The Hudson’s Bay Company—A Tribute to Its
Officers—Intrepid Scotch Voyageurs—Daily
Paper a Year Old—Royal Hospitality of the
Factors—Lord Strathcona’s Foundation
for His Immense Fortune—The
First Cat in the Rockies—Indian
Humor and
Imagery.
Before the advent of the railways, the Hudson’s Bay Company was the
biggest institution between the Great Lakes and the Pacific Ocean. Its
tercentenary was recently celebrated in right royal style, as became the
importance of the event. It had posts all through the West, and it was
the great purveyor for the few scattered people in that illimitable
domain.
It is not my purpose to write a history of the Hudson’s Bay Company, but
to pay a tribute to the officers of that company as I knew them. They
were, scarcely without exception, either Scotch or of Scotch descent,
and whether in the Arctic circle, the broad plains, the northern
wilderness or in the growing western cities one was glad to meet them.
The MacTavishes, the Andersons, the Macfarlanes, the Macdougalls,
Macdonalds, Christies, McMurrays, Campbells, Hamiltons, Stewarts,
Sinclairs, Rosses, Cowans, Taylors, McKenzies, Fortescues, Bells,
Wattses, Balsillies, Aldous, Simpsons, Rankins, Grahams, Murrays,
McLeans, Hardistys, Clarkes, Belangers, Wilsons, Traills, Camsills and
others I cannot recall, formed a great group in my days, as their
forefathers did before them. In my day, the Commissioners were Messrs.
Donald A. Smith, Wrigley, C. J. Brydges and C. C. Chipman.
And with them, over a century and a half ago and since then, many of the
noted clansmen of the famous Scottish chiefs, whose fortunes were lost
at the memorable battle of Culloden in 1746, which extinguished the
hopes of the house of Stuart, afterwards came to Canada. They had
participated in that bloody engagement, and having lost all, and to
avoid the fierce persecutions which followed, fled to this country of
refuge. They were distinguished for heroic courage and daring
enterprise. Coming to Canada they at once sought employment in the
adventurous schemes of the fur traders of the Northwest. And yet:
“From the lone shieling of the misty island
Mountains divide us and the waste of seas,
Yet still the blood is strong, the heart is highland
And we in dreams behold the Hebrides.”
Intrepid Scotch Voyageurs.
This bold blood gave new vigor and additional energy to the affairs of
the traders. These men and their descendants were the intrepid voyageurs
who pushed their fortunes to the Saskatchewan and the Athabasca over a
century ago. The blood which flowed in the bands of Culloden is the
blood of those fearless Scotsmen who dared warring tribes and frozen
regions and unknown hardships, who discovered the Mackenzie River, who
first crossed the Rocky Mountains, and first planted the British flag on
the Arctic seas. In the veins of many _Bois Brules_ and _Metis_ girls on
the Red River flows the blood of the men who fought with Lochiel near
Inverness on the 15th April, 1746.
The vast region of British America is full of the unwritten traditions
of the daring exploits of these men through a wilderness of territory
larger than all Europe, and it only needs the glamor of the glittering
pen of a Scott to weave these wild annals into stories as fascinating as
Waverley, and as charming as the wonderful romances of Fenimore Cooper.
In old journals can be read how the great Cardinal Richelieu headed “The
Company of the Hundred Partners,” in 1637, engaged in the fur trade in
Canada, which company continued for thirty-six years, and which has had
successors continuously, till finally merged into the Great Hudson’s Bay
Company, which carries on its extensive operations at the present time.
So that the Red River, the Saskatchewan and the far-off Athabasca are
linked back to the days of Louis XIV in France, and to the great chief
and clans of Scotland who fought at Culloden, where the flag of the
Stuarts went down forever.
One can recall with pleasant memories the glorious gatherings of the
Hudson’s Bay men and their friends. When you met men from the Arctic
circle, from the Pacific coast, from the plains and the forests of the
great West, from all points of the compass—except the South—men who
had grown grey in the service, who had lived lonely but wonderful lives
amongst aborigines, you felt that no matter how much the policy of the
company in by-gone days might be criticized and condemned—for it’s
always the pioneer who gets the worst of it—you were meeting grand old
men. The slogan of the company was “Pro pelle cutem”—skin for skin—and
in all its dealings with the aboriginal world faith was always strictly
kept. That’s what guaranteed the safety of Hudson’s Bay men, wearing
Scotch caps and displaying the Union Jack in the dark days of the Sioux
massacre in Minnesota. That was the guarantee in the old Fort Garry days
that the goods purchased were just what they were represented to be.
That’s why the Hudson’s Bay Company and its faithful officials and
employees did not palm off cheap goods on the innocent _Metis_ or
Indians.
Hospitality was unbounded and they were as glad to see a visitor as the
wearied wanderer was to seek their comfortable quarters.
Mr. Hamilton, who was stationed ’way up north where he received his mail
only once a year, was a subscriber to the London _Times_ and, as he told
me, he had a morning paper every day in the year, his copy being exactly
one year old. He religiously read only one copy a day. He died in
Peterboro some years ago and his death was greatly regretted.
Joseph Hargrave’s “Red River” was a splendidly written book, now almost
forgotten. I remember him in Winnipeg, a cultured gentleman, who had
never before worn any foot covering but mossasins. I met him with his
first pair of leather boots, and he walked clumsily as an ox. But he
didn’t write with his feet.
Lawrence Clarke, of Prince Albert, was a host whose hospitality could
never be forgotten by those who enjoyed it. Johnny McTavish, after whom
I named my first boy, was everybody’s friend, John Balsillie, James
Anderson, Jim McDougall, Horace Belanger from Norway House on Lake
Winnipeg, whose laugh was the most infectious I ever heard—who can ever
forget them? And they are but a few of the army of Hudson’s Bay men, who
in days gone by wielded a great influence amongst the untutored people
of the land. Some of the names are familiar to the residents of many an
Ontario town, whither several of the factors of the Hudson’s Bay Company
retired at the close of their service to spend the evening of their busy
lives in peaceful dignity, always men of outstanding character in the
community. It was these men who laid the solid foundation of Lord
Strathcona’s immense fortune. Money was of no use to them in their
isolated homes and they entrusted their savings to “Donald A.” for
investment. This he faithfully did and it gave him a strong financial
standing. Credit, you know, is sometimes more useful than cash.
[Illustration: SOME EARLY TRADING POSTS OF THE HUDSON’S BAY COMPANY.]
The Tale of a Cat.
This is the history of the first cat ever brought into the farther
Northwest. The Indians were told it would catch mice and perform other
remarkable feats, and they at once concluded that it was a medicine
animal of great virtue, so they dubbed it, “the little tiger”. Pussy was
stationed at the Hudson’s Bay Post at Head mountain, and thither a band
of Blackfeet went to see the wonderful animal. It so happened that no
one was in the kitchen of the post when one of the Indians arrived, and
finding himself alone with the cat he quickly grabbed it and put it
under his robe. Lo, as was the custom in those days, (and perhaps in
these, too), wore no undergarments. Just at this moment one of the
employees of the company came in, and the Indian, fearing the cat would
squeal on him, firmly pressed his arm on its head. The cat naturally
resented this treatment, and its sharp claws were driven into the dusky
hide of its captor. The Indian didn’t exactly emulate the Spartan youth
who allowed the fox to eat out his vitals rather than be exposed, but he
tried to hard enough. As the cat scratched, the Indian’s face became
distorted and his body and disengaged arm went through such contortions
that induced the H. B. man to imagine he was ill.
“Are you sick?” asked the H. B. employee.
“No-n-no,” and just then the cat used his claws again. His arm went up
in the air and his body cavorted as if he had an attack of St. Vitus’
dance.
“Oh, yes, you must be,” said the white man with compassion.
“No, not ill”—and again the cat firmly drew its claws down the poor
fellow’s bleeding breast. More contortions followed and then the Indian
confessed, on condition that he would not be exposed for having stolen
the animal. Just at this juncture old Mr. Christie, afterwards chief
commissioner of the company, and who then was in charge of the post,
came upon the scene, and the Indian motioned the other officer not to
expose him. In doing so, he unfortunately squeezed the cat’s head again,
and Miss Pussy resented the familiarity by again clawing the Indian, who
gave another bound in the air, and went through his contortions while a
look of agony settled on his face.
“What is the matter with the poor fellow?” asked Mr. Christie
sympathetically. “Nothing,” was the employee’s answer, with a laugh.
“Oh, yes, the poor fellow is very ill. Get him some medicine. See him
now—see him,” said Mr. Christie, as the contortions continued. “Quick,
get him something—see him again!” for the Indian danced around like a
madman under the spur of the cat’s sharp claws. The employee laughed
immoderately, and Mr. Christie, enraged at such apparent heartlessness,
ordered the man to either get the medicine at once or leave the place.
And every little while the Indian would squeeze the cat’s head, and the
cat would scratch viciously, and then the Indian would jump vigorously,
while poor Mr. Christie stood by gazing pitifully on the sufferer.
Finally the employee explained that there was nothing the matter with
their acrobatic visitor that medicine could cure, but if Mr. Christie
would only let him have what was the matter with him instant relief
would come. A little perplexed over this statement, Mr. Christie
consented, and the Indian unfolded his robe and exhibited a beautifully
lacerated bosom—torn to pieces the full reach of the cat’s four paws.
Then the old gentleman laughed, and the employee laughed,—but the
Indian didn’t. He started for home pleased with his prize, but his torn
bosom became so painful that he revenged his sufferings by killing the
little tiger and making a war bonnet of its skin. And that is the
history of the first cat in the Rockies.
Indian Humor and Imagery
It is a pretty general belief that the Indian never laughs. This is
incorrect. The red man enjoys a joke as well as the white or black or
yellow, and his imagery is poetic.
When I visited Mekastino, Chief of the Bloods, (known as Red Crow), and
told him I had come to learn about the intended uprising of the Indians
in the West, who were charged with the proposed slaughtering of all the
whites in the Northwest, he smilingly asked:
“And if you believe this how dare you come here without a gun to defend
yourself?”
I nonchalantly replied, putting my hand over my upper vest pocket:
“Oh, I have something here that will kill any Indian I ever met.”
He, very interestedly, wanted to know what it was, and I produced a
lead-pencil. The whole tribe present laughed heartily when it was
translated to them and dubbed me “The Man with the Lead Pencil.”
Next time I met Red Crow was in Winnipeg on his way to Europe, whither
the Canadian Government had sent him and other chiefs for civilizing and
education. I took the band to an ice cream parlor and as he ate his
first dish, the chief called it “sweet snow” and said that on the next
fall of it he would send down all his squaws with baskets galore to
secure a plentiful supply.
In taking them to the theatre that night, the electric lights were
turned on; gazing up at them, he put his hands over his mouth, and
exclaimed, “Oh my, oh my, oh my, the white man is wonderful. See! he has
plucked a lot of little stars from the skies and put them on poles to
light the village with. He is wonderful.” And to this day Red Crow
imagines those lights are little stars captured from heaven and utilized
by the angelic corporation of Winnipeg for street lighting purposes.
“Around the World in Eighty Days” was the play produced and my dusky
guests uninterestedly viewed the opening scenes. But when the Deadwood
stage was attacked by Indians there came a decided change in their
demeanor. All called out encouragingly in the Indian tongue to their
fellow reds on the boards, and they became greatly excited and their
unceasing activities of person and guttural whoops attracted more
attention to the group than did the actors. After the show we met their
brothers in red, who belonged to another tribe, and it was explained to
them that this was only play-acting and stage robbery was now obsolete.