The Hudson’s Bay Company recruited Orkneymen to work at their Canadian-based forts. They brought with them their boat building knowledge and soon built a boat that was adapted to work on Hudson Bay and then the inland waters of the Canadian West. It is commonly referred to as the York Boat, named after the Company’s York Factory on Hudson Bay. A craft similar to the yole but better suited for Canada’s lakes and rivers.
Hayes River, Near York Factory, Early Summer, 1796
“Faster men! Faster! Bail faster. No, paddle faster.” The helmsman of one of the Saskatchewan brigade canoes kept screaming, then pleading, for his charges to paddle and bail with all their might. Their now rickety birch bark canoe, full of holes from the wear and tear of over a thousand miles of river travel, was about to sink. And they along with it.
Peter Fidler, just named chief mapmaker and surveyor for the Hudson’s Bay Company, sat in one of the other canoes looking on. Mildly annoyed. About as annoyed as anyone could get when there was really nothing more to do but bail. But there was plenty of time to sit and think as well. These boats are leaking like sieves. And barely a tree in sight to repair them properly before we go back.
He wasn’t a man who complained much. He had already proven he was capable of putting up with tremendous hardships. Anything the Company threw at their new rising star, Fidler could handle. But he was frustrated on how to deal with this predicament. The Company’s inland transportation system was a mess. This sinking flotilla that carried their goods and furs for thousands of miles on the inland waters was a constant problem and headache.
Who do I blame more. This intractable Company or this hostile land? Peter often was torn on this matter.
And then there were the Canadians. An even bigger problem. Not only are we sinking half the time, those scoundrels help us to the bottom. Constantly harassing me and my men. Telling us we have no business in ‘their’ country. Fidler knew the Company was often the laughing stock of the west, barely able to keep their boats afloat let alone handle them.
It was always like this for the Hudson’s Bay Company canoe brigades. Now that they had to chase the furs inland instead of letting the Indians come to them at the Bay. By the time they reached Hudson Bay, their canoes were in tatters and they were hanging on to their very lives. They were at a great disadvantage to the Canadian-run North West Company, whose French Canadian voyageurs lived on the water for a good part of the year. The men knew how to build and handle the large birch bark freight canoes.
Damn those Canadian water dogs, thought Fidler. They outmaneuver us at every turn and take advantage of their superior skills with the canoes. Unlike our Orkneymen, while stout enough, but know nothing about these flimsy craft and how to best keep them afloat. He watched and bailed as the shore came steadily closer.
Fidler’s brigade finally made it to York Factory without sinking. But the men were unhappy. And Fidler heard the grumbling.
“God-dammit Peter, these craft leak like sieves if you just touch them. And they’re about as steady as a round log. Even the French Canadians complain. I overheard one old voyageur joking that when you sat in a loaded freight canoe you had to keep your tongue in the middle of your mouth or you would capsize the damn thing. This situation is ridiculous. And now, how are we going to fix these wrecks? There’s not a bloody birch tree within five-hundred miles of this place.”
Fidler could only nod in agreement. He tried to put James at ease. The complaining would only erode more the moral of his men. “We brought some bark rind with us James, so we can do the patchwork and get ready to go back. Settle down man. Unload the canoes and then go get drunk or something.”
Richard, another young, capable Orkneyman was already heading up the bank. He yelled back at the others. “I’m done lads. My contract’s up and I’m not signing on again. I’m heading home. I’ve had enough of these stupid boats. They’re about as sturdy as a hayseed in a wind storm.” Then he looked at Fidler.
“And, Sir, if the situation doesn’t improve, you won’t have any men left to work the canoes. And you’ll not get any new recruits out of the Orkney’s once word gets out. Christ, I’d rather sign on with his Royal Majesty’s press gangs and serve on a ship of the line, than put up with this shit.”
Again Peter Fidler said little. Because there was little to say. They were right. Now watching his men walk away he was becoming angry. It was time to talk with the Governor about the state of the Company’s inland operations, and the welfare of its employees.
He carefully unpacked his precious maps and instruments and started up the bank toward the fort. Thank God these didn’t get wet or lost. That would have been a real calamity. Peter Fidler’s first priority were his maps and logs. But, solutions to the Company’s transportation needs, and dealing with those Canadian pests, were taking up more and more of his time and energy.
…………………….
The Governor’s Residence, York Factory
That evening Peter Fidler dined with the Governor and a few other company officers. After months of river travel through the wilds, the meal and companionship was welcome enough. But Fidler seemed slightly out of sorts, although he tried to keep up his side of the table-talk and news.
Samuel Wegg sensed something was wrong. Trained as a lawyer at Cambridge, a Fellow of the Royal Society, and eventually becoming Governor in 1782, Wegg missed little. Including Fidler’s seeming preoccupation with other things. Time to press a little bit to see what’s wrong with my favorite inland trader. He’s not normally this sour looking. Wegg waited patiently for his opportunity.
Wegg watched on as the tobacco pipes and brandy came out after the meal. Soon a cloud of aromatic tobacco smoke hung in the room. Wegg hoped maybe the young Fidler would relax and open up a bit. The setting was casual enough. By now Peter was well known, liked and respected, among the officers. His recent sojourns into the Canadian west and his excellent maps had gained him the admiration of not only the officers, but also the Company’s London committee.
Finally Wegg saw his chance. “Well, Peter, quite the haul of furs you brought back with you. Despite the fierce competition from the Canadians. You should be happy and proud of your accomplishments these last few years. A lucrative trade, adventure and map-making of a very high standard. Your maps are as good or even better than that traitorous scoundrel Thompson’s. Even Aaron Arrowsmith in London is impressed. He wants to publish your latest works. And newly married. What else could a man want?” The bait was out, but would Peter take it?
Fidler looked around at the men, then at the Governor, wondering. Should I risk it? Should I say something or just shut up? A few years back his choice would have been easy. ‘Be quiet.’ It was the Company’s problem not his. But now he realized he was fast becoming an important part of the Company and something had to be done soon or they would all be driven out of the west by the Canadians.
Suddenly he realized all eyes were looking his way. He poured himself another brandy and began. The other officers were silent, as if his words were important. Hoping he would say what some of them operating inland were also thinking.
“Well, Sir, if you must know it’s our transportation system out west. These birch bark freight canoes work well enough for the Canadians. They have many men with enough knowledge and materials to keep them afloat. We don’t, and it puts us at a great disadvantage in the trade.”
“You got back safe and sound Peter. What are you complaining about?” Wegg, pretending everything was well, had known for some time everything was not.
“Yes, with my feet in water at the bottom of our canoes. Ready to tip over any minute. Which are now battered and in need of repair. But, with nothing to repair them with. And Sir, our Orkneymen hate them. Absolutely detest them. If the Company continues to use them, I’m afraid we’ll lose our men and struggle even more out west. There are already shortages in manpower with the wars, and it’s becoming harder and harder to recruit good men from the Islands.”
George Sutherland, in charge of Edmonton House, who accompanied Fidler, finally spoke. Strangely William Tomison, in charge of Buckingham House, was missing at the table. “Sir, until we were forced to move inland what was the number one advantage we had in the trade over the Canadians?”
Wegg decided to play along. “Transportation and cost, of course. Even after moving inland, the cost of moving our supplies west and furs back are not nearly as high as that of the Canadians. If only our equipment was in better shape, so we don’t lose half of what we haul.”
“Then, Sir, what if we could reduce those costs even further by improving our system of supplying the western posts? And getting our furs safely to York Factory. That would really put a scare into those Canadians out west.” Sutherland looked at Fidler, waiting for him to take up the argument and continue.
Finally Peter spoke. “Governor, the Company has used the bateaus and York boats around the Bay for years. They are seaworthy, can go up the rivers a certain distance, and can haul tremendous amounts of goods. Why not try them out west?”
Smith, one of the officers stationed at York Factory, was already shaking his head. “You can’t be serious Peter? Those boats aren’t fit for the inland rivers and lakes. You might get out in the spring but you’d never make it back in the late summer and fall when the rivers drop and become very shallow. And the portages? How do you propose we haul a boat that weighs a ton or more across them?”
Fidler went on, as if he had already thought carefully about most of these obstacles. “We re-adapt the Bay boats. We built a boat to fit the country and its waters. Make the bottom flatter, so that its draft is extremely shallow and more suitable for the inland rivers. And we use a log roller and pulley system to move them over the portages. Each boat will need at least eight or nine men who can pull them. That’s a lot of manpower. Or, we build boats on either side of the major portages.”
Smith only snorted. “The Canadians would pillage and burn those boats in a heartbeat. They use some of the same inland routes we do. Or, we would have to leave men to guard them. That might not even work.”
“It might not. But what we’re doing right now, in fact, does not work. We need to change, soon. Or there won’t be any competition left for the Canadians.”
At theses last words the others were looking down, staring into their brandy glasses for inspiration. As if the answers to their problems lay somewhere down there. None seemed to appear.
Fidler pressed on. “Our only hope is to improve our means of transportation and hold on. Keep on competing with those renegade Canadians at every turn. We won’t always win, but every battle takes its toll. Eventually someone will break. If we survive, then we can tailor our transportation to suit our needs.”
“Meanwhile, I suggest we add a few more skilled craftsmen to some key forts. But keep in mind by using a York boat, which could haul at least three times as much as a freight canoe, we wouldn’t need as many canoes, nor men to paddle them.”
The room fell silent. Everyone, including the Governor, was weighing the matter carefully. It had its merits. But also its warts.
“You wintered at Buckingham House with William Tomison, Fidler. Did you put any of this to him?”
Fidler now had a somewhat dour look on his face. As if he was mulling something very distasteful over. Tomison’s not here. Why not? Well, might as well get it out there too. No sense stopping now, he thought.
“With all due respect, Sir. Mr. Tomison is a good enough trader. There isn’t a principle Native man in the country that he doesn’t know and who seem to like and respect him enough. All very important considerations in the trade. They like us better than those Canadians in most cases.”
“What’s wrong then Fidler. The look on your face doesn’t match your words very well.”
Fidler went on. “Sir, Mr. Tomison isn’t a very imaginative or creative man in these matters. He sticks to what he knows even if it might undo him. I have argued with him occasionally on this point and he refuses to budge. He has two fine young Orkney carpenters at the fort and that blacksmith Gilbert Laughton can fix or make anything. We have all the tools and expertise, except willpower, to make a few prototypes and try them out on the river. What have we got to lose?”
At those words the Governor scowled. He didn’t like his men backstabbing their fellow employees. But Fidler’s words made sense. And Tomison, while he was a steady enough man in the trade, was becoming more and more set in his ways. After thirty-five years with the Company, who wouldn’t. Refusing to see what needed changing before it was too late.
Then Wegg smiled, as if only now remembering something. And the atmosphere in the room lifted considerably. “Well, Fidler, it just so happens Mr. Tomison is coming out and going to England on leave. Why don’t you take over at Buckingham House for the winter and see what can be done.”
Fidler, at first somewhat shocked at these words, sensed that the Governor was already ahead of him in this matter. Why had he sent two very skilled carpenters west to Buckingham House? Certainly not to build cathedrals. And why Orkneymen? Those islands produced some of the best boat-builders in the British Isles. Men who built the sturdy yoles, crafted after the Norse longboats from centuries past. Suddenly Fidler had a new respect for Wegg.
He looked quickly over at Sutherland, who was looking into the blazing fire, grinning, with a very satisfied look on his face. Either he’s drunk or has already talked to the Governor about this matter. And I wonder what tidbits he’s put in the Governor’s ear? George Sutherland, even though quiet, was a crafty man. A thinking man. An Orkneyman who knew something about boats. Also, someone who knew the trade out west was falling to pieces unless they did something about it.
“Sir, I don’t particularly like going behind my superior’s back in these matters. It only causes even more disharmony among the men. And, we already have enough of that.” Fidler now had a worried look on his face, realizing what Tomison might later accuse him of if any this got out.
“Don’t worry about Mr. Tomison, Fidler. By the time I’m finished with him, he’ll see the brilliance of our plan. Especially if you succeed. Besides, he’ll be nice and mellow, and most agreeable after his stay in England. Just carry on and do what’s needed. Do what you think is in the best interest of the Company. This business of transportation is a very serious matter, Gentlemen. So serious, if not fixed, soon, could break our backs in the west.”
Fall, 1796, the North Saskatchewan River
Just before the Hudson’s Company canoe brigade reached Buckingham House, they dawned their finest clothing, fired their muskets into the skies, and started singing as they paddled their canoes toward the fort. It was the custom of the land. They hoped their comrades at the fort heard the shots and would give them a hearty salute in return to welcome them home.
However, they were in for a surprise. There, a short distance downstream from their fort, were their rivals, the jeering Canadians, also ready to welcome them back. Shooting their muskets in the air and occasionally closely over their heads. A little too closely for comfort.
“Hey Fidler, what took you so long. You travel only half the distance we do and you arrive later than us.” There was John McDonald of Garth again, a brash Canadian Scot, waving his musket in one hand and his bottle of brandy in the other.
“Oh, Christ, Peter. Can’t we go out a distance so we don’t have to listen to their insults?” Young Isbister wanted nothing to do with the rowdy Canadians.
“Can’t John. We might sink. Our canoes are almost shredded from the journey. We need to make shore and fast.”
Just as they were about to pass the Canadians, someone on shore threw a clod of mud catching one of Fidler’s men square in the head, nearly knocking him senseless. A few of the men started to draw muskets, but Fidler yelled at them.
“Put your weapons away. No violence. It does little good here. Paddle faster. Let’s get past them and then we’ll be home.” Just as he finished a few of the Canadians threw out a large log which sliced through the water like a spear, squarely hitting one of the canoes in the side, and tearing a large hole in it. Now the men were frantically bailing, faster than even before.
MacDonald was at it again, shouting and jeering at the now sinking boat. “Well, Pro Pelle Cutem (for the pelt, the skin) my boys, or whatever it is your stupid Company motto means. I guess you’ll pay with your hides now, you cursed bastards. You should leave this country. Forever. You don’t belong here.”
MacDonald took another swig of brandy. Now refueled he hollered more insults across the water. “Arrogant English turds. You have a fancy slogan in Latin? Will your Latin help you now?”
One of Fidler’s men had enough. He suddenly drew his musket and fired at McDonald, barely missing the man and smashing his brandy bottle in the process. Instead of being frightened for his life, McDonald, now fuming bellowed out. “You broke my bottle and the brandy’s all gone, you Orkney twit.” He began to draw his musket, but having trouble now both standing and trying to find it. Before managing more mischief, he was quickly grabbed by his men and dragged up the bank to the North West Company fort, still swearing and cursing.
As the Hudson’s Bay Company canoes finally reached home, they had a much more cordial welcome from their people. The muskets were fired into the air to salute the brigade’s return. Finally, home. But, barely. The leaves were turning and the nights were already frosty. Soon the Saskatchewan would freeze up for another season. And it would get incredibly cold.
Buckingham House, Peter Fidler’s Quarters
April 8, Friday, [1796]. Wind and weather as yesterday. Four men finished the bateau. Tailor making clothing for the men, one man ailing, and the rest pointing stockades and fitting them to the ribbon. At noon one tent of Indians brought thirty beaver and three rolls of birchrind not very good. Also in the evening William Tate and Robert Garrock returned, brought eight rolls of birchrind very bad. (Journal of George Sutherland, Edmonton House; HBCA B.60/a/1, 1795-96; brackets mine)
Fidler was in his winter quarters. Standing in front of the fire, trying to warm up after their journey. He turned toward his man. “Well, Samuel. How was the summer? I hope you followed my instructions and got what we needed.”
Samuel, standing in front of Fidler, was wringing and twisting his hat, as if trying to squeeze something out of it.
“Sir, we tried. First we wanted to trade birch rind with the Natives coming to the fort. They gave us little and only of poor quality. Wouldn’t part with any of the good rind. When we asked why, they merely grinned and said our competition gives twice the amount we do for a good role of birch rind.”
Fidler frowned. His first few days back in charge and nothing but bad news everywhere. And those rotten Canadians were constantly meddling in their business. He sighed. If this continued, it would be a long, long winter. No wonder Tomison sometimes acted like an eighty-year old. This business could wear you out.
“At least then we have the rolls that we stock-piled this spring. We desperately need to repair our canoes or we might not make it out next spring. Good thing Tomison managed to lay in that bark for our canoes.”
“Oh, that’s gone too, Sir. Some scoundrel set fire to it. It’s all burned up. Nothing left but a few charred pieces. We’ll try trading for more, but it will cost us triple to get anything good.”
Fidler’s frown deepened. He guessed who the ‘scoundrels’ were that Samuel was referring to. “Just what the hell are we going to do, Samuel? We need that rind or find another way of moving our goods.” Then he remembered his meeting with the Governor. Instead of whining, it was time to act.
“Samuel, go fetch the two Orkney carpenters and Gilbert Laughton. We need to make a plan, now, fast before it’s too late.”
Samuel nodded and was about to run out to fetch the men. “But before you go, Samuel, be a good lad and bring me that bottle of brandy from the cellar. I’m going to need it before this is all over.”
During the early fur trade, most liquor was sent out west in wooden kegs. Glass goods were a rarity and probably smuggled in. A complete, intact bottle, cork and all, is even a more rare find. (Photograph, courtesy of the Royal Alberta Museum)
……………………
Buckingham House, December 20th, 1796.
Dear Sir [George Sutherland], Your men arrived here all safe the 18th instant, and have sent as much trading goods as loaded the six horses (which was all they brought down) as per list enclosed. The awls, steels, worms etc. shall be made as soon as the cold weather is over, which of late has been so intense (sixty below the cypher) that the smith could not get anything made of small articles; hitherto he has been employed in repairing falling hatchets (as there was not any fit for use here) and making nails for the bateaux.
Shall pay every attention in getting the boats as fast forward as possible – one is nearly finished and the carpenters will go to the woods after Christmas to saw stuff for the other one….
Wishing you health and a happy new year I remain dear Sir, your obedient humble servant Peter Fidler. (Letter from Peter Fidler, Buckingham House, to George Sutherland, Edmonton House; HBCA B.60/a/2; brackets mine)
“You want to do what, Peter? Build a yole? This isn’t the bloody North Sea, you know. That trickle of water down there won’t hold a boat that size. You’ll be scraping along the bottom of the drink all the time.” Fidler’s blacksmith, Gilbert Laughton, also an Orkneyman, was not entirely optimistic this new plan would work.
“Nicol, John, you’re both boat carpenters. What do you think? Can we do it? This blasted canoe business has to stop. And Tomison isn’t around to sink our plans.”
John Davey was also among the group. “Can I help, Sir. I want to learn as much as I can about the boats and how to build one. I think it will revolutionize how we transport our goods.”
Both Nicol Spence and John Moore looked at the young Davey. “What exactly do you know about boats, Davey? And water? I saw you nearly drown when ankle deep in the river.” The two men had a good laugh at the now red-faced Davey’s expense.
“I sailed a lot before I came to the Colonies. I watched the men at home build the boats, but I was still too young to learn properly. We could modify our boats a bit from what we used at sea. To better suit the river.”
“How so, John? Those boats worked well enough. What would you do different?” Peter, although knowing already what was needed, was intent on hearing everyone out, before making any decisions.
After thinking a bit, Davey answered, “The prow of the boat has to be pretty narrow to cut easily through the river currents. The beam should be wider than our yoles, for more stability and cargo space. Then I would design the hull with almost no deadrise, so the draft would be small, and she would sit right on top of the water. Even when empty, because of the width, she would still be pretty stable.”
Fidler looked at Davey with a new kind of interest. The lad seemed to know what he was talking about. “What about strength? We need something that won’t fall apart when we look at it, or step in it.”
“Sawed lap-planks, Sir. We’ll build a ‘clinker boat’ with planks about an inch thick, overlapping one another. We’ll steam them and bend and nail them around the frame. Then we’ll caulk or spruce gum the seams.” Davey, now beet-red from forgetting to breath while he talked, was getting excited about the project.
“We can’t use iron nails, John. They’ll rot out in the water.” Spence was scratching his head wondering what to do about this problem. They could dowel the boards in to place, but they wouldn’t hold up well in the tough, harsh river conditions.
Gilbert Laughton, who had been quietly listening, spoke up after the last remark. “I’ll take care of the metal works for the boat, including the nails. I have something in mind.”
“Then it’s settled men. Work all winter on three prototypes. John can you draw? If so, draw up a plan for the carpenters on what you want.”
“I will, Sir. Can I watch and help build them too?”
“Yes, of course, John. You’re now the chief architect of the project. But here’s how I want them built. The first two boats must each have different siding and hull configurations, and the third one…” He talked quietly to his men laying out his instructions, as if someone might overhear them. When he finished they all stared at him, wondering if he had already been drinking to come up with such an idea.
“And not a word about any of this to anyone. Especially those Canadian buggers across the way.”
His men looked at him questionably about construction of the last boat. “Are sure that’s wise Peter? Doesn’t that kind of defeat the purpose?” Then Fidler filled in his men why he wanted the last boat built that way. “It’s time to fight back men. And, this is as good an opportunity as any to do it.”
When he finished the men left happy enough, but still scratching their heads over his last request. Wondering what happened to that usually non-violent nature of his.
Buckingham House, Early Spring, 1797
1797, Edmonton House, April 24th.
Dear Sir [Peter Fidler], The backwardness of the spring will very much retard the building of canoes and consequently will occasion a late embarkation….The river ice has given way opposite the house, but remains fast both above and below yet the water falloff fast. Send up all the men with the craft except the canoe builders. I will dispatch twenty men in the four canoes here as soon as the river ice gives way with what furs and provisions they can take. If the boats are finished Nichol Spence, boatbuilder, may come up the first trip as he is to summer here, he being unfit for the passage, and John Moor goes down with the boats in case of accidents; let him keep what tools he thinks will be necessary for the passage. Send up all the plank cut for boats by the boats as that article will be difficult to get at this place. The canoes can take all the trading goods and stores. If you have any spare line for tying bundles I beg you to send it as we are short of that article here.…Wishing you better success I am yours etc. G.S. (Parts of a letter to Peter Fidler, Buckingham House, from George Sutherland, Edmonton House; HBCA B.60/a/2, 1796-97; brackets mine)
Peter Fidler stood in the boat yard at the back of the fort. It was well concealed from prying Canadian eyes by a six-foot high partition fence. Over their heads was a wide, long roof attached to high poles, open on the sides, under which the men could work without getting snowed on and sheltered from the wind. Beside him in pits dug in the ground, the shape of a large canoe, sat their freight canoes also under repair. The pits kept the shape of the boats and the birch rind moist, preventing it from cracking.
“They look marvelous men. But will they do the job?” Fidler ran his eyes down the long, sleek wooden boats. Two boats were finished and the third one nearly finished.
John Davey looked up, a big grin on his face. As if this was the best work he had ever done.
“They’re great, Sir. It was challenging work. But so much fun. I feel now I could build one by myself.”
“Tell me a little more about them, John. What’s the main difference in them, from the ones on the Bay?”
“Well Sir, this one here is the biggest. But nowhere’s as big as some of the Bay boats. It measures forty feet from end to end, is slightly less than four feet deep and eight feet across at the beam. It’s clinker-built and the bottom is nearly flat. Both ends are nicely raked so it should be easy to get off the rocks and sand bars. I figure this one could float over three tons of cargo.” Davey beamed, stroking his boat, as he spoke.
“This one here looks almost the same, John?”
“This differs mostly in size. It’s only thirty feet long, three feet deep, and about six-and-one-half feet at the beam. And the planking on the sides are the carvel type. It makes a very smooth hull, giving it less resistance in a strong current. However, while this boat is strong enough, it’s not nearly as strong as the other. It carries less cargo but works better in shallow rivers.”
Spence looked up from his work. “The keels were difficult to make, Sir. We carved them out of tamarack, the hardest, most rot-resistant wood there is in this country. Here, Sir, put your ear on the end of the keel. And give me your watch.”
Fidler did so and then Spence put the pocket watch on the other end of the keel. A surprised Fidler answered. “I can hear the ticking of my watch, Spence, from way down here. It resonates through the wood.”
“But, not through any wood, Sir. Only the soundest, strongest wood will do that. The keel has to put up with tremendous punishment. If it isn’t sound, the boat won’t last.”
Then Fidler turned to the last boat still under construction. “And, I presume this one’s for our Canadian friends. Looks even smaller and not as well built.”
Davey nodded in agreement. “It will do what you requested within an hour of being put in the water. It’s all about the planking and the bottom of the boat.”
“Well done men. Finish the last one before the ice breaks up and starts moving and then we’ll put our plan into action.” They all smiled at what was about to happen.
“But, Peter. We need to name them. That’s the proper thing to do. Do you have any suggestions?” Spence waited expectantly as Fidler mulled over some names for the boats.
“OK. I think I have it. This first big one here, we’ll name Explorer. The second smaller one Chance.”
The men waited for the last name. Fidler was thinking, then suddenly smiled. “This men will be the new motto for the Canadians.” Then he whispered the name of the boat to his men. They all laughed at the name, shaking their heads. A perfect name for their last boat.
………………………
Samuel barged into Fidler’s quarters, all out of breath. “The ice is moving, Sir. If the weather holds, in two or three days we can launch.”
“Good Samuel. Tell the men to prepare to move the boats down the creek ravine to the river. It’s all downhill and with the snow they will slide easy enough. Make sure the boats are well tied so they don’t get away on you. Remember, that’s about a ton of boat there and when it starts moving downhill, it will be hard to stop.”
“Yes, Sir. We’ll prepare everything for departure. The men are ready. They know what to do and how to handle these boats. They were brought up with them. Some were probably born in them.”
Fidler simply nodded as Samuel left. Beside him sat his blacksmith, and also occasionally gunsmith, Gilbert Laughton. An indispensable man at these frontier forts. Who was admiring one of his fancy twisted ornate hand-forged nails, fresh out of the forge. The two men were drinking, talking about the trade and the welfare of the Company. And their plans to get their furs to York Factory.
“Do you think they’ll take the bait, Peter? They might get suspicious about our motives and tactics.” He looked over at Fidler, waiting for a reply.
“Oh, they’ll take the bait alright. They’re down by the river right now getting ready to embark as soon as the ice leaves. After all that bullshit they’ve been fed about a special bonus for the first furs to Europe from the Colonies this year, they’ll bite. They’re a greedy bunch of heartless bastards, when it comes right down to it. Thought of only wealth dulls one’s wits, my friend.”
Laughton looked at Fidler. A crafty man. But hardly a violent man. Or, was he? Whatever had drawn him to come up with something like this? And, if his plan ever worked, would the Canadians forgive him? Probably not. They would hound him in the trade for the rest of his days. “Well, it’s not my problem Peter, but you sure know how to make enemies.”
“It can’t get any worse than this, Laughton. Can it?
………………….
Angus Shaw, chief trader in charge of the North West Company’s Fort George, stood down by the river overseeing preparations for departure for Montreal. As soon as that damn ice clears out, we’ll be off. If we’re to beat the HBC, he thought. Then he heard a peculiar noise. Coming from up above. A high pitched screeching sound, as if someone was raking their nails over glass. Then the yelling and hollering. Laughing, cursing and everything in between.
He looked over towards the creek above them and there before his very eyes, out from the ravine shot a large wooden boat, skidding smoothly on the snow and ice towards the water. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
John McDonald, standing beside him, turned and looked the same direction. Then he saw it too. A fully laden boat with enormous oars sliding swiftly towards the river. “What in the hell is that…?”
But before he could finish his sentence, another one appeared behind it. And then another. The Canadians stood transfixed on the banks of the river as the HBC men made preparations to launch the boats into the river.
“Angus, they can’t go out into that bloody current and ice. It’ll tear them apart. It’s too dangerous. They’ll all die.”
Shaw was now fully beginning to realize what was happening and the implications it had on the trade. “You mean John, we can’t go out there with those flimsy birch bark freight canoes. That ice would crush them like an eggshell. There would be nothing left within minutes.”
“Angus, do you know what this means? They’ll get to York Factory faster and back to Europe to collect that bonus. We’ll lose, if we don’t stop them.”
“And how do you propose to do that, John? Look, they’ve already launched one boat and the second one is ready to go. It’s too late to stop them.”
Then McDonald saw it. The third boat was empty and simply stowed near the edge of the river, but not launched. A few men were looking after it. Shaw saw it too and both men looked knowingly at one another. “Tonight John, we’ll take that one and follow them. And then plan some mischief to stop them before they get too far ahead of us.”
Both men scurried toward their voyageurs and told them their plan. Meanwhile the other voyageurs were watching in awe as the large York boats went bobbing down the river, loaded with furs and crew. Soon they disappeared from sight.
That night John McDonald of Garth took nine of his most ruthless voyageurs down to the water. They threatened the HBC men guarding the last boat, who seemed to run away without much resistance.
“Cowards. Those Orkneymen have no backbone whatsoever. Right, Pierre. Now get this hulk into the water and chase them down. Destroy their boats, if you can. Quickly before they get too far ahead of you.”
“But, Sir. The men are a little leery about whether these things can float. They much prefer the canoes. And Sir, what’s the name of this boat written on the bow? I can’t seem to read it.”
McDonald stared at the writing. He couldn’t read it either. “Just another stupid Latin motto of theirs. Who cares.” McDonald was getting upset with the delay.
“Now get in the goddamned boat and follow them, or I’ll dock you a year’s pay, Pierre. A bonus for you and your men, if you catch them. Load this boat with furs. We might as well use this opportunity to move some of them downriver. We’ll follow you in our canoes as soon as the ice stops running. Good luck.”
Pierre reluctantly obeyed McDonald. Within an hour the York boat was loaded and they pushed off in pursuit of the HBC brigade. McDonald’s last words, however, kept ringing in his ears as the fort disappeared from site. “Good luck.” He sincerely hoped it wouldn’t come to that.
June 18, 1797, Sunday. Arrived at the Great Rapid, where we took out all the furs, and shot down the rapid without injuring the boats or canoes. Indeed the boats seems to exceed even my utmost expectations on the falls as they did not ship any water, although the waves ran very high. (The journal of George Sutherland, Grand Rapids; HBCA B.60/a/2)
York Fort, Early Summer, 1797
I cannot help expressing my satisfaction at the probable advantages the honourable Company are likely to reap from the use of boats in this quarter. The easy draught of water, the facility with which we have brought them from Edmonton House to this place – a distance of 1200 miles – the cargoes they are likely to carry up to from whence they came etc. (Journal of George Sutherland, Gordon House; HBCA B.60/a/2)
Samuel Wegg stood on the shore and watched the spectacle unfold before him on the Hayes River. Two fully loaded wooden boats, now under sail were gliding toward him. They were beautiful and reminded him of the larger Viking craft he had read about and saw in illustrations. Even though they were fully loaded they sat high in the water. Now sitting behind their oars were eight men resting while the boat was under sail. Each man sat on the opposite side of the boat from where the long oars dipped into the water. Behind them came more lightly loaded canoes. The Saskatchewan brigade had finally arrived. Peter Fidler had returned.
Once Fidler landed, Wegg approached him. “You did very well, Peter. And, you’re early. Very impressive. Those are beautiful craft. Much better designed for the rivers than our Bay vessels. You must have very gifted boat builders to make those.”
“Thank you, Sir. They work well enough. There are still some things that need to be improved upon but in time we will have the right craft for the right conditions.”
“But these boats are heavy. How did you manage at the portages?”
“Coming down the rapids was easy. When we go back up the rapids, we put them on log rollers. And then with ropes and pulleys we haul them over the portage trails. Hard work, but we have enough men. So, there’s no need to unload everything. Not really any more work than with the freight canoes when you think about it.”
“And I see you can sail them when the wind is right?”
“That’s probably one of really big advantages, Sir. Not only can we sail them, but we can cross the larger lakes under rougher conditions than with the freight canoes. They have such a wide beam, they are very stable, even when fully loaded. We can carry three tons of goods on that big one, Sir. And these Orkney ‘river rats‘ are well suited to man them.”
Wegg only nodded, now seemingly in deep thought. Then he produced a paper from his jacket. “That’s all good, Peter. I think these craft are exactly what we need inland to move our goods and reduce our costs.”
Fidler looked at the paper in Wegg’s hands. It was a letter. “Sir, is something wrong? You look a little perplexed.”
“Here read this letter, Peter. It just came recently from one of the inland NWC masters by special courier canoe. You know, those really fast ones. It seems there was some trouble out west, near your fort.”
Fidler took the letter and began to read. After he finished he simply smiled.
“Care to explain Peter. There are some very pissed off people in Montreal. It seems they lost a third of their furs in one of the craft they claim you built for them. Similar to these two. Four men still missing, and the other five managed to get back to the fort, barely. All furs on board lost.”
“Well, yes, Sir. We built a third prototype York boat and left it by the river. Intending on using it later. But it really wasn’t for the Canadians. Unless they chose to steal it of course. They must have capsized or were crushed by the ice. These things happen occasionally, Sir.”
“Well that’s not what the survivors claim, Peter. They said suddenly after about an hour the boat sprang leaks everywhere and began to fall apart. Then it sank before anyone could get it safely to shore.” Wegg looked at Fidler, waiting for a reply.
“Sir, I guess we forgot to tell the Canadians the name of the third prototype. It was written right on the sides of the bow. Maybe they might not have taken it. But those Canadians can’t read it seems. That big boat you see, we named Explorer, and the second, Chance.”
“And what was the name of this last boat the Canadians manned?”
“Oh, well, Sir. That one we named the Collabefio. We gave it a Latin name after the Canadians made fun of the Company’s Latin motto.”
Wegg thought for a moment, then burst into laughter. “And it bloody worked well, didn’t it Peter. ‘Sink Together’, I believe, in Latin. Sank like a stone. And, you got back at those Canadians constantly tormenting you. You truly have great boat builders.”
“The best, Sir. And I might add that we need more, if we are going to make inroads on our competition.”
Wegg nodded in full agreement. “Hopefully not to build more ‘sinkers’, Peter?” He chuckled as he again viewed the sleek boats in front of him, sliding his hand over the prow of Explorer. These craft could change their fortunes.
“Come Peter, let the men unload the craft and tell me more about these boats and the trade over some brandy. Before Nancy gets her hooks into you. I hope to hell this deed with the Canadians doesn’t follow you around for the rest of your days. You’ve made some powerful enemies my friend. But, also some powerful friends.”
With that Wegg clapped Fidler on the back and the two men strolled toward the Governor’s quarters, talking about the quality of this year’s furs.
……………………….
End Notes
Many of my stories are about things. Objects. Material culture. This story’s primary focus is the object, this time the HBC’s York boat. The object drives the story, and not solely the individual, Peter Fidler. It’s not like: “This is Peter Fidler and here’s what he did. By the way, this is the York boat he helped build.” The object is not just some sidebar to the narrative. It is a very important part of the narrative.
We all think we control material culture. We invent things for our use. And, to a point we do. But, would we truly be living and acting the way we do if the automobile had not been invented? Or the airplane? Or, the smart phone? Once the genie is let out of the bottle, it begins to control our lives. Sometimes in ways we had not expected.
My story about the York boat is no different. Introduction of this craft, at a time when the HBC was struggling to compete with their rivals the Canadian-based North West Company, may have been one of those ‘game changers’ in the western Canadian fur trade. It affected the Company’s operations in many ways.
Archaeologists did find canoe-shaped pits at Buckingham House, either to build and/or store canoes in them. Gilbert Laughton did make some very ornate looking hand-forged nails at Buckingham House. Some with twisted shanks. Perhaps deliberately so they wouldn’t loosen in the wood when driven home. Perhaps the man was just bored.
The debate is still out where the first York boats were built on the Saskatchewan. Some believe at Edmonton House, in 1795-96. Others believe at Buckingham House in 1796-97. Bateaus (a flat-bottomed boat with raked bow and stern and flaring sides) did exist at Edmonton House in 1796. But were they the same as the boats built by Fidler’s men at Buckingham House? Which eventually became the York boats used on the Saskatchewan River and elsewhere?
Peter Fidler’s struggles and quarrels with the NWC are not imagined. We don’t need to conjure up too much violence and harassment when writing about the competition between the Hudson’s Bay Company and the North West Company. It was real enough and happened in epic in proportions. The men of the two Companies often behaved like bad, immature children.
The idea for this story didn’t come from what Fidler did in the 1790s, which in itself was quite remarkable. Successful explorer, surveyor, mapmaker and trader. It was what bad fortunes befell him in the early nineteenth century before he finally retired in 1821 that started the idea for this story. It seemed, from reading his journals, he went from one calamity to another, mostly at the expense of the North West Company.
So, what did Fidler do that was so bad as to be harassed and hounded by the Canadians for the next fifteen years? Was he just in the wrong place at the wrong time, badly outnumbered by his Canadian foes? With often poor support from the Hudson’s Bay Company? Or, was there something else? For more details, here’s a link to Peter Fidler’s biography describing some of those encounters.
Whatever the case, the only real blow that Peter Fidler dealt the North West Company was helping introduce the York boat on the Saskatchewan River. He helped solve one of the many logistical nightmares the Company faced early on in the Canadian northwest.
It is therefore perhaps fitting to end this story with this massive wooden statue of Peter Fidler erected by the community of Elk Point. In memory of one of Canada’s ‘forgotten surveyors and map makers’.
