was that any money the Canada Company spent to build harbours, bridges or roads would be credited to the purchase price.”

After pausing to take a bite of his dinner, Paul continued. “Galt wanted the Huron Tract to be an agricultural settlement, with farmers buying plots of land. He set up his headquarters in Guelph and hired his friend, Dr. William Tiger Dunlop, as Warden of the Forest.”

“Ah, finally Tiger makes an appearance in your long-winded story,” Tom said.

Ignoring Tom’s jab, Paul continued. “Galt sent Tiger to blaze a trail from Guelph west through the wilderness to locate a proposed town. Thanks to surveys of the Lake Huron coast done by Captain Bayfield they knew they wanted to locate the town at the mouth of the Maitland River, which was known as the Menesetung River in those days.”

“Pass me another chunk of bread,” Paul called out, enjoying the attention he was receiving as he spun his tale. “Tiger took an engineer, a surveyor, and fifteen woodsmen with him to cut the trail that eventually became the Huron Road. They made it to the site of the town we now call Goderich on May 27, 1827. When Galt arrived on June 29, that became known as Founder’s Day.”

“Hooray,” cheered Tom. “Now can we get on with our dinner?”

“Hold on, Tom, that’s only the beginning,” Paul said. Peter was impressed with Paul’s recall of the facts and realized how valuable a man with such a mind for details would be on his team.

“Next Tiger built a log cabin overlooking the lake and called it his castle. It was right where Harbour Park is located now. A few years later Tiger and his brother, Captain Robert Dunlop, built a new house on land they named Gairbraid which overlooked the Menesetung River valley. It’s just up the hill from here,” Paul said, pointing in the general direction. “It was said that Gairbraid was the centre of life in Colborne township, and to all who passed by Tiger would say, ‘No man must go from my house either hungry or dry.’”

“Sounds like my kind of man,” Tom said, mopping up every last crumb on his plate and still wishing he had a mug of ale.

“Goderich became the headquarters where land was distributed for the west end of the Huron Tract,” continued Paul. “After Galt, Thomas Mercer Jones became superintendent of the Canada Company. He moved to Goderich and lived with his family in that big house at the top of the hill leading to the harbour.”

“Back to Tiger. Do you know how he got that name?” Peter asked.

“I’ll take this one,” Keppel said, resting his arms on the trestle table. “Legend has it that Tiger was a Scottish military surgeon who served in India. While boating down the Ganges River a member of his party seized a tiger cub. Furious, the cub’s mother lunged at the boat. Thinking quickly, Tiger threw his snuffbox into the tigress’s face, then killed her with his sword. And from that day on he was known as Tiger.”

“It sounds like Tiger was quite a man,” Peter said. “Now let’s do him proud and find some oil in this valley.”
Fall 1865 – at the drill site

Peter’s first priority was to talk to Tom. When he returned to the drill site in Maitlandville Tom, Keppel and Paul were gathered around the rig, idle for the moment until it was time to bail the cuttings.

“Tom, a word please,” Peter said, motioning Tom to join him in the doghouse.

“Sit down,” Peter said, pulling up a chair. ”You’ve been a big help in getting this rig set up and the drilling underway, but now that things are running smoothly I won’t be needing your help anymore.”

Tom’s eyes sparked with anger as he jumped to his feet. “Wait just a minute! Now that you’ve almost hit pay dirt you decide I’m not good enough for the job anymore? I’ve worked like a dog for months in every kind of nasty weather, and this is the thanks I get?”

“Hold on,” Peter said, rising to his feet too so he could talk eye-to-eye with Tom. “For one thing, this is not about you being good enough. You’ve done excellent work. Secondly, months and months of drilling lay before us before we stand a chance of hitting a pocket of oil…if we find oil at all.”

“What’s wrong with Keppel and Paul? Why can’t they go instead of me?”

“Keppel is leaving, he’s going back to his family farm. At this stage of the drilling process I only need one man to work with me, and I’ve chosen Paul because of his mechanical aptitude. If we strike oil and more work becomes available you’ll be the first one I call. In the meantime, Mr. Platt says he has lots of work and would welcome you back at his mill. Here are your wages till the end of the week. There’s a bonus there too.”

Tom grabbed the money and slammed the doghouse door behind him.

After their heated exchange, a feeling of unease slithered down Peter’s spine as he watched Tom stomp away.
1867 – Peter visits Christie en route to his oil drilling job in Bothwell

“You’re going where and for how long?” Christie asked when Peter told her he was going to Bothwell. “I thought things were going well in Goderich, and Goderich is much closer to Seaforth than Bothwell.”

“Aye, things are going well in Goderich, and there’s a great future there in the salt industry.”

“Then why are you leaving?”

“I’m not leaving for good. My plan is to go back there once I’ve saved enough money to start my own salt works. Maybe the years of being an independent oil driller spoiled me, but I need to be my own boss.”

“So, your plan is…”

“First I’ll go to Bothwell and strike oil and then I’ll go back to Goderich with my pockets bulging with money.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but it seems to me that between money you get from the wells you still own in Oil Springs, and the money you made drilling and setting up the salt works in Goderich, you should be in good financial shape.”

“You’re astute, but as a businesswoman you also know that more money has to come in than go out to be profitable. I need to get an update from Bear in Oil Springs, but the wells there aren’t producing like they used to and we should probably shut them down. And you’re right, I was paid well in Goderich, but it takes a fair amount of cash to help keep my family’s farm afloat. So you see, it doesn’t leave me much to invest in a new business.”

“You are so kind to help your family the way you have these past years.”

“When I left the farm, it put a lot of responsibility on my brothers. By rights, I should still be on the farm helping, but since I chose a different path in life the next best thing I can do is provide enough cash for them to lead a comfortable life.”

“I love you,” Christie blurted out, then her hand flew to her mouth in disbelief that she’d uttered those words. “I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?”

“It’s not proper for a lady to say those words. They just slipped out.”

“I don’t mind a bit,” Peter said, taking her hands in his. ”I’ve been feeling the same about you.”

“Peter, what are we to do? Now you’re going even further away, and it may be months before we see one another.”

“I know lass. I’m trying to get myself established so we can start building our future.”

It was the first time Peter had mentioned a future for them. Did he mean they would see one another more often? Or did he mean get married? Not wanting to jinx the moment or put him on the spot, Christie changed the subject.

“So, how are we going to see each other?”

“With Seaforth right on the Buffalo & Lake Huron train route I’ll get back here as often as I can to see you.”

“I guess that will have to do for now,” she said, secretly wishing he’d propose on the spot and they could get married right away, if that was his intention.

“I have to leave now.”

“We seem to always be saying goodbye.”

“I see a lot more hellos than goodbyes in our future.”

“I like the sound of that,” Christie said, noting Peter used the word future again. “Now get to Bothwell and make your fortune.”

Peter grabbed her hand and whisked her to one corner of the shop out of view from the window. “If I’m not going to see you for a while, I’d at least like a proper goodbye,” he said as they kissed. Taking a second to come up for air, Peter said, “Did you notice, lass, how well our bodies fit together? It’s like we’re two pieces of a puzzle coming together.”

“Aye,” Christie said, reluctant to break the embrace, not wanting the moment to end. A rattling of the doorknob by an impatient customer broke the spell.

Trying to wipe the smiles from their faces, they recovered their composure.

“Good day Mrs. Smith,” Christie said, opening the door for the customer as Peter discreetly slipped out and set off on a run to catch the next stagecoach.

Once in Mitchell, Peter hired a horse and as he reached the laneway to his family’s farm he saw his father and brothers coming in from the fields. Even though his father had become stooped over from his years of farm labour on the farm, he was pleased to see the paralysis in his arm wasn’t holding him back from working in the fields.

“Peter!” John and George called. After a round of welcoming handshakes, Peter’s father did his best to greet him. Although his speech was not perfect, Peter could understand the few halting words he said.

Another joyful reunion awaited him when he came into the house, with Mother, Bella and Mary fussing over his arrival.
February 1871 - Peter jumps off a train and fractures his skull

“I can’t stay here any longer,” Peter said, attempting to get out of bed.

“Peter, for God’s sake man, you have a fractured skull and a broken arm, lay down,” Peter’s cousin Joseph said.

Before starting the drilling project in Mitchell, Peter had decided to take a quick train trip to Ratho to attend the wedding of a cousin who was visiting from Scotland.

“Joseph, tell me again how I ended up in this mess,” Peter said, holding his aching head with his one good hand, the other immobilized by a cast.

“Your brother John’s been investigating and as near as he can figure you were the victim of foul play.”

“Go on.”

“I guess you don’t remember much because your brain took a good beating, so here’s what we think happened. Apparently, you asked the conductor to stop the train at Ratho where there used to be a train station. The conductor refused because the train was already running thirty minutes late and it was going very fast – about forty-five miles an hour. Since you were running late too and the wedding was about to begin, you decided to jump off the train. After that we’re not sure whether your scull was fractured when you jumped off the train or when you were robbed.”

“Robbed?”

“Yes. When the train was passing between Ratho and Bright, a farmer’s daughter saw two men standing on the ladder of the rear car. After that someone saw one of the men walking up the track, lingering for a while at the spot where they found you lying in the ditch sometime later. There was only about seven dollars in silver in your pocket, but John thinks you likely had about two hundred dollars with you because you had taken money out of the bank as a wedding gift from the McEwan family. That’s why we think you were robbed.”

“Well, the money’s gone now, but I’m telling you Joseph I need to get moving. I’m scheduled to be in Mitchell drilling a salt well. And what about Christie? Does she know what happened to me?”

“John let Christie know, and he sent a letter to the investors in Mitchell to tell them about your accident. As soon as you’ve recovered enough to travel by train, John’s going to come to accompany you home.”

Battling an aching head and immobilized arm, Peter lay in bed a few more days under Joseph’s watchful eye, but as soon as he felt well enough to stand on his own, he insisted Joseph send a telegram to John to ask him to come to get him.

Nauseous and plagued by dizzy spells on the train, Peter was grateful to have John by his side.

“I hope you’re feeling well enough for the tongue-lashing Christie’s going to give you when you get home,” John said.

“I’m not looking forward to that,” Peter said, closing his eyes and losing himself to the rhythm of the train.

When Christie saw Peter and John coming up the laneway, she rushed to Peter’s side. She had prepared a speech pointing out how foolish Peter was to jump off the train, and did he want to make her a widow before they were even married a year? But her anger melted when she saw the pallor of Peter’s face, the unsteadiness of his gait, and his useless arm in a cast. She put her arm around his waist and helped him into the house.

“What am I going to do with you?” Christie muttered as she settled Peter into his favourite chair.

“I know, lass. I guess I’m not sixteen any more.”

“Will you please promise me you’ll try to be more careful? You always seem to be falling or tripping or finding new ways to hurt yourself.”

“I promise,” Peter said, pulling Christie onto his lap with his good arm.

Christie was able to keep Peter home for a week, but despite her protests and threats after that he was off to Mitchell to drill the salt well.
Summer 1874 – Point Farm Hotel

Although Peter had promised Christie he’d try to stay closer to home, work obligations kept cropping up that took him further afield. When he was home, they made the most of their time together. On one such day, when a light summer breeze brushed through the wild Queen Anne’s lace growing by the roadside, they attended the grand re-opening of the new Point Farm Hotel north of Goderich which had been rebuilt after the original hotel burned down.

Said to be the finest in all the land, the new hotel cost twenty-five thousand dollars to rebuild, had two hundred guest rooms and a dining room that seated three hundred. From the hotel’s seventy-five-foot tower some claimed you could see across Lake Huron to Michigan on a clear day.

The McEwans found a shady spot on the lake bank to enjoy their picnic. They marvelled that over two thousand people had flocked to the opening, some brave enough to wade into Lake Huron even though the water had not yet shed its winter chill.

As the sun began to fade, Peter and Christie packed up, wanting to be back in Goderich before dark, wishing they had more time to spend together like this.
1902 – Dinner at the Sunset Hotel

“Let’s go out for dinner,” Christie said one summer evening. “William Smith—you know him, he’s the man who manages the Menesetung Park Hotel north of town—has just opened the Sunset Hotel and I’ve heard the food there is delicious.”

When she and Peter arrived at the hotel at the corner of Britannia Road and Essex Street, Smith gave them a tour. “We have electric lights and indoor plumbing,” Smith boasted, beaming like a proud father. Christie noted the fine quality of the rugs and couches throughout the three-storey, eighty-six room hotel, but that paled in comparison to the luxury of the dining room. There the crystal sparkled and the silverware gleamed against the backdrop of the crisp, white linen tablecloths as a string quartet played quietly in the background.

Looking at the menu, Christie leaned across the table and whispered, “What should we order?”

“I don’t even know what some of these French words mean,” Peter said. “Let’s just both order roast beef dinners.”

“Agreed,” she said, knowing they’d be in safe territory without having to experiment with mysterious delicacies like tarte au lapin or trout meunière amandine.

While awaiting their meal, they sipped on the wine their waiter had recommended which helped them relax in the rarified atmosphere. As the sun began to set the chandeliers came on, their shafts of light dancing around the room.

After savouring a Scottish dessert called cranachan—a tasty concoction with layers of oats, raspberries, cream, whisky, and honey—Peter and Christie took their leave feeling full and content as Ned trotted the buggy home through the silent streets.

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Reviews

As a fan of historical fiction based on true events, this novel captivated me.

Barbara Haworth-Attard, winner of Arthur Ellis Award

Anne Kay has written a well-researched volume on one of the most important, yet largely forgotten periods of Southwestern Ontario’s economic and social development: the nineteenth Salt Boom. Kay has crafted a vividly written account of the oil and salt industries centred around the life of Peter McEwan—a fascinating, colourful character and one of the foremost figures involved in these businesses. General readers and more learned types with an interest in the area will enjoy this fast-paced book. The Salt Man is a wonderful contribution to our region’s history.

David Yates, author of ‘Out of the Woods and Out of the Blue,’ and winner of the Governor General’s Award for Community History Programming

Two fascinating but little-known histories from Ontario in the 1860s are the scaffolding of this novel of a young man’s adventures and discoveries, based on the life of the author’s great-great-grandfather, Peter McEwan. His adventures begin when he heads for the Southwestern Ontario village of Oil Springs, one hour southwest of London, where oil was first produced, refined, and sold as illuminating oil for lamps in 1858. It was a first in North America.

With vivid characters, The Salt Man captures the oil frenzy of 1862 when Canada’s first gusher was struck. The quest for oil later takes McEwan to Goderich, where he discovers the first rock salt in Canada. Swept up in the tale of the adventures, the reader absorbs the true historical facts, carefully researched for accuracy in a truly transformative time.

Patricia McGee, author of ‘The Story of Fairbank Oil, Four Generations of the Family Producing Oil Longer Than Anyone in the World’

In her novel The Salt Man, Anne Kay unearths the fascinating tale of the early days of the oil industry in Oil Springs and Goderich’s famed salt industry with her sensitive portrayal of the McEwan family and their struggle to succeed in 19th-century Southwestern Ontario.

Ian Gillespie – journalist, writer and podcast host

An interesting, well researched historical novel based on the author’s ancestry, that brings to life a fascinating part of Ontario history.

Barbara Haworth-Attard, winner of Author Ellis Award

The Salt Man is a fascinating tale based on Peter McEwan’s quest for adventure in Southwestern Ontario. Admirably researched and written by his great-great-granddaughter, The Salt Man traces McEwan’s journey from his humble beginnings in Carmunnock, Scotland as an eleven-year-old blacksmith’s son to his heady days as a key figure in the oil drilling industry, and the discovery of salt in Goderich and beyond. A must-read for anyone interested in Ontario history in the 1800s, or in the discovery and production of oil and salt.

Howard Pell, author of Lives Lived and award-winning poet

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Deleted Scenes

Explore this collection of supplementary scenes not included in The Salt Man novel.

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Bayfield

Goderich

Kincardine

London

Port Stanley

Mitchell

Petrolia

Sarnia

Stratford

Reviews

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