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‘Pick Your Poison’: Louis’ Peculiar Tobacco Pipe

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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 Written Word. Dissecting My Historical Fiction Story: A Lark Came A’Callin – The Expressman’s Tale. Chapter 3. The Irreconcilable Mr. Pool.

Taking a ‘Shot’ at Writing

I’m working on a Historical Fiction mystery novel. In it a young French Canadian voyageur tries to solve his parents’ murder. His only clues: a dead lark, or Alouette, left on the bodies of the victims. And a Cross of Lorraine superimposed on a Fleur de lis tattooed on their bodies. Currently I’ve figured out bits and pieces of the plot, or occasionally an entire scene or chapter, which might end up somewhere in the finished novel.

As a little test, to see how the novel flows, I submitted a chapter to a magazine writing contest. I’ve heard back now. I won’t be winning a ‘Booker’ or ‘Giller’ prize for my work any time soon. But, I also wanted feedback about my writing. How do experienced, published writers view my work?

Well, I got the feedback I wanted. And, was relieved that a response like, ‘Heinz, it’s perhaps best if you took up another hobby. Maybe carpentry…’ didn’t appear.

However, here’s what struck me about the judge’s comments. Something I’ve noticed on other occasions as well: quite often the structure of the prose is more important than the ‘story’. I’m not implying that the quality of my story would have gotten me any further in this contest. Probably not.

I’m not alone in pointing out this tendency. There is considerable debate on the topic. No doubt, better prose improve any story, including mine. But, occasionally the ‘structure’ of the prose dominate and diminish the story. Or, no matter how good the prose, they can’t improve a poor story.

I read a lot. Acclaimed literary works, ‘pulp fiction’, and an endless amount of archaeological literature. In archaeology, Louis Binford is arguably one of our greatest thinkers. Yet he is constantly plagued by his critics as being a poor writer. His detractors often fail to see the bigger picture – his incredible academic contributions written in prose which I don’t find difficult to read.1

Back to my work. One suggestion to improve it is to reconsider how I present my characters’ thoughts. “The characters often think their thoughts directly to the reader.” In other words, “…direct transcription of character thought is distracting in a narrative that is otherwise told in the third person point of view.” I agree with the judge that humans don’t think in clear, well formed sentences. But, occasionally this method is a useful way of conveying information and moving the narrative along. Some very influential writers use it. But sparingly. Dan Brown’s editor, in “Angels & Demons” didn’t find this method troubling.

So, here’s my book chapter submission. And following the chapter are the reviewer’s comments (whose name, and that of the magazine, shall remain anonymous) on how I might improve my work.

Both might interest you.

SAID ONE OF THESE MEN , LONG PAST SEVENTY YEARS OF AGE : “l 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 TH E LIVES OF TEN VOYAGEURS. HAVE HAD TWELVE WIVES AND SIX RUNNING DOGS. I SPENT ALL MY MONEY IN PLEASURE. WERE I YOUNG AGAIN, I SHOULD SPEND MY LIFE THE SAME WAY OVER. THERE IS NO LIFE SO HAPPY AS A VOAYAGEUR’S LIFE.” (Old Voyageur, from The Voyageur by Grace Lee Nute, 1931)

The Chapter

A Lark Came A’Callin: The Expressman’s Tale

Chapter 3: The Irreconcilable Mr. Pool

On the Peace River, Canada, 1787

Raven watched from his lofty perch, overlooking the ‘big river’. Unjegahu, as the Dene called it. Nothing passed unnoticed by Raven.

As he sat on the spruce branch overlooking the vast, winding northern river, he heard it first. A strange chanting, the joining of many voices. In a tongue new to him.

‘Alouette, gentille alouette,
Alouette, je te plumerai….’

Then he saw them. Something he’d never seen on the river before. Five large bark canoes with men, bright colored sashes tied around their waists, paddling feverishly, as if time was in short supply. As they sang, their paddles kept in sync with the rhythm of their music.

When he looked closer, he realized they were not Dene. They were – different. As Raven looked into the future – as only a trickster such as he could – he sensed change, turmoil and pain. But his vision of the future was foggy. He recognized though that here was perhaps an opportunity for revenge for the wrongs the Dene inflicted on his kind, turning them forever black. He flew off the branch chuckling and muttering,

The American trader Peter Pool sat in the front of the canoe watching the raven fly beside his brigade. ‘These fucking birds are a nuisance’, he thought. ‘Always watching, squawking and crapping everywhere. Scaring the game off when we enter the country.’ He felt the rage coming on. Barely seeing the raven through swirling circles of bright lights before his eyes, slicing through the pain in his head. In anger he raised his musket and fired at Raven. The musket’s report scared Raven and sent him spinning towards the water; and he did as the trader predicted – shit everywhere.

The young expressman looked on as Pool totally lost it. Over what? A raven flying too close to their canoe? ‘Merde. What an asshole,’ thought Francois Fornier. ‘We’ve traveled thousands of miles, on treacherous waters, from Montreal. And he loses it over a squawking bird.’

Fornier turned to his men, “Steady as she goes, men. Keep up the pace now. Prendre le temps. The days are getting shorter, and we need to eat miles.” The six voyageurs put their backs into their strokes, moving the large birchbark canoe upriver against the current, hour after endless hour. Day after endless day. The four other canoes in their brigade followed them. This was their hundredth day on the water, and they looked as fresh as when they left Montreal. In fact, fresher. As always, a great deal of frolicking and debauchery preceded the departures of the fur brigades into the Canadian northwest. Leading to thick heads when final goodbyes were said.

One of the voyageurs, LaFleur, glanced at both men furtively as he paddled. ‘I don’t trust either of them. That crazy American yelling and screaming. At a silly bird no less. Nor our leader who is as mysterious as the American is crazy. Carries that enormous bow instead of a musket. Educated in England somewhere and does strange things with liquids and such. Some sort of alchemist, they say.’ Then LaFleur rubbed his still tender nose, remembering all too well what the expressman had done to him when he’d stepped out of line. And continued paddling, letting more pleasant things occupy his mind.

Fornier sat on a higher perch at the back of the large birch bark canoe. Watching his men and feeling the rhythm of the song as their paddles dug into the water. He’d trained them well and had their respect despite his young age. He’d earned his place at the back of the canoe leading some of the toughest men on the continent. The challenge from LaFleur earlier on, and the man’s broken nose that resulted, sent a clear message to his men. He was in charge. He owned them. He was their Expressman, or the ‘Loup’ or lead wolf – the foremost voyageur and leader among them. Counted upon to move humans, information, and supplies safely through the Canadian wilderness.

What bothered him though, besides that belligerent asshole Pool, was the whereabouts of the men he secretly pursued. He’d caught glimpses of their sign – a cross of Lorraine on top a Fleur de Lis. Men who killed in the name of France; but indiscriminately. Including his father and mother, so long ago. Men who left a calling card over his dead body, a dead Alouette. Men who refused to believe that France lost this rich land to the English. Their secret society and their motto, For God and Country, sounded hollow in Fornier’s ears.

‘But where are they? Did they come this way? Or take another river? There are so many.’ He wondered about their whereabouts. Worried that he would never find them in this vast wilderness. And finally avenge his parent’s death. But, his every instinct, his training as a young man among the Iroquois, before he left for England, in tracking and forest-craft, told him they were ahead of him. And then he saw the signs. His men missed them, but he hadn’t. Now he felt certain they were closing in.

And what about poor Cataphor? Lost? Dead? Simply disappeared one morning. The expressman felt badly. He was responsible for the young voyageur. There were few signs as to what happened. But he sensed the men he chased were somehow responsible.

His attention returned to Pool. An enigma. Brilliant at times. Engaging. Joking and laughing with his men. A man of great vision. Then suddenly in the blink of an eye he would change. Screaming. And then turning violent. Rumors flew. He had killed a man but was never charged because of insufficient evidence. Fornier sighed, muttering to himself, ‘Je ne comprends pas.’

Fornier recalled Pool’s latest explosion only two days earlier: “The next man who looks at me like that will pay dearly,” yelled Pool. “I’ll eat my own way. You eat the way you want.” Arguing over a bloody meal. Then the stammering and holding his head. As if it were ready to come off. The man needed careful watching. The men were afraid.

A still angry Pool yelled at no one in particular. “Where’s that bundle of feathers now? I’ll give him another shot if he shows. His ass will be so heavy with lead it will be dragging in the water when he flies.” As he shouted his men continued to paddle up the great river, heads down, now in silence. Trying to avoid the man’s wrath by ducking low and letting his words flow harmlessly out onto the water.

Fornier said nothing. It rankled him that his men were always in the Connecticut man’s line of fire. But Pool had hired the expressman to lead his canoes. As far up this river as possible. And Fornier reluctantly respected his wishes. ‘But I don’t like this one bit’, thought Fornier. He sensed trouble.  

Pool looked askance at his Dene guide. “Where the hell are we anyway? Do you know the way?” Pool knew little about the Athapaukow country, or its people. But he’d heard the stories. Stories of a great river leading west towards the mountains, and possibly the Pacific Ocean. And, of another even larger river, leading north and ending the northern ocean. And, of a people who lived along the river. Who, if the stories were true, were not to be trifled with. They were the Dene, or the real people. ‘Then what the hell are we,’ thought Pool? ‘Never mind…’

His guide responded. “We’re on the Unjegahu, also known as the ‘River of Peace’. This is the river we must travel to go further towards the setting sun.” Then he fell silent. Better that way. Knowing what frame of mind Pool was in.

“Well good. The river of Peace. We’ll be welcomed with open arms by these real people then.” Silence. Only the churning water from the continuous paddling responded.

Pool, now beginning to cool off. Pondering. ‘Am I on the right river? The one that leads to the Pacific Ocean? Or is this another wild goose chase, and these red-skinned heathens don’t really know? Did my expressman lead me astray?’ The swirling colors before his eyes had subsided. But his head still throbbed. No more sweating, his speaking back to normal. And no more heart palpitations. Often, when these fits came on, he almost blacked out. ‘Just like that little incident with that black bird,’ he thought. ‘I must be more careful.’

…………………………..

Now resting, the men sat in their canoes, smoking their tobacco pipes. Talking about home and their loved ones. What they’d do with their hard-earned money once they reached Montreal again next summer. Impressing their women with tales of the Canadian northwest. “Well, I’m buying my woman the finest dress in Montreal when we get back,” drawled a young Louis. “She’ll be the best-looking belle femme in the city.”

“First you need to find a woman, Louis. You’re so ugly, and smell so bad, even the bears along the river are staying away.” Louis shot Guy a grisly look but said no more. The other men’s laughter, along with their tobacco smoke, drifted over the water.

The Expressman barely listened to the banter. He glanced at Pool. He seemed to be gathering himself but still looked like shit after that last bout. Something was wrong. He could sense it. That feeling of foreboding. When he was young, he had asked his Iroquois elder about it.

“Saunadanoncoua, it makes no sense. But I feel something. Whenever there’s danger or change. Why?”

“There are things we can’t explain about our feelings. But because we can’t explain them, we shouldn’t ignore them. Ignoring your senses, your feelings, could cost you your life.”

‘Good words to live by,’ thought Fornier. Something was wrong. He looked upriver again, up the vast valley of the Unjegahu. Finishing their smoke, the men took up their paddles and the canoes began moving again. Ahead a sharp bend appeared in the river, where it narrowed the high bluffs almost overhung the water.

As they neared, they heard the harsh squawking of the ravens, circling above the bluff. “This time I won’t miss,” shouted Pool, reaching for his musket. He was about to fire, when a large steely arm shot out and stopped him.

“Stop. There’s something wrong ahead.”

“What do you mean something’s wrong, expressman? Just a bunch of noisy birds…”

“Quiet. And put your musket down,” whispered Fornier. A shocked Pool hesitated, then did as the expressman asked.

“The birds are warning us, something’s up ahead. You said so earlier that they scare all the game away if they sense danger.” Pool grudgingly shook his head, now trapped by his own words.

Suddenly Fornier waved the other canoes to shore, shouting. “Set up camp. We stay here for the night.”

Pool started arguing, “But we could still paddle two more hours before the suns disappears, expressman. This is outrageous—”

Fornier cut him off with a glare. “We camp here, Pool. We go no further today.” Fornier had seen the signs. Every abandoned campfire they passed as they paddled up the river, looked fresher. They were catching up. And, he had seen the glint of a brass dragon side-plate on the musket up on the bluffs. These weren’t the real people. But they might be the real enemy he had chased across half a continent.

His companion and friend John Bertrand, who was manning another canoe, approached him once they were on shore. “What’s wrong loup? Why are we stopping so soon?”

Fornier hesitated. Although he trusted his one and only friend immensely, he needed to handle this alone.

“I think we’re catching up to them. They might be waiting for us to come near that bend ahead. Up in the bluffs there. Above the river. Let’s make camp, John. Let me think what to do.”

The men were already busy making camp. After one-hundred days, everyone knew what to do, almost doing it in their sleep. As night fell, some of the men settled around the fire after their spartan meal. Others were already asleep under their overturned canoes.

Suddenly the silence of the evening was shattered, as it seemed all hell was about to break loose in the valley. The wolf pack began chorusing, the sound echoing down the river valley. The men looked around furtively. The expressman was gone.

St. Germaine spat into the fire. “I tell you boys, there’s something about that expressman. Gives me the shivers. Merde. I’ve heard the stories back in Quebec. Some say he runs with the wolves. A true runner of the woods, like his uncle who raised him. Some even say he’s a shapeshifter. Maybe running with those wolves right now.”

Lafleur looked at St. Germaine. “Merde, Germaine, you’ve got some imagination. And you haven’t even been drinking. But I agree, something’s off. Why would an educated man, from a wealthy, well respected French family, sign on with this crew? And that crazy shit who thinks he leads us?”

And young Roy, in a conspiratorial whisper, “And what are those larks tattooed on each arm all about? And, why always that song: Alouette, gentille alouette…when we paddle? I’m getting sick singing about plucking larks’ feathers, and heads.”

Further away, sitting by his own campfire, Pool also wondered where the expressman had gone. And what his real purpose in this voyage was. But what could he do? He was fighting his own demons. And the expressman had gotten them this far. This wasn’t the first time he’d gone off without saying much.

Bertrand listened to the men but said nothing. He had seen Fornier silently glide into the woods, large bow in hand. And a quiver of arrows on his back. He knew where le loup was headed. And what he was doing. Just as he was thinking these things, the wolf pack now nearer, continued to fill the valley with their songs. In-between their high-pitched chorusing, he thought he heard an explosion off in the distance but couldn’t be certain.

……………………….

As dawn emerged the men prepared to depart, moving like waifs through the swirling mist which had engulfed the river valley during the night. As they loaded the canoes, the expressman sat by the morning fire finishing the last of his breakfast. As if nothing had happened during the night. As if he’d been there all along.

Bertrand walked by and looked at his friend. “Everything alright, loup?”

“Just fine, John. Get these men moving. We need to get on the water.”

“But what about the bend up ahead?”

“All good, John. No need to worry.” The expressman got up and prepared to leave.

As he bent down to pick up his belongings, John noticed the strange medallion around his friend’s neck. Fornier glanced up just in time to see Bertrand’s confused expression. But neither man said anything as they walked towards their canoes.

“Get your asses into these canoes, you lazy bastards. We have to make up lost time for yesterday,” shouted Pool. Already standing in the shaky canoe and getting himself riled up even as dawn broke. He seemed to forget one of the voyageur’s warnings about these canoes. ‘De canoe, she’s so tippy, dat you hav to keep de tongue in the middle of your mouth, or you go in de water.’

They were soon on their way. As they neared the bend, Bertrand glanced at the high bluffs above the river. Instead of seeing any threat, he was only greeted with an eery silence. They were almost past when an enormous wolf appeared on the edge of the bluff, out of the lifting fog. Licking his bloody maw.

Bertrand glanced at Fornier, who also was looking up as they passed. “The pack must have made a kill last night.” Fornier said no more as the two canoes drifted further apart. Bertrand shuddered, wondering who had really made a kill last night.

Pool was keeping his own council. In his head. Occasionally mumbling to himself. As if having an argument with some imaginary friend. ‘He’s fighting it again,’ thought Fornier as he watched the man. ‘Great! Just when we’re entering the most dangerous part of our journey.’

His Chipewyan guide interrupted his thoughts pointing up the river. Fornier looked and saw it. In the distance, white plumes of mist were rising from the river hundreds of feet in the air. Then the tremendous roar of millions of gallons of water falling met his ears. They were near the ‘chutes’ – the great falls on the big river.

Pool suddenly came out of his self-induced stupor. “This river looks peaceful enough, my friend. Its wide, with a strong current, but nothing really to stop us or endanger us.”

‘God, he doesn’t even see or hear the falls up ahead. Perhaps he thinks that’s just the roaring between his ears. Where is that man’s brain,’ mused Fornier?

“That will soon change,” said his Dene guide. Soon we’ll come to the falls, where we hopefully will meet the real people.”

“What are our chances of getting permission from them to go further up,” he asked his guide?

“I really don’t know. Our people haven’t had much contact with them since the disease came to our lands. They’re extremely suspicious of strangers, especially those who might bring the disease to them.”

“But that smallpox epidemic is already three years old. Surely by now they would still not harbour any fears about it?”

“I don’t know what more to tell you. They’re fearful of this disease. They saw firsthand what it did to their long-time enemies, the Cree. They’re fearful and suspicious with anything to do with White men. Disease might just be an excuse to avoid you.”

“Well, can’t we just go past them, asked Pool?

“Unwise. A powerful shaman leads them. To him all Whites are trash, and all the things they bring with them are useless and trivial. This encounter will not be pleasant.” His guide said no more. Soon they would find out for themselves.

Fornier listened intently to the conversation. Letting Pool handle this encounter could be disastrous. But what choice did he have? Except prepare himself for all possibilities.

Pool reflected on the guide’s words. “We must get further up this river. I must know where it leads. We must establish forts for hunting in those lands. I’ll do anything to make that happen.”

Fornier only shuddered when he heard those words. And remembered Saunadanoncoua’s words long ago when living with the Iroquois. “You Whites are so impertinent. Thinking that out in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by thousands of us, you are in charge.”

‘Stupid,’ thought Fornier, was a better word how they sometimes acted toward the Natives.  

Finally, Pool heard it, and smiled. Even louder than the rumble between his ears. The distance the roar of the water, as it cascaded over jagged rocks, and a precipice, some twenty feet high.

As they paddled closer the sound increased until they could barely talk over it. The boiling, roiling waters shook the ground, so tremendous was its force. It was an awe-inspiring sight, as the falls stretched across wide expanse of the river.

Pool and his crew sat in their craft mesmerized by the sight. Finally, Pool turned and shouted at his guide, “How long are these rapids and falls? There must be some way around them.”

His Native guide looked at him quizzically. ‘Long’? What did that mean? “It would take half a day to walk on the trail along the falls, to get to the other side. The trail is treacherous, but well enough marked and used.”

‘Christ,’ thought Pool. This was a major obstacle if they built further upriver.

LaFleur, trying to make friends with Pool spoke up. “A trifle, my friend. I’ve seen worse. We’re voyageurs. Accustomed to this work. With our sashes tied to the bales, we easily carry two ninety-pound bales over the trails. Some of us even carry three…”

And then they saw them. There on a rocky ledge above the roaring falls stood the Dene hunters quietly watching them. Among them was one who immediately caught Pool’s attention. Bigger than the others, standing very erect, he gazed stonily at them. He had sharp features, green eyes, and his hair were as black as that raven Pool had shot at. Tied to his hair was one raven feather – white.

“Is that him,” Pool asked his guide?

His guide responded. “Yes, he leads.” Pool looked on. The man had slightly stained red hands. He was dressed mainly in leather. On his shirt, near his heart, etched in red and green paint, were two circles, each with a dot in the center. Symbols of his people. Around his neck hung two strikingly brilliant green stone celts. Pool and his men had a hard time keeping their eyes off them. The man continued to gaze at them, saying nothing.

In front of the man sat an enormous dog, or wolf, or something in between. Pool wasn’t sure what it was. The beast stared at him as well, like that of his owner, with one blue and one green eye. ‘If looks could kill,’ thought Pool, ‘I’d be dead mightily fast. From either one.’

After gazing at the animal, Pool finally whispered to his now nervous Native guide.

“What’s his name? What do I call him?”

“That is the Two Hearts,” his guide managed to stutter. “He has crossed many game trails in his dreams and has the powers from many animals.”

“Two Hearts? What kind of name is that for a man?”

“Well, he comes by that name honestly. One heart is soft, gentle and compassionate for his people. The other heart is cold, calculating and merciless for his enemies.

Now a shuddering Pool managed to ask. “Can we get per….permission to go ffff…..further upriver from him?”

“He’s highly respected by all the river People. His people go all the way to the great mountains, and he has relatives all along this river.”

“Well, at least we’re talking to the right man then,” replied Pool. He motioned for his men to paddle closer to the shore so that they could disembark and meet this man. No sooner had he done so than the shaman held up his open hand, palm out, extended his arm toward them and started talking to their guide. He spoke for some time and then stopped and continued to look at them.

“What did he say,” Pool asked his guide? “Did he greet us and welcome us to his land?”

The guide paled at Pool’s words. “No. He told us to stay in our canoes and not come ashore. He asked what we want, why are we here, this far up the river?”

“Why won’t he let us land?”

“He says the disease is still among us and to come closer would endanger his people. He dreamt this. You must stay away.”

“Is that bugger crazy,” shouted Pool over the waterfall? “Tell him that epidemic is long over with, and he need not fear us, or our goods.”

The guide translated Pool’s request, but the Two Hearts only shook his head. And the way he shook it told Pool, that there would likely be bad consequences if they didn’t listen.

“He refuses your request. He says not to come up the river any further or he will kill all of us.”

Pool only stared in disbelief. He could feel a rage coming on, his chest tightening, his face reddening. ‘God, I must control myself.’ But he couldn’t stop himself.

“Te-tell, hhimm, we bring gifts, tobacco, brandy, knives and guns, which we would bbbee ha…happy to give him if he allows us to continue upriver,” stuttered a now unraveling Pool.

His guide again translated, and the Two Hearts listened, and then shook his head again.

“He says your gifts are tainted, so are your clothes and all you possess. Even your hearts – tainted and bad. He dreamt this. He says his people have lived in these lands forever without all these things. He says to leave immediately, and not come back for the next two summers. He may then reconsider your request.”

Now Pool was shrieking, spit flying in all directions. “That fucking idiot. It took us months to get here, and now he tells us to turn back.” Somehow Pool had managed to stand up in his tippy canoe wildly swinging and waving with his hands. His men cringed in fear. No one could swim, except Fornier.

“I’ll shoot the red-handed bastard, if he doesn’t listen.” Pool bent down to reach for his musket. But his musket had mysteriously disappeared from where he last put it. “Where’s my fucking mus… musket? Who took it? I want to tear this heathen another arsehole. Where’s issss…is it?”

‘To shoot this red-handed bastard as this idiot called him, would mean sudden death,’ thought Fornier. That’s why the musket had disappeared, hidden among the goods, well away from Pool’s shaking hands.

Finally, Fornier stood in the canoe and took out his great horned bow, constantly looking at the shaman. And then to his guide, “ask him to show me his powers. Are they as great as mine?” The guide translated and the shaman nodded. He recognized the challenge.

The shaman touched the two circles on his chest. Suddenly, they changed colors, turning a bright blue then fading completely. Then he talked to the guide.

“Now he wants to see your powers.”

Fornier nodded then nocked a strange looking arrow onto his bowstring and pulled aiming at a large rock exposed in the falls. The arrow flew and hit the rock squarely creating an explosion so powerful that the rock vanished, and everyone was nearly thrown off their feet. The voyageurs sat paralyzed in their canoes. And then, what seemed like an eternity, small pieces of rocks rained down on them.

The shaman, seemingly unperturbed muttered to his companions, “This man knows of the earth’s powers.”

Fornier also muttered, “The man’s a ‘flippin’ chemist. In his own way.”

The shaman spoke to their guide, who translated. “He says you possess great power and he might reconsider…..”

His words were cut off, when behind the shaman, an enormous grizzled, bearded white man appeared, pushing before him, poor Cataphor, now on his knees, hands tied behind his back. Pool’s men gasped at the sight.

Then the trader took his large knife and held under the young voyageur’s neck threateningly. “Now listen you American shit. I’ll slit his throat two days from now, if I don’t hear back from the men I sent downriver. Understand. Two days.”

Fornier looked on in horror. There was nothing he could do or say that would help now. Those men were never coming back.

Pool’s canoes began floating back downriver. The last thing the Dene saw, was a totally out of control Pool beating his guide over the back with a paddle, and then trying to destroy the canoe with it.

The Two Hearts watched the episode in silence. This was getting out of control. He had seen the expressman slyly take Pool’s musket and hide it. And, just for an instant while doing it the young men’s eyes locked. Then he noticed the strange medallion around the man’s neck. And he shuddered. ‘Another one? Just like this butcher beside me?’

Fornier too was watching the Dene leader’s group as they drifted away. He had seen the trader’s forearms. On them was tattooed cross on top of the Fleur de Lis. He had finally found them. But what were they doing with the Dene? How had they gained their confidence? And how was he going to get Cataphor back?

As the canoes disappeared, the Two Hearts turned and walked up the portage trail with his people, and the strange tattooed white man, pushing a reluctant, trembling Cataphor in front of him. Thinking. ‘These two traders are both butchers. Not hesitating to kill their own. What can I do? I must protect my own too.’

 But as he walked, he also wondered about the voyageur with the same ornament around his neck as his white trading companion. He had great powers. And he wondered what the larks tattooed on his arms meant. After all, weren’t all marks symbols? Signs of the past. Or of what lay ahead?

After drifting downriver a few miles, the brigade finally put ashore for the day. A still seething Pool stomped around, knowing now he was defeated. “Where the fuck’s the expressman? I want a word with him,” shouted Pool. Everyone looked around. The expressman had vanished.

“Heeeeeeeee, heee, si… signed a cont… contract. What do yo… you mean he’s gone?” Pool, now drenched in sweat, saw again the grand colors swirling before his eyes.

Bertrand reminded him, “You remember the words in the contract, Pool. His and mine. It stated we would take you up this river as far as possible. We have and now the contract is fulfilled.” With that he walked off, taking his few possessions and disappeared in the woods along the riverbank.

 The last thing Bertrand heard was a screaming Pool, demanding they come back. He headed upriver to join his friend. He knew exactly where the expressman had gone. And what he intended to do. Again, the lark was a’callin.

…………………………….

The Judge’s Review

Dear Heinz,

Thank you for sending us “A Lark Came A’Callin.”  Unfortunately, your work was not accepted for publication, but we are grateful for the chance to review it. Thank you also for requesting an editorial letter. In addition to giving you some insight into the selection process, this option allows me (and others on staff) to spend more time with individual submissions.

While inherently subjective, I hope this editorial feedback is both actionable and encouraging.

Here’s what I enjoyed about this piece – I appreciate that this novel plunges us directly into a unique historical time period that not many people will have a great deal of understanding about. It’s especially cool that you have so much experience as a historian of this time and place, and therefore, your reader can trusts that the details you provide are accurate and true to life. Mr. Pool is certainly an interesting, cantankerous, character, and your reader is likely to be compelled by the force of his personality as he crashes through the wilderness. I also enjoyed getting Raven’s perspective up front – an interesting framing device and a good way to signal to your reader that change is afoot in this wilderness.

However, right now, the prose gets in the way of the story somewhat. The characters often think their thoughts directly to the reader, bracketed in single quotation marks. Consider this sequence, for example:

The American trader Peter Pool sat in the front of the canoe watching the raven fly beside his brigade. ‘These fucking birds are a nuisance’, he thought. ‘Always watching, squawking and crapping everywhere. Scaring the game off when we enter the country.’ He felt the rage coming on. Barely seeing the raven through swirling circles of bright lights before his eyes, slicing through the pain in his head. In anger he raised his musket and fired at Raven. The musket’s report scared Raven and sent him spinning towards the water; and he did as the trader predicted – shit everywhere.

The young expressman looked on as Pool totally lost it. Over what? A raven flying too close to their canoe? ‘Merde. What an asshole,’ thought Francois Fornier.‘ We’ve traveled thousands of miles, on treacherous waters, from Montreal. And he loses it over a squawking bird.’

This sort of direct transcription of character thought is distracting in a narrative that is otherwise told in the third person point of view. The more natural way to frame these thoughts would be to put them in the expositional voice: “Peter Pool thought ravens were a fucking nuisance.” That way, your reader won’t have to jump from head to head so quickly, which may cause them to lose track of whose perspective we’re in. Also, people rarely think thoughts so clearly and grammatically in their heads. So, a direct transcription of complete sentences that read more like dialogue, presented as thought, feels artificial to your reader. It can also have the effect of making all of your characters’ thoughts sound as if they’re written in the same voice, as though their internal monologues all sound the same. (On a surface level, wouldn’t Francois be thinking in French?) This can flatten the unique voices of your characters, and it can make them seem more like puppets under the control of a third person narrator than like real people popping off the page. Upon revision, you might want to consider putting your characters’ thoughts into the third person exposition.

On a more general level, this piece is written in the third person omniscient, which means we hop from point of view to point of iew as new characters make their appearance on the page. The omniscient voice isn’t the most modern voice, and it’s more commonly found in the work of Masters like Gabriel Garcia Marquez and George Eliot. In order for the omniscient voice to work well on the page, it’s important that the narrative voice feel separate and distinct from the characters’ voices. Have you ever read One Hundred Years of Solitude, for example? It’s a masterclass on manipulating the thoughts and feelings of a huge cast of characters while maintaining a consistent third person point of view. Upon revision, you might want to consider beefing up the narrative voice as a distinct entity on the page. That way, your reader won’t feel like we’re swinging from close third to close third, which can be confusing. Instead, a confident omniscient voice will hold all of the pieces together.

Finally, just in general, you might want to consider reading your work out loud. That way, you’ll catch awkward grammatical structures and convoluted phrasing as well as typos and missing or misplaced punctuation.

Some other questions I had as a reader about your work that you might consider answering upon revision are:

  • What does your work have to say about the current moment? Why is it important to tell this story now?
  • What does your work have to say about stories of the wilderness?
  • What does your work have to say about how strong personalities interact with difficult circumstances?

I enjoyed reading your work. I hope these comments help to inspire and guide you in your revision process. Thanks again for trusting me (and ************ Mag)! After thoughtful revision, you might consider submitting to the following journals: Pithead Chapel, The Chestnut Review, X-R-A-Y Litmag, and The Jellyfish Review.

Best of luck with this piece and all your future writing endeavors!

Warmly,

*******************

Footnotes:
  1. I’ve always been a ‘content/results first’ guy. It’s not how pretty the excavation looks, or how elegant the project is written. It’s all about the results attained and adequately communicated. And that’s probably where I get into trouble in the literary world. A world where syntax and structure bear a lot more weight in the credibility of a piece of work.[↩]
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Beware Those Who Bear ‘Gifts’

Northern Dene winter camp. https://i.pinimg.com/736x/b9/ed/d6/b9edd6e0a3d372eed7fea2d1cda86ec0–ottawa-canada.jpg

“…the beaver does everything to perfection…he makes for us kettles, axes, swords, knives, and gives drink and food.” (Seventeenth century Mi’kmaq hunter commenting on the trade. From LeClercq, Chrestien, 1910. New Relation of Gaspesia: With the Customs and Religion of the Gaspesian Indians, William F. Ganong ed. and trans. Toronto: Champlain Society, p, 277)

University of Alberta, 1970

Harry Reed, first year student at the University of Alberta, sat in class listening to his professor drone on about White contact with Indigenous peoples of Canada.

Finally, an impatient Harry raised his hand. “I don’t understand Professor Langdon. It’s obvious, isn’t it? When Whites came, they brought knives, axes, and guns superior to anything Native peoples had. And the Natives readily accepted or traded for them. What’s so complex and threatening about that?

Professor Langdon stared at Harry, as if he had just grown another head. Instead of answering the question, because the class was just finishing, he motioned to Harry.

“Mr. Reed, perhaps a word with you after class.”

Harry, just fresh out of small town Saskatchewan, groaned inwardly. He had already learned in his short time at the U of A whenever a professor felt you needed more instruction, it meant more reading. Endless reading. Hundreds, thousands of pages of reading.

“Mr. Reed, you’re unconvinced with my lecture?”

“Well, Professor Langdon, when you talk about trade for those fur trade articles, you seem to imply there’s more to the story. How does the acquisition of things change peoples’ lives? Their entire culture?”

“I only have one hour to lecture, Mr. Reed. I can’t elaborate as much as I’d like to on certain subjects. So, to better understand this topic I’d like you to do some extra reading.” With that the good professor gave Harry a list of articles to read.

“And start with this one, Mr. Reed. I’m sure you will find most of the answers there.”

With that Professor Langdon left the classroom, and Harry groaning. ‘More reading.’

Harry looked at the title of the first article his professor suggested. Steel Axes for Stone-Age Australians by Lauriston Sharp. Now just how was reading about stone axes and Australian Aborigines supposed to answer his question about White-Indigenous relations in the Canadian fur trade?

Courtesy, The Beaver, Autumn, 1983, Special Issue. An array of articles used in the Canadian fur trade. Just how quickly Indigenous people adopted these articles and abandoned their traditional technologies, is a matter of debate:

“Our supper was made on the tongues of the wild ox, or buffalo,
Boiled in my kettle which was the only one in camp.”  (Alexander Henry [elder], 1772, among the Blackfoot)

“The Peigan would not, “…kill a beaver or any other fur animal to enable them to purchase an ax or other European utensil….Many families are still destitude of either a kettle or an ax.” (Alexander Henry [younger], 1810, among the Blackfoot)

……………………….

A few days later before his next Anthropology class, Harry read about the Yir Yoront, an Australian stone-age people contacted by White missionaries in the 1930s. Professor Langdon asked him to paraphrase what he learned. And what he learned was quite astonishing:

Stone-age axes made from a stone blade, glued into a wooden handle with tree gum. http://vignette4.wikia.nocookie.net/unrealworld/images/8/8c/Axes6.jpg/revision/latest?cb=20140620100514

The Yir Yoront

The Yir Yoront lived at the mouth of the Coleman River, west coast of Cape York Peninsula, in today’s Queensland, northern Australia.

First studied by Anthropologist Lauriston Sharp in the 1930s, the Yir Yoront were relatively isolated. They maintained an independent economy, supporting themselves entirely by means of their old stone age techniques. However, their polished stone axes were being rapidly replaced by steel axes they acquired from European missionaries.

The Yir Yoront traded for stone axes some distance because local stones for making axes were lacking. Its acquisition, and subsequent production (making the handles and binding axe heads to them with local resins) was the domain of the more prominent Yir Yoront men. The axe therefore was the property of the men, although family members could use it. In short the stone axe, a very important tool for Yir Yoront economy, was connected to both gender and age identity in Yir Yoront society. It’s ownership, and who could borrow it, defined age and gender relationships among the people. And just as importantly its manufacture and use was closely tied to the peoples’ history.

The introduction and eventual adoption of steel axes changed these relationships. Women and children now had direct access to axes and men no longer were able to control either ownership or their use. Men in Yir Yoront society lost their distinct identity and gender relationships began to change. Confusion about sex, age and kinship roles emerged, for the sake of more independence by women. Trading partners were either lost or prestige relations between partners changed and leadership roles changed. And the last effect of the introduction of the steel axe was an emerging deep hatred by some Yir Yoront males for Whites.

Sharp concluded that, “The closed system of totemic ideas explaining and categorizing a well–known universe as it was fixed at the beginning of time, presents considerable obstacles to the adoption of new or the dropping of culture traits. The obstacle is not insurmountable and the system allows for the minor variations, which occur, in the normal daily life. But the inception of major changes cannot easily take place.”

Harry finished reading, surprised that the introduction of a simple metal axe had such a profound effect in other parts of Yir Yoront society in a relatively short time. The light bulb was slowly coming on. Still dim but gaining strength. Harry drew up a graphic summary of what he learned.

This excellent graphic summary of culture change among the Yir Yoront comes from Travis Watkins. I have broken his original into parts for easier reading. http://www.travisjwatkins.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/11/Steel_Axes_Poster.jpg
http://www.travisjwatkins.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/11/Steel_Axes_Poster.jpg
http://www.travisjwatkins.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/11/Steel_Axes_Poster.jpg
http://www.travisjwatkins.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/11/Steel_Axes_Poster.jpg

Confluence of the Boyer and Peace Rivers, Northern Canada, 1801

He was known as the Two-Hearts. A powerful leader among his people, the Dene of northern Canada. One heart was for the love and care of his people. The other for his enemies. Including the Whites who were encroaching on this country. His land, his people.

He stood on the edge of the river valley looking down as the White traders built their new house on his lands. They were back. His steely gaze was filled with disdain for the new arrivals. Around his neck hung a dark stone knife and a green stone axe attached to a leather thong. Both were beautifully crafted and rare. Only the Two Hearts knew where to find the grey banded stone or trade for the green stone axes west in the mountains. Among his people he, and a few other elders, was the keeper of the stones.

Local chert biface or stone knife found in the Fort Vermilion area, Alberta, Canada.

As keeper of the stones, he was powerful and revered among his people. Whoever wanted these beautiful knives or axes had to request them from him.

But his power and control of the stone knives and axes was waning. For years now the White traders brought steel knives and axes to his people.

He worriedly watched the traders build their house. The Two-Hearts faced an impasse. A dilemma of considerable proportions. How to protect his people, his lands, his resources, from these Whites, their gifts and pestilence. And how to prevent his neighbors from acquiring those goods, especially the new steel knives, axes, or firearms, thereby increasing their power and diminishing his. There was no easy solution.

Personally he despised the Whites, and everything they brought with them. But many of his people desired these new things. They could not be dissuaded from acquiring the shiny metal pots, the sharp axes and knives. But everything had its price. And what price would his people pay for those objects? By adopting them, gradually the people were losing knowledge of the old ways.

The Two-Hearts’ nephew stood beside him watching. A beautiful stone knife also hung around his neck, given to him by his uncle. He looked down at his knife, and then enviously at some of the metal daggers hanging on the chests of the other men. Traded from another group of Dene downriver.

“You look anxious, Uncle. This is a good thing. They build in our territory. Now we can trade with them directly.”

“You have much to learn, Nephew. This is not a good thing. It only brings grief and uncertainty.” The Two Hearts continued to watch but said no more.

These metal knives, often referred as ‘hand dags’ were a common trade item. They could be used as knives shown here. Or attached to poles and used as lances/spears. https://www.pinterest.ca/pin/605241637405085074/

………………………

John Blackburn, trader for the newly formed XY Company, stood in what would be the new fort compound, beside the river, glaring up at the group of Dene standing on the valley edge. Then he slowly turned towards one of his men with that same scowl, as if he was little better than the Dene. “What the hell are those heathens staring at, Pierre? They don’t trade. They just watch us and do nothing.”

“That’s one of their principle men, Sir. He seems unhappy about something. But I don’t know what. We gave his people gifts. Steel knives and axes. Still he seems reluctant to trade.”

“Well don’t just stand there, Pierre. Go bring him down. Maybe we can get him drunk and he’ll be more cooperative.” Blackburn’s solution to most problems was alcohol.

As soon as those words left Blackburn’s, Pierre bolted up the hill with his translator in tow. As he came near the Dene, he could see the look in their leader’s eyes resembled those of his boss. Hard, dark and menacing.

Pierre turned to his translator. “Tell him that my leader invites him to the fort to talk. To smoke and drink. Tell him we have much in common and the trade could benefit everyone.”

The Two-Hearts listened to the translator. Then he continued to stare at Blackburn below. A few minutes passed. The silence was beginning to affect an already restless Pierre. This meeting was not going well. He was beginning to feel that his words were going to displease both his boss and this Dene man.

Finally, the Two-Hearts turned toward Pierre and his translator. “Tell your leader I won’t meet with him. Tell him to stop giving my people gifts. Those gifts must be given to me and I will give them to whom I choose. If he does not cooperate, there will be trouble. The kind he shouldn’t be looking for.”

The Two-Hearts turned and walked away with his men. Leaving Pierre sputtering.

“But we come in friendship. We can give you great things. Tools superior to yours…” His words were cut off as the Two-Hearts returned. In his hand was his sharp stone knife, which he pressed up against Pierre’s throat holding him with the other remarkably strong hand.

“You think our tools are not sharp enough that they cannot cut.” With that he pricked the frightened French Canadian in the neck with his knife drawing blood.

“Go back to you leader and show him how sharp my knife is. It cuts quite well.” The Two-Hearts let go of the trembling Pierre who rapidly left, his translator trailing after him, telling him what the Two-Hearts had said. Pierre didn’t need translation. He got the message.

Blackburn watched the incident above and had drawn his musket, ready to shoot. But finally Pierre was loose and running and the Dene were gone.

Pierre stopped in front of Blackburn holding his bleeding neck.

“Well, man, what did he say? From here they didn’t look too pleased. Can’t you negotiate anything, Pierre? You seemed to upset him.”

A trembling Pierre finally managed to stammer out the Two-Hearts’ words to Blackburn. An incredulous Blackburn lost his temper. “He what? He threatened me? How dare he threaten me. That soulless heathen! I trade with whom I want, when I want, how I want.”

Then Blackburn kicked at Pierre almost knocking him to the ground. “You useless French scum. You ruined our trading relations. I will trade with and gift any of these primitives whenever I want. That man can’t tell me what to do.”

………………….

The Two-Hearts’ nephew finally reached camp. His hands were bloodied and raw and he was tired from the long journey. He had traveled with his uncle the last two days searching for the rare stones best for making stone tools. His uncle, who had no children of his own, was passing the knowledge of the stones to him.

Some of his friends saw him stumble into camp. Bear Fang shouted out. “Where have you been Two-Minds? Out searching for pretty rocks again. And making stone knives.” The others nearby chuckled.

Two-Minds was not Two-Hearts’ nephews’ real name. His real name, given to hm in a dream, was Standing Elk. His friends started calling him Two-Minds, because he could not decide whether to follow the traditional ways of the Dene, or the new path of his friends.

Bear Fang wasn’t finished. “Well it looks like whatever you made cuts well enough judging by all the blood on you. Why do you continue this foolishness Two-Minds? We can trade for knives and axes and no longer have to make them.”

“It’s my uncle’s wish that I learn the old ways.”

“Your uncle fights change, Two-Minds. These new things the traders bring give us freedom. Now we can acquire them without the meddling of the elders. Or your uncle.”

Two-Minds listened to his friends. Part of him believed them. But, part of him believed his uncle also. He simply shrugged and walked off toward his lodge.

Behind him the snickering and taunting continued. “Try not to cut yourself, Two-Minds. Perhaps you’re not ready for these sharper steel knives.”

This chert, ideal for stone tool making, is known as Peace Point Chert (named after a large prehistoric archaeological site it was found at, near Peace Point, Alberta, Canada). We believe it sources somewhere along the Boyer River. Because of its unique visual qualities it is easily identified from other local cherts. When found in an archaeological context, it allows us to determine either how far people were trading or moving it from this source.

……………………

Blackburn was good to his word. He traded with any Dene who came to the fort with either meat or furs. He gave lavish gifts to any who would only trade with him. And threatened those who would not.

In the Dene camp, the Two-Heart’s watched his nephew cautiously approaching. “He continues to defy you, Uncle. He trades with others of our people and gifts them lavishly.”

The Two-Hearts didn’t answer, only staring at the camp fire. Finally he spoke. “I had a dream the other night, on how to deal with these Whites. I saw smoke and flames approaching the fort. Smoke everywhere and frightened people who do not understand fire. Its power. Its usefulness.” With those words he got up and strode off into the woods toward the fort where the rivers met.

His nephew looked on. Without another word he casually gathered a few men and followed his uncle. As if knowing what was about to happen.

……………………

Blackburn lay in be in his new house, barely awake as dawn approached. Outside he heard shouting. And then many feet running. Then he smelled it. Smoke. He quickly dressed and rushed out the door, into the new spring morning. All around him he could see the fires. One in particular was moving rapidly towards the fort.

“What the hell is going on, Pierre? Where are all those fires coming from? It’s spring. There’s no lightening this time of year.

Pierre, out of breath from running, barely managed a squawk. “I don’t know, Sir. That one there though could burn us down and kill us if we don’t move. It’s coming right at us and moving fast. I think we should leave, Sir. And fast.”

A worried-looking and suspicious Blackburn considered. Why so many fires in the early spring? It just didn’t feel right. He was about to order his men to pack and move down to the river, when suddenly the winds changed. The large-looking fire heading toward them turned on itself and within a half hour was almost burned out.

Everyone sighed with relief, realizing that they were no longer in danger. As the smoke cleared, Blackburn looked up to the valley edge. And there he was standing with some of his men. Watching.

‘Watching what?,’ thought Blackburn? ‘Watching me die?’

Blackburn cursed at no one in particular. “It’s that barbarian. He set the woods on fire and tried to kill us.” Blackburn removed his musket from his belt and was about to shoot at the Two-Hearts, when Pierre finally grabbed his arm.

“Sir, I don’t think that’s wise. If you shoot at them they will retaliate. They outnumber us and we will surely die.”

But Blackburn was having none of it. Although he did lower his musket. “They tried to burn us down, Pierre. Those fires were set intentionally. Those ruthless heathens. I want answers, Pierre. Go up there and ask him why he did that.”

At Blackburn’s words Pierre turned pale, rubbing the wound on his neck. ‘No, please, not again,’ he thought. “Sir, perhaps you should send up someone else. I didn’t do so well the first time.”

“Get up there you coward, and deal with him,” roared a red-faced Blackburn.

‘Who’s the coward here. Why don’t you go, Blackburn?,’ thought Pierre. Finally, he reluctantly gathered his translator and trudged up the hill toward the waiting Dene.

The Two-Hearts watched Pierre approach, a slightly amused look on his face. Now wearing a bandana around his neck where he had scratched him with his knife. ‘Maybe this time I’ll hack one of his fingers off,’ thought the Two-Hearts. No. Better not. Violence was not the answer.

Finally Pierre and his translator arrived. The fidgety French Canadian turned to his translator. “Ask them why they set the fires and nearly burned us down.” His translator asked Two-Hearts.

The Two-Hearts turned toward his men, laughing. They talked and laughed more. Finally the translator turned to Pierre. “He says that his people always burn in the spring. To freshen the grasses and burn down the undergrowth. This brings more game to the region. He says if he really wanted to burn down your fort he would have set the fires from another direction.” Then his translator hesitated.

“Well, is there more, Jean Baptiste?”

“He asks why you build in the middle of a forest? Why do you not clear the land around the fort of trees. Fires are dangerous.”

Pierre frowned. Blackburn was not going to like that answer. Blackburn thought everything the Dene did was a threat to him. “Tell him my leader thinks it a threat, and you deliberately frighten off the animals so trading your meat will be worth more.”

The Two-Hearts merely laughed as he heard the translator’s words. “Your leader has quite an imagination. Perhaps too much alcohol makes him think these things. Those fires look worse than they really are in the spring. A lot of smoke. They don’t burn hot and the snow still among the trees slows them down. Tell him that perhaps the next time we will set the fires in a different direction. Unless he stops giving out gifts to my people.”

‘Oh, God. I really don’t want to deliver his words to Blackburn,’ thought Pierre. ‘He will only get angry and kick me again.’

Before Pierre could ask any more questions, the Dene turned and left. Pierre felt like going with them. Better than facing Blackburn. That man was becoming insufferable. He did little else except pray and drink. And not always in that order.

Blackburn, arms folded across his chest, was waiting for Pierre to come down the hill. “He told you what? He threatens me again? I will trade with whom I please. For God’s sake Pierre can’t you get anything right.”

“Perhaps Sir we should deal only with him in the trade. That may appease him. And these shenanigans might stop. He is a powerful man, to be respected.”

“I won’t give into that heathen. He deliberately sets fire to the countryside and then tells us this is normal. He threatens us. We must stand firm. And not put up with this nonsense.”

“But, Sir. It’s a small enough gesture. As long as he brings the trade, what does it matter?”

“He only brings us trouble. Nothing else. I prayed last night, looking for guidance. I was told we must oppose him.”

A confused Pierre wondered, ‘Was it the liquor that spoke? Or the Almighty?’

Blackburn sent out a volley of curses and then stomped back to his cabin, slamming the door behind him.

‘Well some progress,’ thought Pierre. ‘No cuts or kicks this time.’ But he had an uneasy feeling that this was not the end of things. They were playing a dangerous game with these people. Blackburn’s arrogance and stupidity might get them killed.

………………….

A gathering of First Nations men near Fort Garry, Manitoba. The man in front of the group is wearing a trade captain’s coat and hat, in recognition for his trading achievements from the traders. He would also receive gifts of tobacco and alcohol which he then distributed among his followers. A Peter Rindisbacher painting.

The summer rolled on. Most of the Canadians from the little fort were hundreds of miles away, paddling their large freight canoes back to Montreal with their furs. In the fall they would return with more trade goods. Blackburn, who usually went with his men, stayed at the fort and continued to defy the Dene leader. He traded and gave out gifts lavishly with his people, in hopes of attracting more trade.

“There. What do think Pierre? I made two of them trading captains. That should solidify trade in furs and meat for us for the rest of the winter.”

Pierre looked on nervously. He knew enough that the men Blackburn had selected were of minor importance among their people. “Sir, by making them leaders you purposely snub one of their principle men. That could cause more confusion and trouble.”

“Oh come now Pierre. They have no organized system of leadership. There’s no harm in this. And now more of them will have our superior metal knives and axes instead of those stone ones. This can only do good Pierre.”

Pierre remained silent. What could he say. Blackburn was not to be crossed with that temper of his. Only recently he had beaten one of the men for some trivial act of insubordination.

Later. ‘Arrogant bastard. I’ll show him. I’ll trade with whomever I want. He can’t stop me.’ Blackburn was half drunk by now, both slurring his words and his thoughts. Why, he had half a mind to walk into the Dene leader’s camp and shoot him. Fortunately the other half of his mind was not as brave. Instead, he poured himself another drink.

……………………..

It was late fall and the northern winter was fast approaching. Before they reached the camp fire, the Two-Hearts’ nephew said in a low voice. “He still defies you, Uncle. He trades with everyone. Your stone knives and beautiful stone axes are no longer sought after as much. The people have new steel knives and axes. They follow those leaders who now trade with the Whites. Your power and authority diminishes.”

The Two-Hearts ignored his nephew as he continued walking towards the camp fire. Once there he looked at those sitting around it but said nothing. Then he sat, silently looking into the camp fire flames. As if the answers to his problems lay in there somewhere. Finally he spoke.

“I had a dream the other night about the Whites. It told me what must be done.” And then the Two-Hearts told those around the fire about his dream. He was a powerful dreamer among his people. He was also a powerful orator and the people became frightened when they heard his words.

One of the more prominent men, and the Two-Hearts’ strongest adversary, stood and spoke. Often challenging him. “These things the Whites bring us are useful and benefit all. You’re just jealous because now you no longer control who gets the knives and axes.”

Two-Hearts’ nephew was holding his breath, knowing what this challenge meant. He saw the darkness cross his uncle’s face.

There was silence around the fire, as the Two-Hearts remained standing. Staring off, it seemed, into a distant future only he could see. The people waited for him to speak.

Then barely in a whisper he began. “For years I have risked my life visiting our neighbors and setting up trading alliances with them. Yes, I do benefit from those visits. But I take the risks, so I deserve most of the rewards.”

“But that’s my point Two-Hearts. It’s all about you. Some of us would like to trade as well. Be our own men and not always be dependent on your goodwill.”

But the Two-Hearts had just begun. “Let me finish. Those trading relations are important for all of you. They are not just about some pretty stone objects or the red paint I trade with them. Remember that bad winter a few years ago when the snows were deeper than usual and game was hard to find in our territory. Our neighbors to the west kindly allowed us to hunt on their lands. How do you think that happened, Running Otter?”

Many around the fire nodded in agreement. That had been a bad winter. If it weren’t for their neighbors they would have suffered terribly. Even died in the unforgiving northern winters.

The Two-Hearts continued to speak. Again everyone was silent. “Also remember not so long ago, our neighbors to the south became not so neighborly. And violence between us almost broke out. How do you think bloodshed was prevented, Running Otter?”

Again there was murmuring around the fire and heads were nodding. The people remembered. It was the Two-Hearts’ gift-giving and veiled threats that his allies to the west might intervene in the dispute, that prevented further violence.

“If I and a few others are not allowed to control the trade, then these alliances will fall apart. And our people will suffer. In these matters I must lead and you must follow, Running Otter. Your skills as a great hunter and our hunt leader are admirable and I always follow you on the hunt. But I am the keeper of the stones and trade. I must control those, or we are doomed.”

Running Otter reluctantly nodded in agreement. As did many others around the fire.

The Two-Hearts looked solemnly at his people. “And has it dawned on any of you what would happen if these traders move past our territories further upriver and start trading with our sometimes not so friendly allies. Arming them with muskets.” There were gasps among the people. No one had really thought of that.

“We must control the trade and where these Whites can build. Or we face even greater problems in the future.” Finally the Two-Hearts sat down. He had made his point.

Two-Hearts’ nephew sat in silence, shocked. What his uncle said made a lot of sense. He looked down at his stone knife hanging on his chest. A little more proud of it now than a few moments ago. Some of his friends were looking at him with slightly more respect.

Later when everyone had left, Standing Elk spoke. “But, Uncle, if we do what you propose they could starve.” He listened incredulously as the Two-Hearts spoke.

“They don’t listen. They threaten our way of life. Our beliefs. Belittle our leaders. Get our people drunk to take advantage of them in the trade. Trade should be an honorable undertaking. These Whites are not honorable. Especially that evil leader of theirs. Did you notice even his men don’t like him. They fear him. There’s no honor in that man. He must learn a hard lesson.”

“As you wish, Uncle. Some say he prays to a God like you, Uncle. For guidance. And sees things to lead him on the right path. Our people talk. He wears a special symbol around his neck that he prays to. The people wonder if it might be more powerful than your dreams.”

The Two-Hearts merely chuckled. “I think his God mocks him. If he tells him to hoard his wealth, scorn others, and respect no one. Surely that is not what his God is telling him. That is what his black heart is telling him.”

Standing Elk looked at his uncle. This time in a different light. All he gained in trade, he gave away to his people. He followed when he felt it was not his place to lead. He respected those in the band with knowledge he did not have. Many of these things were changing among the people.

“I have noticed changes among our people, Uncle. Some of them are not good. Before we had hunt leaders. Men who knew the hunt path. Now everyone can be one making a terrible racket with those muskets, driving off the animals. It becomes harder and harder to find game. These Whites require so much meat. Our game animals dwindle.”

His uncle sighed. “Yes, we trade ourselves to starvation. Tomorrow we will carry out our plan. The snows will soon come.” The Two-Hearts seemed to be talking almost to himself, as if in a dream. But his nephew knew. Soon it would begin.

…………………..

“…the greatest philosophers, as they never give themselves the trouble to acquire what they can do well enough without.” (Samuel Hearne among the Denesuline (Chipewyan), c.1771, and their attitude towards European trade goods)

Pierre stumbled into Blackburn’s cabin, coughing and hacking, only to find him sitting by the fire, drink in hand, eyes barely open.

“They’re at it again, Sir. The entire country around us burns for miles. All the winter meadows have been fired. It will be hard to find game nearby.”

Blackburn sat up, suddenly somewhat sobered by Pierre’s words. “It’s that damned leader of theirs, isn’t it? He’s at it again. That scoundrel! Thank God we have good hunters. Even if the game is further away, we should still manage.” Blackburn took another drink, satisfied that the problem was solved.

Pierre didn’t move. Blackburn finally looked at Pierre, only to see the young French Canadian turning somewhat pale in the late afternoon light. “Well, what is it, man? What else is wrong?”

Pierre stood near the cabin door as if his next words might require a rapid exit. “Well, Sir, it seems our fort hunters have disappeared. We don’t know where they’ve gone.”

Now the wobbling, crimson-faced Blackburn was started shouting. “What do you mean they’ve left, Pierre? We hired them for the winter to supply us with game. They just can’t leave. Without my permission.” Blackburn stared at Pierre, waiting for some sort of answer that would remedy this problem.

“It seems, Sir, the entire band has moved further west up the river. Their leader convinced them to follow him. There won’t be much game here this winter and none of the Dene will hunt for us.”

“We treated those devils well enough, Pierre. What else do they want?”

“Apparently their leader feels slighted by you, Sir. It might have been better to respect him and trade through him, Sir.”

Blackburn took a chair and threw it at Pierre. “Get the hell out of here you idiot. Don’t you dare tell me what we didn’t do right. I don’t respect those savages, especially their leader. Tell the men, that they must hunt this winter. It shouldn’t be that difficult. If those savages can do it.”

Pierre left. Rather rapidly before another chair came flying his way. Not just his head was shaking. Blackburn did not know the half of it. This half-wit leader of theirs thought hunting was easy? Just moving around in the northern winters was hard enough. They were about to die. And all Blackburn did was sit there and drink and rage. And pray to a God for guidance, whom Pierre felt, he was not listening to.

………………….

It was nearly the end of February. The north was freezing cold, the temperatures sometimes so unbearable to even go outside. Blackburn woke up in his cabin. He could see his breath in the dawn light in the cold room. The cabin’s fires had burned down to embers giving off little heat.

As he tried waking up, he sensed something was wrong. There was an eery silence outside this morning. By now, he should have heard more noise as his men awoke and the little fort came to life.

‘God I’m hungry. I could eat my boots right now,’ thought Blackburn. He and his men hadn’t seen any fresh meat for weeks and were down to their last rations. The hunting had been poor and his men really didn’t know how to find the game without the help of the Dene.

‘Why is it so quiet out there? What are those lazy men of mine doing?’

Now fully awake Blackburn rushed out the cabin door only to be greeted by a low rustling of the trees as a slight breeze blew through them. And bitter cold. He saw no one. He heard no one.

“Hello. Anybody hear me? Where are you, you lazy scoundrels? This is no time for tricks.” Nothing.

A frightened Blackburn started running from cabin to cabin frantically searching for his men. They were gone. Not a single man to be found anywhere in the fort. Even the sled dogs were gone.

He rushed into Pierre’s cabin. There on the table was a letter peeking out from under a few beaver parchment skins.

Dear Sir,

We begged you to leave this place before we all perished. But you obviously had other ideas about our welfare. So we decided to leave for Fort Chipewyan before disaster befell us.

We have taken most of the green beaver parchments which we now eat to stay alive. We have left you some on the table. They are best boiled then chewed thoroughly before swallowing.

Pierre La France

An enraged Blackburn crumpled up the letter and threw it at the wall.

He rushed out the door into the fort courtyard, screaming. “You cowards. You worthless scum….” Blackburn suddenly stopped screaming as he noticed movement on the ridge above the fort. There in the distance he thought he saw people. A chill, even colder than this northern morning, ran through him. The Dene were watching. He was all alone. Perhaps best not to scream too loudly lest the wrong people hear him. He was about to turn when he saw the Dene leader raise his stone knife in his hand, as if saluting him. Blackburn quickly hurried back into his cabin, shutting the door to keep out the cold. And the reality of his situation.

The Two-Hearts watched the fort. He had seen Blackburn’s men leave. He saw the helpless Blackburn screaming his lungs out in anger. Would this lesson be enough? For now, perhaps. But this was not the end. Only the beginning of a long struggle his people faced. He turned and left an enraged Blackburn preparing his parchment skin breakfast.

……………………..

It was a hot, dry summer. They ran for their very lives. Through the bush and down the trails until they reached the river, and crossed. To safety from the raging fire. They had left everything behind in their hunting camp. Occasionally the fires in the northern forests obeyed no one, only the laws of Nature.

“We’ve lost everything. Not even a knife among us. We are a many days travel away from our people. And the traders have left.” Bear Fang, their young hunt leader looked rather frightened and forlorn as he spoke of their plight. The group of young Dene hunters stood soaked on the river bank, realizing all too well what could happen.

Standing Elk, also with the hunters, strode towards the river edge and started searching. Then he picked up some stones and was soon banging away, fashioning something from them. The others walked over and looked. Finally Bear Fang asked, “What are you doing Two-Minds? This is hardly a good time to be playing with rocks. We are in trouble.”

Standing Elk looked up and simply said. “I’m making a stone knife, Bear Fang. Without knives we can’t do much of anything. You all need to make a knife so we can fashion other weapons. Soon. Or we will die.”

The others looked nervously on. Then, at one another. “But Two-Minds, we don’t know how to make stone knives. We didn’t need to know since we got our metal knives. Our fathers or mothers didn’t teach us.”

“There’s always a need to know, Bear Fang. Here I’ll show you how it’s done.”

…………………………..

“Of what use to us are the skins of beavers, wolves, and foxes? Yet it is for these we get guns and axes.”

(First Nations leader Kootenae Appee talking about trade. From David Thompson’s Journals, c.1809. 1971. Travels in Western North America, 1784-1812, edited by Victor G. Hopwood, p.269. Macmillan of Canada, Toronto).

EndNote:

Although a work of historical fiction, parts of this story are based on historic facts.

The Yir Yoront are real and so is Anthropologist Lauriston Sharp. Her study has become a classic piece of anthropological fieldwork still used today. Here is the link for those of you who are interested: http://web.mnstate.edu/robertsb/380/steelAxes.pdf.

At the time of contact First Nations people throughout the Americas had well-established trade networks. Trade, therefore, was not something foreign brought by Whites. In prehistory there is little evidence of these networks except for the most durable items. Rocks, such as nephrite from British Columbia found their way along the Peace River as far as the current community of Fort Vermilion. And perhaps further. Other exotic rocks, from other areas of Canada and the United States, are present in Alberta prehistoric assemblages.

The study of culture contact is difficult and controversial. And often emotionally and politically charged. As the historic quotes used in this story show, the fur trade documentary evidence, mainly compiled by Whites, is conflicting and contradictory. If you search the historic documents long enough you can support just about any argument you choose – Indigenous people welcomed the trade, despised the trade, or were indifferent about it. And attempts at understanding how contact and trade affected various parts of Indigenous society are even more difficult. We do not have the advantage Lauriston Sharp had, of being there to carefully document it.

We also cannot generalize from the Yir Yoront example and assume it was similar everywhere in the world. We do know that trade and contact between North American Indigenous peoples and Whites occurred. Precisely how and with what intensity it affected traditional ways is often very difficult to document. White traders made trade captains of people who brought in the most furs, often unknowingly (or knowingly) undermining traditional Indigenous politics and social relations. European goods eventually replaced traditional goods and technologies. But how quickly and at what rate is difficult to ascertain. Some of these material things likely had little impact on people, being simply incorporated into traditional ways. Others, like the horse, firearms, alcohol, and disease, had profound impacts on Indigenous culture.

The Boyer River, Fort Vermilion region, was one of the first areas along the Peace River to be occupied by fur traders. That trade between the local Dene population and the different Companies was not always smooth, is understatement. And certainly, trade was not always welcomed by everyone in the Native community, or carried out fairly by the White traders. There was lots of politics involved on both sides and almost outright violence when Companies did not listen to the local Dunne za. The HBC’s Thomas Swain’s remarks, in 1802, about the turmoil caused when the XY Company tried moving up the Peace River is telling:

“Mr. Leith and his Canoes was obliged to return down the River again as the Natives this Morning told them if they offered to go up the River they would kill them. Their reason was owing to some disorder that came amongst these Country people this summer which killed 10 of them, and they said it was the New Co. [XY Company] that brought bad medicines amongst them which was the occasion of the deaths.” (from the Journal of Thomas Swain, October 6, 1802, HBCA B224/a/1; brackets mine)

North West Company policies towards First Nations people were often brutal. They threatened and bullied the people if they did not trade. The HBC’s Thomas Swain’s Native hunters abandoned him, forcing him and his men to eat the green beaver parchment skins to stay alive. The rival NWC had a lot to do with their predicament, and either drove off his Native hunters, or bribed them to not work for the HBC.

The superiority of one article or technology over others is the single-most used explanation for the acquisition of European goods in the Americas by Indigenous people, and elsewhere. In some ways steel knives and axes were better than Indigenous equivalents. But, there was always a trade-off. Abandonment of traditional technologies assumed constant supply of European goods. That was not always the case. What happened when your musket broke or you ran out of ammunition, and at early contact your source of repairs or supplies was thousands of miles away? As a mobile hunter-gathering society just how much material culture could you carry around without changing transportation methods?

Years ago I had a photograph of an Inuit hunter on his snowmobile heading out onto the ice pack to hunt. Behind the snowmobile he pulled a sled with his sled dogs in it. I can’t find the original so the one below will have to do. The message the image depicts is clear. Rapid abandonment of traditional technologies was not wise. Best to always have a back-up plan. You can always return to camp with your dogs if the snowmobile breaks down. Or, if worse comes to worse, you can eat the dogs to survive. Not snowmobile parts which are even less nutritious than those green parchment skins the traders were forced to eat.

Courtesy of https://www.gettyimages.ca/detail/video/sled-dogs-ride-in-crates-pulled-by-snowmobiles-stock-video-footage/572318125

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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.