Fort Wedderburn, Lake Athabasca, Athabasca District, Spring, 1821
George Simpson sat at his rough, crudely made wooden table carefully composing his letter to the shareholders of the Hudson’s Bay Company in London. Also, carefully balancing himself on his rickety chair with the one leg shorter than the others. His breath came out in short puffs, it was so cold in the little log cabin facing the large expanse of frozen lake. The fire was roaring in the hearth, barely keeping the little room warm. He wrote quickly so the ink wouldn’t freeze on the tip of his goose quill pen.
He glanced up at his clerk, William, who was patiently waiting for his new governor to finish the letter, so he could pack it with the other dispatches on the canoe brigades to York Factory. And then off to London by ship. William usually wrote the dispatches for Simpson, but not this time. This matter was much too important for a mere clerk to undertake.
William already recognized that look on the new governor’s face. Simpson was in a foul mood, shaking his head and writing furiously. “This nonsense must stop William. The Native women are important to the trade, both in their knowledge of the country, their work, and the alliances they form when they enter marriages with the men of the trade.”
“But those morons in London don’t seem to understand this simple fact. They insist we not support women at our inland posts. Imbeciles. All of them.”
He leaned over his letter and wrote some more. “How does this sound William?”:
“Connubial alliances are the best security we can have of the good will of the natives. I have therefore recommended the Gentlemen to form connections with the principal families immediately on their arrival, which is no difficult matter, as the offer of their Wives and Daughters is the first token of their friendship and hospitality.” (Parts of a letter sent by George Simpson to the London Committee of the Hudson’s Bay Company, May 15, 1821)
He looked up at William, as if waiting for approval of his work. Then he smiled. Somehow it always felt good when you could vent by writing. “Anyway, what can they do in London to stop us if we dearly need the help of women to be successful in the trade? How will they ever find out?”
William wasn’t about to argue with his new master. Even if he had a contrary opinion. Which he didn’t. Simpson had a long memory when someone crossed him.
“It sounds fine, Sir. I’ll make sure it’s sent out with the spring brigades once the ice goes out.”
“That’ll be all then, William. I need some rest. This business with the women saps the energy out of me.”
As William left and closed the governor’s door behind him, he thought to himself. If you didn’t stay up all night entertaining those ‘bits of brown’, as you call them, perhaps you wouldn’t feel so tired. He shook his head and went to his quarters. He would send an additional note along with Simpson’s letter to one of Simpson’s staunchest supporters among the shareholders. A Sir Arthur Meddlock. Chairman of the board. All hell would break loose when this issue came up at the London Committee meeting.
………………………
“…we have it in contemplation to make up the Clothes principally at this place and at the English Establishments which….would reduce the Expense very materially as the labour would actually cost nothing it being the duty of the Women at the different Posts to do all that is necessary in regard to Needle Work.” (HBC, Minutes of Council Northern Department of Rupert Land, 1821-22)
London, England, December, 1821
The shareholders met in the enormous hall, in London, England to discuss the Honorable Company’s business in the Colonies. They were some of the most powerful men of the Hudson’s Bay Company, and England, which was now preparing to monopolize the Canadian fur trade in North America. After just recently amalgamating with their Canadian rival, the North West Company.
But tonight, instead of celebrating their achievement, there was strife and tension in the air. Not everyone was happy. In fact, a few were livid.
One of the Company shareholders, a Sir Jeremy Jacobs, was shouting at Sir Arthur Meddlock. Jacobs was young, opinionated and often quite brazen at these meetings. In short, mostly full of himself.
“Why, in the name of the King of bloody England, Mr. Meddlock, must we feed and support these women at our inland posts? They’re a burden to us and only reduce our bloody profits. Yet, you sit there nonchalantly as if it really doesn’t matter.” He waited for Meddlock to respond. There was only silence.
So, he continued. “The Company men were strictly forbidden to support the Indian population at the inland forts. But, from what I hear, they ignore these instructions at every turn. How could that Simpson recommend such a thing? He, of all people, should know better. Perhaps we should look for another Governor to run this most honorable enterprise.” Jacobs spat out these last words in Meddlock’s face. A face which was becoming increasingly crimson by the second.
Meddlock, as Chair of these sometimes rowdy meetings, always the diplomat and man of control, was beginning to lose his patience with the young, brash Jacobs.
“It can’t be stopped Sir Jacobs. I’ve been informed by the Governor that the women are necessary to carry out the Company’s business and comfort the men. Without them our operations simply wouldn’t work.”
Another shareholder piped up. ” Necessary? Necessary to warm their beds, you mean. And I hear Simpson is the worst of the lot. They’re beginning to call him the ‘father’ of the fur trade. And, for good reason. He’s lost count of the number of children he’s sired from so many different Native women.”
“These women cost us an arm and a leg and then produce offspring who then cost us even more. And what are we going to do with all these people? We can’t employ them all. This must stop Mr. Chairman. Before it really gets out of hand.”
“With all due respect Sir Franklin, it can’t be stopped. If we stopped it, we would never recruit another man to work in the Colonies. And our fort operations would suffer considerably. Instead, I propose we formally indenture the women and officially put them to work, which they already do, to help our operations.”
As soon as Meddlock uttered these words, all hell broke out again in the great hall. Most were opposed. Some were convinced that Simpson was right. “Stop. Enough. Order, or I’ll adjourn this meeting.” Finally, the Chair managed to regain order.
Franklin however, was not finished. “Sir, let me get this right. Are you suggesting we put these women and children on the books?”
“That’s exactly what I’m suggesting. That’s what Simpson wants. In that way we can better manage the trade and the costs instead of simply ignoring them. That’s Simpson’s plan.”
Again there was an uproar. Jacobs was now standing. Approaching Meddlock and pointing accusingly at him. Becoming more threatening and menacing every moment.
“This is sheer lunacy, Meddlock. It must be stopped. I demand it be stopped. I think you’re in league with that scoundrel Simpson.”
“Sir Jacobs. Keep your confounded wig on man,” the chairman shouted out. “Enough already. It seems we are divided on this topic. Any suggestions as to how to proceed?” No one answered. Most were too busy fuming, not thinking.
Meddlock, now having regained his composure looked around the room and then calmly spoke. The room fell silent. “Then I have one. One or two of you go to the Colonies and spend a year in the interior to observe the situation. Then report back to this committee so we can make an informed decision. It seems Mr. Simpson’s opinion alone is insufficient on this matter.”
Suddenly, heads dropped, eyes turned to the floor, and human bodies shrank, no longer puffed up, but becoming smaller. Trying their best to make themselves as inconspicuous as possible. No one volunteered.
Meddlock looked into the eyes of Jacobs, still standing, a finger pointing, frozen like a statue in front of him. Jacobs felt suddenly exposed, realizing too many eyes were looking at him.
“Jacobs! You seem to be most opposed in this matter. What say you? Want to join Simpson in the Colonies for a year? It would do you some good. Give you a whole new perspective.”
Jacobs only sputtered. Thinking of how this could possibly do him any good. He really didn’t want a new perspective. “Sir, I couldn’t leave my family, my business and spend my time with those savages out there. Impossible, Sir. Quite impossible.” With that Jacobs turned and looked around for other volunteers. Hoping, almost pleading that someone else would raise their hand. No one did. A few members had already quietly slipped out of the room.
“Well Jacobs since you only wish to argue and shout, but not gain new information, maybe we should just put the matter to a vote, and stop all this nonsense.” Meddlock again watched as the hall turned into an uproar. Only now a number of shareholders were in Jacobs’ face telling him, imploring him, even threatening him, to go to Canada and gather information.
Jacobs’ pride, now at stake, looking quite defeated, finally succumbed. After all, he was the most vocal one in the group. He gathered his courage, and then looked defiantly into Meddlock’s eyes. “Alright Sir. I’ll bloody go and see why we need these people at our posts.” With those words a loud cheer went up in the hall. From the usually very ‘proper and reserved’ English gentlemen. Many came by to pat Jacobs on the back and congratulate him on his decision. Mostly glad that they weren’t the ones going. Jacobs simply nodded. Wondering what the hell he had just gotten himself into.
Arthur Meddlock looked calmly on, thinking. This one has more guts than I thought. Young. Rich. Independent. But still willing to go on a journey that most men of his stature would shy away from. Well, we’ll see Sir Jeremy Jacobs, what it is you’re really made of.
“Well, the matter’s settled then. We’ll postpone a vote on this issue until we hear back from Sir Jacobs.” With that the Chairman pounded his gavel hard on the table. The meeting was officially adjourned. And the dining and wining soon began.
…………………………..
Fort Vermilion, Athabasca District, Canada, Fall, 1822
“…a petty post erected on the north bank of the river, and so completely embossomed in the woods, that we did not catch a glimpse of it until we were among huts, and surrounded by howling dogs and screeching children. At this sylvan retreat there were but three rude houses…and there was not a picket or palisade to guard them from either savage or bear. This mean abode was dignified with the name of fort.” (HBC Fort Assiniboine, 1825, Alexander Ross)
They landed their canoes on the banks of the Peace River in front of Fort Vermilion. Jacobs looked up the bank searching for any signs of a fort. His back was killing him. His ass was numb from sitting endless hours in the large freight canoe.
“Well Lafleur, where is it? The fort?”
“Just up the bank, Sir.” Again Jacobs looked frantically for the fort. He stood to get a better look and then tried to get out of the freight canoe. He almost fell face first into the Peace River, only to be rescued just in time by one of the French Canadians. Someone smacked him on the back as he scrambled up the muddy, steeply sloped bank.
“Welcome to Fort Vermilion, Sir. One of the mightiest forts on the Peace River. Actually, one of the few forts on the river. Isn’t she a sight to behold.”
Jacobs, now standing on the top of the bank, simply stared. There before him stood a few crude log shanties, surrounded by a solid wood picket fence of some sort. About the height of a man. These were certainly not fort walls. With no bastions or blockhouses. No galleries. No cannons. Suddenly a pack of barking dogs and screaming children ran by nearly knocking him over. Going where? He didn’t know.
“You call this a fort, LaFleur? Christ, you’re joking? This is the servants’ quarters, right? Where’s the real fort?” He looked imploringly at LaFleur. Hoping that the man was only pulling his leg.
“No Sir. This is it. This is where you’ll be living until next spring. Isn’t it lovely. Cozy even. Wouldn’t you think. I’m sure a little below a man of your stature, Sir Jacobs. But it works well, when the temperatures drop to minus forty below Fahrenheit.”
Jacobs looked at LaFleur incredulously. “Forty below Fahrenheit? You’re kidding me my friend, right?”
“No. No joke. The temperature, she drop low in this country, in the winter. Keeps everything frozen and fresh. I saw once where the mercury, she disappear in the bottom of the thermometer.” He chuckled as if this was some kind of joke.
Jacobs simply stared at the French Canadian. This entire trip had been one big nightmare since he left England. First he puked his guts out coming over the Atlantic Ocean to York Factory, in that rolling Company tub called a ‘ship’. Then, sitting in a canoe for endless miles. Traveling up the rivers and lakes, swatting swarms of mosquitoes so thick you could hit them with a paddle, and knock hundreds out of the air with one stroke. What the fuck was he doing out here anyway? In this god-forsaken wilderness.
“Come. I show you to your living quarters. Only about five below zero in there in the winter. Cozy. Near the fire, it’s much better. Your feet thaw, and you’re ass freezes. But if you turn often enough, it’s quite nice. Don’t fall asleep though. Either your ass or mouth will freeze shut.” At this bit of humor, after he looked at the expression on Jacobs’ face, he broke out in fits of laughter.
“Hé, Henry, ce nouveau est sur le point de vivre le temps de sa vie. (Heh, Henry, this new one is about to experience the time of his life.)” The two men roared with laughter, leaving a poor Sir Jacobs perplexed, scared and clearly shaken. Then they grabbed his belongings and took him to his quarters. After seeing them he was even more shaken.
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April 6th, 1822. “The advantages of this place are very few over any other except it is that ground is tilled for our gardens and being a critical place for the Natives to bring their find.” (HBCA B.224/e/1)
April 7th, 1822. “The disadvantages rise from the exhausted state of the country in larger animals which renders it very difficult to procure fresh meat upon which the people of the establishments have been hitherto chiefly fed.” (Report of the establishment of For Vermilion (Peace River) Athabasca Department, 1822/23 by Colin Campbell) (HBCA B.224/e/1)
Trader, Colin Campbell and his family sat around the supper table and watched their new guest as he stared at the food on his plate. Sir Jacobs, it seemed, was somewhat reluctant to tuck in and eat his meal.
“If you don’t mind me asking Mr. Campbell, what exactly is this on my plate?” Jacobs kept eyeing his meat. Poking it with his fork but not quite ready to give it a go. Wondering if it might jump off his plate.
“Well, you’re in for a treat tonight, Jacobs. Potatoes and turnips from the gardens. And one of the hunters brought in a lynx. That’s lynx meat. The finest there ever was.” Campbell waited expectantly as Jacobs took a fork full. Finally, putting it slowly in his mouth. Wincing as he did so.
Suddenly he beamed. Surprised. “Why it’s quite good, Campbell. Very delicate and a fine flavor. I never would have thought a member of the cat family could taste this good. How did you come upon it, if I may ask?” He looked expectantly at his host for an answer.
“Natives, Sir Jacobs. They know what’s good to eat and what’s not. If we didn’t have them around, we’d be lost.” Jacobs simply nodded making a mental note.
Jacobs, quite intrigued by his host’s last comment, wanted to know more. “Surely Campbell, you and your men can hunt. No need to hire these savages to hunt for you? Is there?”
Campbell, after stuffing another potato in his mouth, looked at his guest. Thinking. Well can’t blame him for thinking like that. I was no better when I first came out. Wait. Until it gets really tough. Then he’ll realize what I’m talking about.
Campbell responded with a more leveled answer to Jacobs’ question. “Hunting in this land is very hard, especially in the winter. The wild game has been almost decimated over the many years from feeding our people. If you don’t know what you’re doing out there, you could die hunting.”
“And that lynx, Sir Jacob. That you’re eating. I’ll bet you won’t even see one, let alone get a shot at it, before you leave next spring. They’re extremely cagey and hard to trap, let alone shoot.”
Campbell’s Metis wife, Elizabeth, looked up at at her husband, then at Jacobs, wondering why this man was even here. Elizabeth recognized arrogance when she saw it. And this man, Jacobs, absolutely dripped of it. But she didn’t say anything, keeping her peace. It was not what you said about the north to convince someone. It’s what the land did to you when you lived in it, that did the talking. It touched your very soul. Your very being. Occasionally letting you know that your life hung on a thread. He would soon come to realize these things.
…………………….
Hard Times Ahead, November, 1822
“So, Roy, how’s the harvest looking? How are our meat supplies holding up?”
Roy stirred and fidgeted not wanting to really answer his superior’s question. Because he might not like what he was about to hear. Finally, after Colin Campbell wouldn’t stop gazing at him, he reluctantly spoke up.
“We’ve had a bad harvest, Sir. The potatoes got an early frost and yielded little. The wheat, oats and barely were almost totally destroyed by locusts. We have little grist to feed our mill, to make flour for bannock. The game animals, what’s left of them, this year are poor, because of a hard winter last year. Sir, I don’t know if we’ll make it to spring. Unless the wild game picks up or we send our hunters further out. If the fisheries work this winter, maybe there’s a chance.”
“Then trade for more meat with the Natives.”
“Sir. They’re no better off than we are. Just barely able to make it themselves. I’m afraid this winter could be a bad one. We must ration carefully, and with any luck, we might survive until spring.”
Campbell looked concerned. By now he knew this country well enough. And when it decided to treat you cruelly, you more often then not, paid a high price. It was sometimes like this. The perfect storm. Both the crops and wild game populations failed. And then you prayed. For a miracle. But he realized those, like food, were in also in short supply in northern Canada. It seemed as if God wasn’t listening too well up here. No matter how loud and hard they prayed.
“Is there anything else we can do before winter sets in, Roy?”
Roy only shook his head. Then he hesitated before going on. “The women, Sir. They might be able to help. And a strange thing, Sir. They all left.”
Campbell looked at Roy, a little alarmed, waiting for more information. “Where to Roy? Where in the hell did they go this time of the year? Everything is nearly frozen up.”
“Out to the lakes and marshes behind us, Sir. They set up a camp there. My woman says they will stay there for at least two weeks. Or, until everything freezes up.”
At Roy’s words, Campbell became really alarmed. The women sensed this was going to be a tough winter. Disaster awaited them unless they acted. Now. He didn’t ask Roy any further questions. The women knew what to do when times got tough. If the game animals failed, their flour wouldn’t last until spring. The women knew this too. Maybe that’s why they left.
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It was snowing hard. Campbell came into Jacob’s quarters, quickly slamming the door behind him, trying to keep the freezing cold out, and dusting off the fresh snow from his coat. A fire was blazing in the fireplace and there sat Jacobs with his boots almost in it. Trying to thaw out his frozen toes. He had been out at the hunter’s tents and had just come back. He was exhausted and incredibly cold. It was one of those stormy late December evenings. Everything outside snapped and crackled it was so cold.
Campbell looked at Jacobs’ feet. “Christ, Jacobs. You can’t be wearing those stupid leather boots this time of year. You’ll freeze your toes off, man.”
“I think it’s too late Colin. They might fall off any second now. How can you stand it out in this cold?” Finally the shivering Jacobs got his boots off, but it took some time before he could feel his toes again.
Mary, one of the young Chipewyan women who was looking after Jacobs looked at his toes and then his boots. Bad. Very bad. What a foolish Englishman. They all were when they first came to this country. Trying to look the ‘proper gentlemen’ in those foolish clothes. Who were they trying to impress anyway? The moose?
She looked at Jacobs with concern. “Here Sir. Put these on.” She produced a beautiful pair of moose hide moccasins that nearly reached his knees. They were lined with fur and wool blanket, and double-soled. “These will keep your feet from freezing.”
Jacobs took the moccasins from her and pulled them on. He sighed in relief. Ah, yes. Oh, that felt so good. “Mary, these are wonderful. You made them?”
“Yes, Sir. We make all the clothing for the men and children. Or they would freeze to death in the winter.” Jacobs simply stared at her and then at his new footwear. At the intricate stitching, the beautiful bead work. And, slowly it dawned on him why the women were so necessary at these god-forsaken, ‘colder than anything he ever experienced’, so-called forts.
“And you’ll need these too.” She handed Jacobs a fine wool capote, colorful wool sash, and large fur-lined mittens. And a large fur hat. The next day he walked around outside in his new footwear and clothing feeling quite relieved and a little bit more in control of his northern surroundings.
Later that evening Jacobs dined with trader Colin Campbell and Elizabeth. Now, contented enough with his new, warm clothing.
But the meager amount of food on his plate in front of him worried him.
“Not for me to interfere, Colin, but we seem to be eating less and less as the winter wears on. I think I’ve already lost ten pounds. Is there a problem?”
Campbell, at first reluctant to confide in this English nobleman and Company shareholder, decided he should know what was going on.
“We’re near January Jacobs and already running out of food. The hunters are having a hard time finding game. I haven’t heard any news from the men at the fishery. Our grain and potato supplies are down to almost nothing. Mainly because of the bad harvest. There could be a lot of trouble ahead. Unless we find some wild game soon. As you now know, our hunters are miles away from the fort, but find little.”
When they finished their meal, both men sat in silence, sipping their brandy, letting those rather somber facts slip into reality. The fort’s inhabitants were in deep trouble.
Jacobs looked at Campbell, clearly alarmed. He liked this man. He did everything possible to keep his people safe, healthy and happy. But, a lack of food put everyone on edge. And Jacobs had found out the hard way, while at the hunters’ camp, what hunting was like in the back country. Snow up to your waist in places. Dense forests. And the eternal bitter, bitter cold. It froze your hands instantly when you removed your mittens. The equipment froze up and malfunctioned. And even sometimes the more fragile metal pieces on the muskets broke. The nearest gunsmith was over a thousand miles away.
“Well, can’t you just ask for help, Campbell? Surely others are better off than we are?”
Campbell gazed at Jacobs with only a look that someone drinking would look at a friend, who had just said something foolish. “Jeremy. What help? We are in the middle of fucking-nowhere. The nearest forts are no better off than we are. You can’t just wave your magic wand and make this all better. We could die.”
Jacobs, as only a pompous, pampered nobleman could, responded. “But that’s not possible, Colin. Surely we can buy some help.”
Campbell was about to slap his newly made friend on the side of the head, but stopped short when one his children came into the room, crying.
“Daddy, I’m hungry. Is there something to eat? Please daddy. I need something to eat.” Before she could utter another word Elizabeth swept into the room and scooped her up, carrying her away still screaming about wanting something to eat.
Jacobs looked at Campbell. “Jesus, Colin. What are we going to do? Campbell simply took another sip of his brandy. Hope, he thought. Pray. Maybe there would be some luck with the hunt. Or, maybe just wait for a slow, agonizing death.
………………………
Late March, 1823
It was a bright sunny day. Trying to make up for the temperature dropping to minus thirty degrees the night before. Most of the fort people had barely made it this far through the winter. But some of the children and a few adults got sick with the ‘chin cough’ (Whooping Cough) and died. The fort was not a happy place.
The hunters brought in just enough game to keep everyone going. The boys set snares in the forests hoping to catch some of the white hares. Potatoes, grain and dried meat were all expended. Animal fat seemed only like a far-away dream – a long-forgotten commodity. The fishery had failed.
Early spring in the northern forests was the worst time of all. What animals remained were lean and in poor condition. The hunters were sometimes too weak to even hunt them. This was the time of year when everyone suffered the most. Or died.
Times like these called for desperate measures. Colin Campbell gathered his people around him. “Break out the rough hides. Scrape the hair off them and boil them. That’s all we have to eat for a bit.” Before he said any more, Elizabeth and most of the fort women stepped up.
Jacobs, now down to skin and bones, looked on. He feared for his life. He might never see England again. But he was curious. What were the women up to?
Elizabeth spoke up. “Bring some men and follow us to the marshes. We made food supplies there last fall, in case we ran into trouble this spring. It’s time to gather them.”
Jacobs, almost too weak to walk, got up rather wobbly and followed. “I’m coming along Colin. I have to see this. What did they collect?”
“I don’t know Jeremy. We’ll see soon enough.” They followed the women up the river terraces, and into the back country. Trails led in every direction, but the women seemed to know which ones to take to get to their destination.
They finally arrived at a small, shallow lake surrounded by marsh and cattails as far as the eye could see. There beside the shore stood many low tent-like structures made out of poles, covered with bark and snow. Inside hanging on thin poles were rows and rows of cattail rhizomes. Thousands of them. Collected by the women last fall, as the ice set in.
Campbell looked at his wife questionably. “What is this Elizabeth? What are these plants?”
“They’re cattail roots, Colin. They’re well dried and frozen now. When we thaw them, we’ll pound them into flour and make Native bannock.”
Jacobs looked on having a hard time believing what he was seeing. “Elizabeth, you can eat these? They don’t look that good to me. Probably poisonous.”
“Jeremy, don’t be so foolish.” Elizabeth poked him the ribs, almost knocking him over he was so weak.
“These roots are as filling and as nutritious as potatoes. It just takes a lot more work to gather and prepare them. That’s what the women spent two weeks last fall doing up here. Up to their knees in the freezing water pulling cattails. They make a great cake over the fire. Much like bannock.”
“But how do you know this, Elizabeth?”
Elizabeth looked at Jacobs as if he were the biggest fool around. Which of course he was when it came to surviving in northern Canada. The other women giggled and broke out babbling in languages he didn’t understand. And then she softened. Like all the Whites in this country, how would he know. A pampered English nobleman would never think of eating cattails.
“We know Jeremy. What to do when times are tough. The women saw this coming last fall. That’s why the Native side of my people survived in this country for thousands of years. Because we learned and we know.”
Jacobs was suddenly jolted into a new reality and only nodded in agreement. Now, after living at this fort, with these people, it all seemed so obvious. Now that he actually lived in the country. Felt its wrath and unforgiving harshness. These women and men, possessing thousands of years of knowledge about the land, were indispensable to the Company.
He also realized, in the great fur trading halls of London, no one really knew what was needed out here. In the future they would have to listen more carefully to Simpson’s recommendations.
That evening, after hauling the cattail rhizomes back to the fort and pounding them into flour, everyone got a few mouthfuls of nutritious food. At least to make it through tomorrow and many more days.
After their meal, Campbell and Jacobs sat, sipping their brandy and smoking their pipes. Both men were somewhat contemplative. No longer so fretful. They would get through the harsh spring. And when the cattails grew again, if there was no other game, there was more food awaiting them if they needed it.
“So, Sir Jacobs. You’re ready to take the spring ice out with the brigades. And eventually back to England. What are your thoughts about the trade and this life?” Campbell had been briefed on why Jacobs had been sent inland.
“My thoughts, my friend, and my memories, will forever linger on this place and their peoples. Especially the women.” Campbell probed no more on the subject. He just knowingly smiled. With that the two men toasted with a another glass of brandy, and talked long into the night about the affairs of the Company.
Hudson’s Bay Headquarters, London, England, 1823
“Let the meeting come to order. I would like to welcome back Sir Jeremy Jacobs from the Colonies. Sir, you have something you want to share with us?”
Sir Jacobs stood, walked over to the Chairman’s table and plopped down a rather hefty report which he had written while on the ship back to England.
“It’s all in there gentlemen. Together with my recommendations regarding the Natives and the women.”
He gazed around the room and looked at the round, plump, well fed faces. And bodies. Some so portly they barely fit into their chairs. He was just beginning to regain some of the weight he had lost in Canada.
Then he picked up a large platter loaded with little flat cakes off the enormous wooden table. They were still steaming, hot off the griddle. “Before I brief you on what’s in the report, gentlemen, help yourselves to my special cakes. What I’m about to tell you will be more meaningful once you’ve tasted these.
End Notes
If you’re ever lost in our vast Canadian wilderness, with nothing to eat, there are many wild plants out there to survive on. If you know what to look for. According to Outdoor Canada, there are over 350 wild edible plants in Canada. Northern Bushcraft lists eight-four edible wild plants in Alberta. And nearly as many in Saskatchewan, Manitoba and the other Canadian provinces.
When I was at Simon Fraser University, we went on a survival field trip, trying our best to live off the land for a few days along the Pacific Coast. Not easy believe me. One of the first books I read before going was by renowned ethnobotanist Nancy J. Turner. In it she listed the edible British Columbia plants that First Nations gathered. An excellent source. Cattail rhizomes were on that list. So, of course, I tried them.
First I pulled the cattails out of the muck. Then I picked off the rhizomes, washed and baked them on low heat to dry them. I pounded, ground them into a kind of flour, added water and made a dough or paste. Once I flattened them out into little cakes, I fried them like bannock. They were quite good. And, I’m still alive. Quite nutritious actually. Very high in carbohydrates. For more information about their nutrient content, go to this page.
The role Indigenous women played in the Canadian fur trade cannot be overestimated. Without their work and support, fur trade forts would not have been operational. But the presence and support of First Nations and Metis women, and their children, was a real sore spot with the Hudson’s Bay Company shareholders for many years. Most traders however, just ignored what was considered official Company policy – not to allow women to live at the Company forts. This continued until 1821 when the Company finally officially recognized that the trade couldn’t operate without the help of women.
The cattail bannock story underlines just how important Native traditional knowledge was for the men at these remote inland forts. Many were fresh off the boats from Britain and knew nothing about the Canadian wilderness. It also underlines the sometimes extreme conditions that prevailed at these inland posts. Hunger and starvation in the north, sometimes was just around the corner. Especially as wild game animal populations declined in a region.
While George Simpson was a great organizer and administrator, he was also a notorious womanizer. His numerous liaisons are well documented in the annals of Canadian fur trade history. But he immediately recognized that women played a very critical, important role in the trade and operation of the forts. His bluntness about such matters would have occasionally ruffled some feathers in the London halls among the Hudson’s Bay Company’s shareholders.
