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‘Pick Your Poison’: Louis’ Peculiar Tobacco Pipe

Forward

Note: I originally posted this blog under the heading: “True Tales: The Telling and Writing of History.” I’ve retracted the original post, rewritten parts of it, and posted it under a new title because I felt the short story got lost in the old title. So, for some of you (but very few) the content below will be familiar.

Reading a history book, or an archaeological site report, is pretty boring. We seem to have a knack for putting people to sleep. But then, we never majored in entertainment. Our goal was to find and present evidence and facts about the human past, then interpret them; both had to stand up to the scrutiny of our peers.

Believe me, entertainment never entered the picture.

In my last stint with the Government of Alberta I helped design a few of the human history galleries at the new Royal Alberta Museum. We told the stories of Alberta’s human history, using the archaeological and ethnographic objects in our collections to support those stories.

Our superiors were not always satisfied with just achieving historic accuracy. This was a public institution and people payed to get in. So, “Make it interesting,” were often the comments I received. Make history interesting? Are you kidding? It was hard enough to make it accurate, let alone interesting.

That museum stint was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done in my career.

However, the Royal Alberta Museum experience got me thinking about how else we might make history more appealing to a broader audience. Perhaps in writing? Story telling? Certainly not written like those detailed history or archaeology books. Don’t get me wrong. Those works are vital. But, often reading them is pretty hard slogging for most people.

Recently I started dabbling in the literary genre of Historical Fiction. It’s another way of presenting history to the general public. But perhaps in a little more palatable form. Unfortunately the word fiction occurs in the genre’s name, and people immediately think that what they are reading is all fantasy – words and ideas imagined, but not grounded in historic facts. Done well, historical fiction should do both: inform you about human history, and entertain you. However, to accomplish this task, some of the content has to be fictionalized.

Let’s look at an example. In one of my posts, I described how stone tobacco pipes found at 18th and 19th century western Canadian fur trade posts have an eastern Canadian Indigenous origin. The archaeological evidence also suggests those more common fragile clay tobacco pipes, smoked by the majority of fort workers, broke a lot. Using those facts, I added the names of some French Canadians working in northern Alberta forts, then placed them in an accurate-as-possible late 18th-19th century Canadian wilderness setting.

And then I wrote a short story how these hardened men, paddling their birch bark freight canoes for endless hours, occasionally stopped and smoked their tobacco pipes. However, one tobacco pipe in particular stood out. It’s a very peculiar tobacco pipe we found at Fort Vermilion (c.1798 – 1830), Alberta, Canada. I won’t say more about it, so as not to give the story away.

‘Pick Your Poison’: The Story of Louis’ Peculiar Tobacco Pipe

This wood cutting of a voyageur, smoking his tobacco pipe, was done by C. Bertsch, from a classic book on the voyageur entitled: The Voyageur, by Grace Lee Nute, 1931. D. Appleton and Company, New York. The pipe form resembles the common short-stemmed clay tobacco pipe, or ‘cuttie’ as it was often referred to. 1

An old voyageur once said: “ I could carry, paddle, walk and sing with any man I ever saw. I have been twenty-four years a canoe man, and forty-one years in service; no portage was ever too long for me, fifty songs could I sing. I have saved the lives of ten voyageurs, have had twelve wives and six running dogs. I spent all of my money in pleasure. Were I young again, I would spend my life the same way over. There is no life so happy as a voyageur’s life!” (from James H. Baker, Lake Superior, Minnesota Historical Collections, 3:342)

Pierre spat out a litany of curse words which even made some of the more hardened voyageurs, paddling the twenty-five long birch bark freight canoe, blush. Finally ending in, “Merde, I broke another one, Cardinal. Now what?” He took the broken remnants of his clay tobacco pipe and savagely flung them overboard towards the fast moving waters of the great river. Instead, sparks and ashes flew everywhere. Some landing on the heads of his compatriots.

These two clay tobacco pipe fragments were recovered from the c.1830 – 1917 Hudson’s Bay Company Fort Edmonton, Edmonton, Alberta, Canada. The pipes were made from ball clay and mostly manufactured in Europe. While they were relatively cheap, they were also quite fragile.

His usually silent partner, Cardinal, kneeling beside him in the big canoe, only spat. He learned long ago that these stupid pipes were nothing but trouble. “Chew the stuff, Pierre. Don’t smoke it and you won’t have these troubles.” He spat again.

The brigade’s expressman, Louis, perched at the end of their canoe, yelled out. “Which king are you going to blame and curse for your misfortunes this time, Pierre? Louis or Charles?” Pierre said nothing and finally pointed at the Union Jack emblazoned on the corner of the Canadian North West Company flag fluttering on a pole at the stern of the canoe. “Him.”

The men, trying their best to ignore Pierre, continued paddling up the winding river, moving west with their cargo. They sang, they cursed, they swatted at the swarms of bugs trying to suck the life out of them.

One of the men, finally tiring of Pierre’s latest tirade, changed the subject. He looked over at Blanchet. “So why don’t these cursed mosquitoes and black flies bite you, Blanchet? They’re eating us alive. Some of us are beginning to look pale because of the loss of blood.”

Francois immediately piped up. “It’s because he smells so rank they won’t go near him. Or, perhaps they’re afraid of him. Look at him. He wears that stupid-looking toque day and night now. Add a pair of bells on his toes and he would look the perfect fool. Not far to go there.” More laughter.

Francois wasn’t done. “Or, maybe they can’t find him in the canoe, he’s so short. His head barely clears the gunwales. Good thing his arms are long or his paddle wouldn’t touch the water.”

Francois always had a choice word or two for his partner beside him in the freight canoe. For his efforts he received a paddle of river water in the face from Blanchet. Everyone continued to rib Blanchet for a few more minutes. Finally the brigade stopped again for a break. In each canoe, they were eight strong carrying thirty pieces of freight, each weighing about ninety-pounds, up the rivers to the inland western forts.

Pierre was still fuming, mumbling under his breath. He reluctantly took out a new clay tobacco pipe, filled it with coarse tobacco, and lit up. Blanchet tried not to laugh. Why would he? He had already broken two of his own tobacco pipes and only had two left.

Pierre wouldn’t let up. “At this rate I won’t make it to the next fort before I run out of pipes. These damned things are no good. They burn my lips when I smoke them, and break when I even look at them.”

Then Pierre’s complaining turned in another direction. “And, merde, this stinking American tobacco smells and tastes like horse shit. Oh, what I would give now for some good Hudson’s Bay Company Brazilian tobacco…”

Near the back of the canoe, their expressman, Louis, cut off the fuming Pierre. “And you’ve tried smoking horse shit then, Pierre? You seem to know a lot about it.”

No one laughed. The men barely tolerated the expressman. He had a history.

Louis never had any problems with his tobacco pipe. He smoked a small grey little tobacco pipe, with rather large tulip-shaped bowl. Whenever anyone asked Louis about his pipe, he was always very evasive. When they wanted to examine it he wouldn’t let them.

“Is that pipe sacred, Louis, or what? I think you sleep with it in your mouth. Why don’t you let us see it? And why doesn’t it break? You’ve had that pipe forever.

“Why don’t you shut up and save your breath complaining. Make your own pipes from stronger materials. So they won’t break? You won’t ever make a pipe like this one though. This one’s special.”

……………….

Once the brigades reached their destiny, a few of the men took Louis’ words to heart. Throughout the long, harsh, northern Canadian winter they busied themselves carving a better tobacco pipe, from local rocks and hardwoods. A pipe more like Louis’, that wouldn’t break.

This rare, complete mudstone tobacco pipe was found at the North West Company Fort George (c.1792 – 1800), Alberta, Canada. The mudstone is local, found in round nodules. We found mudstone nodules and detritus from pipe making in the household refuse at the site.

Next spring, as soon as most of the ice left the river, the canoe brigades began their long journey back to Montreal with their furs. Together again, the men joked and talked as they paddled in their canoe. Even looking forward to the long, arduous journey to Montreal. Happy and content. Because it was still too early for the first hatch of bugs. And getting away from the tedious fort life, the screaming children, after a long winter, was a relief.

The water was their home. This is where they were most comfortable. There was barely eighteen inches separating them from a cold, wet death as they sat low in their canoes laden with furs. Soon they would come to the ‘Chutes’ – the most dangerous rapids between their fort and Fort Chipewyan.

Louis sat at the back of the canoe calmly smoking his peculiar pipe. Pierre pulled out his newly made stone pipe and lit it. He had spent many hours carefully carving the hard stone and drilling holes in it for the stem and bowl.

Louis looked at Pierre. “Ah, Pierre, I see you carved a new tobacco pipe last winter. How is it? Does it smoke well? Is it strong? It looks nice, my friend.”

“I’m not your friend,” thought Pierre. He waved his new stone pipe in the air for everyone in the canoe to see. “The Iroquois along the St. Lawrence make this kind of pipe. I used local stones. Finally a tobacco pipe I can trust. It took me all winter to carve these two, but they seem to work well.”

As he was talking his pipe cooled down. Hot, cold, hot, cold. There’s only so much change in temperature a pipe can stand. Pierre finished his smoke. He banged his pipe against the side of the canoe to knock out the wattle. With his final tap the bowl snapped off, disappearing into the swirling, muddy water.

Again, Pierre was cursing. The more he cursed, the more the men laughed. Someone shouted, “It was too heavy anyway, Pierre. You would have sunk like a stone if you’d fallen into the river with it.” Pierre now had only one pipe left all the way to Montreal.

“Well Pierre, that pipe didn’t seem to last very long either. Nothing like mine,” bragged Louis. Pierre only mumbled under his breath. No one could seem to make a pipe as strong as Louis. The stone pipes became brittle from smoking and broke. And the ones made of wood were no better. They burned because the western trees weren’t hard enough.

The men turned and looked longingly at Louis’ pipe. Again they begged him to tell them his secret. “Tell us Louis. How do you make a pipe like that? To last so long?” But he refused to divulge his secret.

The men paddled, then smoked. Then ate and slept. Woke before dawn, and paddled some more. For endless days, then weeks, then months.

Finally, Montreal was in sight. But the stay was short-lived. Once the freight canoes were repaired and loaded with trade goods, and the men had some time in the City to squander their hard-won earnings, it was time to return to the western forts. Thousands of miles of lakes and rivers to paddle and portage in the hot summer weather. Upstream all the way. Off they went, effortlessly paddling their fragile crafts through the often turbulent waters. Their short paddles were just a blur in the brilliant sunlight, moving the sleek craft against the river currents steadily upstream. Louis sat at the back, as usual, smoking his little tobacco pipe. Cardinal looked back and spat – as usual. Particularly when he looked at Louis.

As Cardinal turned away, Louis looked at his strong back and shoulders, thinking. “Hard to know what that one is made of. Maybe French Canadian, maybe part Iroquois/French Canadian.” It really didn’t matter much to Louis. Cardinal paddled with the best of them and never complained. But he sure spat a lot.

They came to yet another portage. The men began the backbreaking work of carrying their cargo around the rapids. After they disembarked, Louis shouted over to Cardinal. “Where’s your tobacco pipe, Cardinal? Good chance to have a smoke along this long portage. Did it break too”, yelled a somewhat puffed up Louis?”

“Petit malin. Smug, arrogant ass, sitting there in the back of the canoe like he owns the west,” he murmured. “Maybe he thinks he’s the next king. King Louis the XV.” All Cardinal heard for endless days coming out of Louis’ ugly yap was, “Faster men, harder, put your backs into it.” Between puffs on his pipe, Louis constantly gave orders. Always smoking that damned pipe. Or mocking his men when their pipes broke.

A bent over Cardinal walked toward Louis, carrying two ninety pound bales on his back. His tumpline, which was his colourful Assumption sash, usually tied around his waist, was now strung around his forehead. It was taunt from holding the the bales. “Remember knot-head, I don’t smoke.” Just as he passed Louis, he spat out a long stream of green tobacco juice that landed all over Louis’ fine moccasins. The men watched the encounter and then began to compile a song about Louis’ fine moccasins as they staggered up the portage trail behind Cardinal carrying their bales.

The portage

Louis let loose a long string of French curses at Cardinal’s disappearing hulk. “Tomorrow I’ll make you paddle harder, you idiot. And carry more packs up the portages than the others. I’ll even put a black mark beside your name in my record book.”

Cardinal just laughed. “Who cares,” he thought. He knew better. The Company needed his skills and his brawn. They were the best canoe-men in the country. Even their competition admitted it.

And that imbecile, Louis, didn’t have a book. Why would he. He was illiterate, like the rest of them. Cardinal yelled back. “I’ll remember that, Louis. Not to spit on your fine leathers again. Next time I’ll spit into your rum cup instead.” The other men howled with laughter. Nearly dropping their loads. A now red-faced Louis was incensed but didn’t say much more because Cardinal was everything he was not. Smarter, bigger, stronger, and meaner.

This wood cutting of voyageurs, moving their goods across the portage, was done by C. Bertsch, from a classic book on the voyageur entitled: The Voyageur, by Grace Lee Nute, 1931. D. Appleton and Company, New York. Many Canadian rivers contained rapids, too dangerous to run, requiring canoes to be unloaded and packs, weighing ninety pounds, carried around them. It was said some voyageurs could carry two packs; a few, three. It is not surprising to see evidence of herniated discs, arthritic hands and feet on these men. 1

………………………

The years it seemed, for these voyageurs, went by too quickly. A now older Francois was bent over in pain. “I think this might be my last year, Pierre. My bones feel bad. I can barely kneel in this canoe any more. Maybe I’ll retire like Louis. Where is he anyway? I haven’t seen him for a few years now.” He looked around at some of the familiar, but older-looking faces. Now in their mid-thirties, they too were near their end, as canoe-men, barely able to keep up to the grueling pace and paddling endless days.

Blanchet, smelling as bad as ever, simply shook his head. “Gone.” He grimaced in pain, thinking too this was a game for younger men. Cardinal, as usual, only spat when hearing Francois’s question.

Then Blanchet, after a spell of pain, continued. “I heard he’s living at Fort Vermilion and is not doing so well. They say all he does is sit and smokes all day; and sings his songs.”

Pierre, no longer a paddler but now the expressman, piped up. “We’ll be there tomorrow. We’ll pay him a visit. I wonder if he still has that strange-looking tobacco pipe?”

The next day the brigade landed at Fort Vermilion. They scrambled up the steep, slippery bank falling and cursing, trying to balance their heavy loads. An unhappy Cardinal managed a few words. “Merde! Can’t they make a decent trail up this bank?” Then he spat.

A wheezing Pierre behind him, barely managed an answer between laboured breaths. “They make a trail every year, but every year the high waters take it and some of the bank with it.”

As they neared the fort, now perched precariously on the edge of the river bank, they noticed a frail-looking man sitting on a chair near the front gate. It was Louis. His eyes were staring at something far away. His thin, wispy hair blew in the wind. He barely noticed them. And as he sang, occasionally he stopped and clutched his head, as if in pain; then his stomach.

Louis still smoked his funny little pipe, looking at the sky and waving at some object that only he saw up there, constantly mumbling to himself. “Next time take me with you when you take the La Chasse-galerie back to Montreal. I promise, I’ll not swear or misbehave on the journey. Please, I need to go back to see my loves. All of them.” He then broke into a French-Canadian voyageur song, as if he was still on the river in his canoe:

“Riding along the road from Rochelle city, Riding along the road from Rochelle city, I met three girls and all of them were pretty. Pull on the oars as we glide along together. Pull on the oars as we glide along.”

The old voyageur managed a rather frail hacking laugh after finishing the verse. Then he started severely coughing, emitting a stream of greenish phlegm. Almost hitting Cardinal with it. He sucked some more on his odd little tobacco pipe, which now seemed to have gone out. But he just kept sucking. He continued to mumble and sing, never quite reaching the end of his song:

“I met three girls and all of them were pretty; By chance I chose the one who was the beauty….”

The men looked at one another, bewildered. One of the fort workers had joined them. “He’s like this most of the time now. His wife’s gone. He’s all alone. Never had children, much as he wanted to.”

The men moved past a vacant-eyed, mumbling Louis shaking their heads. Wondering what had happened to him. Thinking about what might happen to them. Was this their fate? After so many years of hardship? Laboring for a few who got rich off their sweat.

As Cardinal went by Louis, he was just about to send a green wad of tobacco juice towards the bumbling man’s shoes. “No. That’s not right. He’s one of us – forever a voyageur. He’s not well. Best to leave him alone.” Instead, he walked past Louis, patting him on the shoulder as he went by, and then on into the fort.

Many fur trade forts sat at the edge of Canada’s rivers and lakes. Fort Vermilion I was no exception. There were good and bad things about placing the forts so near the water. It was easy to haul supplies from the canoes into the forts. But many forts, including Fort Vermilion, flooded on these low river terraces. And, many, years after they were abandoned, slowly eroded into the river. Even though parts of Fort Vermilion were lost, the flooding covered it with river silts, also hiding and preserving it.

…………………………

Harry Reed, archaeologist for the Government of Alberta, and his team were excavating at the Fort Vermilion fur trade site. Occupied by both the North West (c.1798 -1821) and Hudson’s Bay (c.1821 – 1830) Companies, it was one of the oldest and best preserved sites in the middle Peace River region, Alberta, Canada.

Luke, one of his excavators, shouted. “Harry, come and look at this. What is it?” When Harry looked over, Luke was up to his chin in an old building cellar filled with debris. Harry walked over, curious as ever. There was always a surprise or two when he dug at this northern fur trade fort.

Luke handed him the small object. “Sure is heavy for something so small.” Then Harry looked at it closer and gasped. “No, it can’t be. I think this is a tobacco pipe.” But it was no ordinary tobacco pipe. He was certain it was made out of lead.

After looking at the object for some time Harry gave it back to Luke. “Congratulations. You’ve just found one of a kind. Believe it or not, this is an Iroquoian style tobacco pipe base, just missing the bowl. But, made out of lead.”

“Oh cool. But why are you looking so surprised and shocked, Harry? Its just an old pipe, right?”

” Right Luke. And lead is just a harmless metal, popular for pipe making.” Harry walked off without another word, leaving Luke scratching his head.

That evening Harry sat by the camp fire thinking about the strange lead tobacco pipe. He would visit a chemist, perhaps even a doctor, at the University of Alberta and ask the sixty-four dollar question: what happens to you, if you smoked tobacco in that pipe? For years on end. “I wonder what ever happened to its owner? Never mind. Probably died at an early age inhaling those fumes. And likely left no descendants behind to answer my question.”

This unusual lead platform tobacco pipe, missing the bowl on top, was recovered in an old filled-in building cellar at Fort Vermilion, Alberta, Canada. The pipe probably had a wood or bone stem protruding from the hole in the side. Or even an old piece of clay pipe stem inserted into it. The style is similar to the Iroquois platform pipes of the St. Lawrence region of Quebec, Canada. It is still uncertain exactly how it was made. Probably carved/filed or cast in a mold. (In archaeology, you always can tell how hard your people are working by the amount of dirt under their nails. This guy could dig…)

Footnotes:
  1. file:///C:/Users/User/Desktop/hp%20work%20folder,%202021-11-11/Personal/Canehdianstories%20website/Backed%20Up%20Posts/The%20Voyageur.pdf[↩][↩]
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The Trader’s Private Stock: A Short Story

The Writing of History

In a former blog I talked about Historical Fiction as a possible genre to personalize historical facts. I continue in that vein with another short story. What happened at a remote late eighteenth century Canadian, Saskatchewan River fur trade post when the brandy supplies kept disappearing? The story is based on North West Company’s clerk Duncan M’Gillvray’s Fort George journals, John McDonald of Garth’s memoirs, and archaeological investigations at the fort site in the 1970s. Our main man, chief trader Angus Shaw, faces a problem. Pilfering. By his men. How does he deal with it? Read on and find out.

The Story

Fort George, Alberta, 1793

One of the fort Engages rushed into chief trader Angus Shaw’s rather spacious private quarters in the Big House, sitting on the high banks of the North Saskatchewan River. Before Shaw could ask what the man wanted, the words came tumbling out.

“They’re here Sir. And there must be a least two-hundred of them.”

“Who’s ‘they’ LaFrance? The King of England and his court? Quit talking in riddles man. Speak English.”

“Blackfoot, Sir. Wanting to talk and trade. They insist on a meeting and gifts first.”

“What the hell are they doing here this late in the fall?” Shaw stood up from his chair, walked around a bit, considering what to do.

“Well, they’re here. Can’t just turn them away. Break out the tobacco and brandy, LaFrance, and invite their principal men into Indian Hall. Keep the others out.” Shaw knew he had to accommodate them or lose the trade to his neighbors at Buckingham House.

“Buckingham House,” he snorted. “Where does the HBC come up with those damned names?” Then he considered his fort’s name, ‘Fort George’. ‘Not exactly fitting for the Canadian wilderness either,’ he thought. He waited for his men to finish preparations and LaFrance to return. He was still deep in thought when the door opened letting in the drafty cool fall air. And a little more.

“Close the door LaFrance. You’re letting in that awful stench. What is that anyway?”

LaFrance answered dutifully. “It’s from the butchering sir. We’re starting to fill the ice pits with meat for the winter, to make pemmican for the spring brigades.”

“Well, it smells God-awful. I’m glad winter will soon be here so that stench won’t be as bad. Are we ready for the meeting LaFrance? You look a little pale.”

LaFrance was standing there, trembling. “Sir the high wines are almost all gone, and what’s left tastes more like water than brandy.” LaFrance quickly looked at the door, as if getting ready for a rapid escape. He knew Shaw was going to blow his lid.

And LaFrance was right. Shaw lost it. Completely! He hurled his clay tobacco pipe at the mud wall, breaking it into little pieces. He kicked a chair, sending it flying LaFrance’s way. His Cree country wife, Marguerite, came running into the room to see what was wrong. She took one look at the scene, then quickly left.

“How in the hell can that be? The brigades just got back from Montreal two months ago and we’re already low on liquor? This is a disaster LaFrance. I’ll have to borrow more from our neighbors at an exorbitant price, of course. But not now, let’s give the Blackfoot what we have and hope it’s enough.”

After Shaw partially regained his composure, LaFrance tentatively ventured some more information. “Well Sir, about what happened. The lock on the storage cellar was tampered with again. It seems someone broke in and helped themselves to some drink.” LaFrance was stammering now, looking quite guilty, as if he might somehow have been involved.

“Some drink? The lock was tampered with? How so, LaFrance?”

“Well, smashed into little pieces, Sir.” Again the Engage looked quickly away, steadily backing toward the door. “I think Sir, we’re ready. The principal men are gathered in the Indian Hall and await you.” He turned and hurried out the door.

As Shaw walked toward the Indian room to meet the Blackfoot principal men, he thought about his not so little dilemma. He knew without alcohol, he would lose the trade to his competitors. ‘This is happening to often. Those god-damned French Canadians. They drink and party endlessly and could cost me a small fortune if this keeps up.’

Then in a more sober moment of thinking, he reluctantly admitted: ‘Well, even though they are some of the worst scoundrels around, they’re the best canoe men, carpenters, and labourers in the Canadian west. And, maybe it wasn’t them. Some of my officers aren’t exactly angles either. I’ll just have to build something to keep everyone out of the Company stores, and hide the liquor.’ He left and walked into the Indian Hall, cordially greeting the Blackfoot principal men.

…………………….

“Early this morning ten young Blackfoot came in for tobacco for a band who were to arrive later; sent, as usual, six inches to each principal man. They arrived at noon and pitched their tents, each party near the gates of their own trader. Gave them liquor as usual, one pint of Indian rum to each principal man, and they began to drink.” (from the journals of Alexander the Younger, Fort Vermilion (on the Saskatchewan near Fort George, November 12, 1809; Coues 1897:571)

They all sat and smoked, and prayed. Then one of the Blackfoot men took a sip of his brandy, blanched, and spit it all over the wood hall floor. He looked at Shaw in disgust, a deep scowl forming on his face. He spoke to Shaw’s translator, who turned a lighter shade of red.

“So, what did he say, Blanchet?” Shaw already knew but listened anyway.

Blanchet reluctantly told Shaw, while the principal men were fidgeting, as if preparing to leave. “He says this stuff tastes like horse piss, and not brandy. Next spring he’s taking all his furs to the Hudson’s Bay Company. They have good brandy there. And, he asks what that terrible smell is outside? Smells worse than a buffalo jump in the summer.”

“Tell him we had an accident with the brandy. It fell into the river on the journey up the Saskatchewan. Got a little watered down. Tell him I’ll compensate him with extra tobacco and more brandy next spring if he brings his furs to us. As to the stench. Tell him not to trade us bad meat anymore.” Blanchet translated, and the Blackfoot reluctantly sat down again, still grumbling among themselves and giving Shaw nasty stares.

Shaw stared back, thinking. ‘They will go next door anyway, to see if the HBC has a better offer, as soon as they are done here.’

The next day, the Blackfoot traded a few wolf skins and left. LaFrance came rushing up to Shaw. “Sir, the good news; they left. The bad news; with half our horses.” This time LaFrance was already out the door before the litany of curses came rushing out of Shaw’s mouth.

Shaw looked through the open door into the fort courtyard. ‘Jesus, can it get any worse than this? I’m stuck in this shithole with these drunkards for the rest of the winter. And now I have to deal with a bunch of very belligerent Natives next spring. Who keep stealing my horses, then trading them back. And this stinking meat. I’m going to get sick.’

As the events of the day went through his mind, Shaw noticed a large black plume of smoke across the river in the southwest. ‘Great! And to top it all off, they set the prairie on fire as a farewell.’ It was before noon. He was about to pour himself a stiff brandy anyway. He stopped short, realizing they didn’t have any left.

…………………..

“They [Hudson’s Bay Company] allowed us the free use of the well for some time, but at last, apprehensive of its drying up also….from the quantity taken from it by so many for all purposes, Mr. Tomison, a powerful man, refused to allow us further supplies….Mr. Tomison would not listen to any reason, indeed I had little to give him — but that if he would not give us our wants that either of us must pay a visit to the bottom of the well.” (from the memoirs of John McDonald of Garth, c.1795, Fort George, Alberta, in Morton 1929:lxii)

A few days later John McDonald of Garth was brought into Shaw’s quarters, barely standing. Kind of wobbling. “So, what the hell happened to you McDonald? Christ, you look like shit.”

McDonald, scarcely able to speak, finally got a few words out. “Well, Shhiir, I met with that scoundrel Tomison and his men at the well and I beat them up pretty badly.” Garth burped, then wobbled, having trouble keeping his feet.

Shaw looked on incredulously. They were already indebted to their neighbors for the liquor and now this man got into a fight with the HBC – about what? Water? There was a whole bloody river flowing before his eyes and John fought over the spring water supply closer by?

“Well, by the look of your face McDonald, you really put a scare into them.” Shaw remained stoic, reluctantly waiting for John to speak. He occasionally exaggerated when he told his stories. Especially when drunk.

“I did my best sir. Shhoowed them who is boss of the water, I did. They didn’t want to share the well, but I thought otherwise.”

“And, where exactly did you manage to get a hold of so much liquor, man?”

“Private stocks,” mumbled McDonald, before nearly tipping over.

Shaw just stared at his soon-to-fall-down officer in astonishment. ‘God, please help me. I’m surrounded by idiots.’ He eyed McDonald disparagingly, thinking: ‘Well maybe he’ll suit my purposes. He owes me after this little incident.’

…………………

Next spring, after all the engages and voyageurs left for Montreal, Shaw took McDonald aside and explained his plan for a new cellar for the liquor. John nodded, fully realizing that if he failed Shaw, he was done with the Company. So, he and a few trusted men worked for months to build it.

That fall, after examining the large, fresh mound of earth beside the big house, Shaw eyed McDonald. “I hope you got it right, John. If you so much as mutter a word how this here was built, you’ll be buried in it. And worse, no more brandy.” McDonald nodded solemnly. ‘What could be worse than no more brandy,’ he thought.

“One more thing John. If my stocks start disappearing, I’ll be coming after you.” McDonald visibly grew paler at those last words, but said nothing.

Soon after, the men arrived from Montreal, their canoes laden with supplies and trade goods. Including lots of brandy and rum. Joseph was grunting and cursing, shouting out to Francois behind him, two ninety-pound bales on his back. “So, we paddle for two-thousand miles to get this stuff here and then we have to haul it up to the highest bank on the river. Why not build down along the river?” Francois said nothing, only grunted in return, trying to balance his equally heavy load. He was too busy thinking about all the brandy they would drink this winter.

Once inside their fort, the men looked around. Something was different. They looked toward the Big House. Beside it, a new building, of sorts. Just a large low mound of earth.

Pierre leaned over to Louis. “Is that a new cellar? Look how close it is to the trader’s quarters. Hard to pilfer the brandy stores when it’s that close.” They put the brandy barrels near the newly built mound and looked at the mound again. Strange though, no door.

Shaw came out of his house. He looked at his somewhat confused men. “Leave the liquor here, take the rest of the provisions to the stores.” His men nodded, looking back somewhat forlornly at the brandy and rum kegs.

Once they finished, Shaw gathered them again. Now they had tired-looking puzzled faces. His men knew something was up. But what? “Gabriel, break out a barrel for the men. Let’s celebrate after the long journey.” Shaw turned, leaving them to their revelry. And soon they were falling down drunk, having already forgotten about the new mound beside the trader’s house.

Next morning the brandy barrels in front of Shaw’s House were gone. The men walked around the compound, still a little drunk and perplexed. Thinking, barely. Now focused on only one thing. ‘Where did the brandy barrels go?’ They looked at the strange mound by Shaw’s house again. No entrance. Anywhere.

Shaw sat in front of his house, smoking his pipe, watching his men. There was a look of satisfaction on his usually stoic face. He took a sip of his brandy and toasted those closest to him. “To your health Pierre, men.” Pierre only spat in return. The rest, including McDonald, only glared. Shaw only smiled in return, relishing his private stock of liquor. Not even the smell was that bad when your private stock was safe.

……………………….

Fort George, Alberta, 1978.

Harry Reed and his crew were excavating parts of the Big House at Fort George, probably the residence of Angus Shaw and his country wife. And a large subterranean structure beside the Big House. Even though it was a hot Alberta afternoon along the river, everyone was happy. This was a great fort site. As he would later learn, maybe one of the best, and most complex, he would ever excavate.

“Jay, what did you find in that big storage cellar?”

“Well, all pretty normal. It’s a wood cribbed subterranean structure with the roof coming down to the ground. Poles, with bark and sod roof. Kind of a root cellar with a roof, probably all covered with sod.” Harry looked at the sketch Jay gave him, then at Jay, and the somewhat concerned look on his assistant’s face.

“And, what else, Jay?”

“It doesn’t have an outside entrance. We’re missing something Harry.”

Harry stared at Jay. Maybe a little too long. He hated these situations. Because you kept digging until you found out why the building did not have a door. Even if it took all summer. Chasing one little fact for countless hours. Was it worth it? Who really cared if you added that fact to the historic record. He did.

Harry looked at Jay again, wondering if he was getting too much sun. “A building without an entrance. Ridiculous, Jay.” Jay looked at Harry and knew immediately what he was thinking. ‘Find the damned entrance. Even if if takes the rest of the summer.’ So, they went to work.

A few weeks later, the project now almost over, the two men sat talking, drinking their beers, overlooking the large excavated storage cellar and parts of the Big House. “So, why would he do that, Harry? Did he want all the brandy for himself?”

Harry thought for a moment, took another swig of his beer before answering. “He didn’t trust his men I guess. Not with the liquor. That was the only way he could control the supplies. And those brass spigots for casks we found down there certainly hint to liquor storage.” They sat in silence pondering their somewhat unusual find.

Fort George, 2015

The little boy, holding his father’s hand, read the interpretive sign overlooking an enormous hole in the ground at the Fort George site. “Why would the trader have a secret passageway from his house into this cellar dad?”

“Maybe he didn’t trust his men, son.”

“But what if the archaeologists hadn’t found this passageway?”

“Then, son, I guess we might not know as much about the relationship between the boss and his men.”

“But what if it doesn’t mean that at all dad? Maybe the trader was too lazy to go out in the minus forty degree winter night and get some brandy? So, he had the men build a passageway to the cellar from his quarters.”

The father looked thoughtfully at his boy. “I agree. Except for one thing. There was no other entrance, except through his quarters. I don’t think he wanted his men traipsing through his private quarters all the time. And he didn’t want them in that cellar. Looks a little suspicious to me, son.” They walked off, still a little puzzled, to read another interpretive panel at the site.

Author’s Note

For many years I thought about the peculiar storage cellar and its even stranger entrance at Fort George. Although we looked for an outside entrance, the evidence was sketchy. The concealed tunnel from Angus Shaw’s Big House to the storage cellar was real enough. Below is a sketch of the fort showing the location of the cellar and the entrance into the Big House. The cellar excavation was incredible. The roof had collapsed into it and was almost completely intact. Poles, bark and all. For me it was one of those rare archaeological moments.

This is a revised version of Robert Kidd’s (1970) layout of Fort George, based on our later excavations at the fort. The final story about this fort, and who occupied it, has not yet been told. The layout of this fort, in a short eight year period of occupation, changed several times. In fact, in one of those versions, the south palisade ran through former buildings. And, many of the building cellars were packed with rubbish. This has also puzzled me for many years. I have been toying with the idea that after the North West Company abandoned this fort, someone else (i.e., independent peddlers, Metis freemen, etc.) re-occupied it. Presently, the archaeological facts just don’t fit with a single occupation.

Interpreting what we found, however, was the most difficult part of all. Obviously Shaw wanted a private entrance into his stores. But why? Was the little boy right? Simply for convenience? Or, because of the social distance and distrust between North West Company Scottish traders and their mostly French Canadian/Metis labourers? Other differences, including clothing, housing and food, and type of labor, also separated the Company officers from their men.

As is often the case, there is no definitive proof or one answer here. All too common when dealing with either the historic documentary or archaeological records. This story represents one of those possibilities.

References

Coues, Elliot (editor). 1897. New Light on the Early History of the Greater Northwest: The Manuscript Journals of Alexander Henry, Fur Trader of the Northwest Company, and David Thompson, Official Geographer and Explorer of the Same Company, 1799-1814. Volume 2. Ross and Haines, Minneapolis.

Kidd, Robert S. 1970. Fort George and the Early Fur Trade in Alberta. Provincial Museum and Archives of Alberta, Publication No. 2.

Masson, L. R. (editor). 1890. John McDonald of Garth Autobiographical Notes, 1791-1816. In Les Bourgeois de la Compagnie du Nord-ouest: Recits de voyages, lettres et rapports inedits relatifs au nord-ouest Canadien. Volume 2. De l’imprimerie generala. cote et cie, Quebec.

Morton, Arthur S. (editor). 1929. The Journal of Duncan M’Gillivray of the North West Company at Fort George on the Saskatchewan, 1794-5. MacMillan, Toronto.