Chapter VII

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.

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.