by Debra Komar
The fur trade had been a bad fit for Dr. McLoughlin from the start, and he feared his son would prove an even worse match. After years of faithful service, McLoughlin Sr. had grown weary of the Hudson’s Bay Company. He was at odds with the Company’s policies, and he knew all too well the lawless nature of the business. His experiences were enough to give any man pause, but Dr. McLoughlin could sum up his strongest reservations about the Honourable Company in two words: George Simpson.
Portrait of Sir George Simpson, taken in the last years of his life.
History has not been kind to Sir George, but since he never gave a tinker’s damn about kindness, let’s call it a wash. To be kind was to be weak, at least as Simpson saw it, and he abhorred weakness, as well as indolence, drunkenness, stupidity, and anyone with the temerity to disagree with him. Sir George also had a penchant for name-calling. Early in his career, Simpson created his “Character Book,” a leather-bound, no-holds-barred accounting of his thoughts on his colleagues. The tome was “a tour de force,” a hymnal of indiscretion, which Simpson kept under lock and key, his victims identified only by number.
Simpson fancied himself something of an armchair alienist, able to diagnose any man’s mental ills simply by looking at him. He displayed “a readiness, almost an eagerness, to pass judgement on his fellows.” Few others agreed with his perspicacity, although the Governor’s ability to call them as he saw them impressed at least one powerful ally. Lord Selkirk believed Simpson “has such tact in seeing people’s characters that there is not a man in the country that he cannot lay down on paper at once, and tell what they are good for.” With few exceptions, Simpson thought his colleagues weren’t good for anything, and he felt most would benefit from a sound “Damning & Bitching.”
Simpson’s Character Book reads more like an unintentional autobiography than a searing exposé of others. Simpson’s lifelong tendency to tar others with a brush best suited to himself is well-represented in the historical record, leading scholar Alan Cooke to posit the Governor was “an outstanding example of an immature ego possessed by personal complexes, which he projected onto his colleagues.”
The most telling projection of all was Simpson’s denouncement of Francis Heron as “a perfect Hypocrite.” The Governor should have engraved the words “hypocrisy” and “inconsistency” on his letterhead, for they seemed to be the watchwords of his administration. His cousin Thomas felt Simpson’s “firmness and decision of mind are much impaired,” and his tendency to shift with the winds reduced him to “a weathercock.”
Like all clueless egotists, Simpson was easily manipulated, provided one knew how. HBC employee John Stuart once advised a junior man that, when it came to Simpson, “it is his foible to exact not only strict obedience, but deference to the point of humility. As long as you pay him in that coin, you will quickly get on his sunny side.” Complexity and vanity are mutually exclusive in the human psyche, and, thanks to the Governor’s excess of ego, the portrait limned by his contemporaries bordered on caricature. Perhaps the most generous assessment of his personality ever offered was that Simpson “had unrivalled opportunities for personal growth but did not seize them.”
Those on the receiving end of Simpson’s scorn reciprocated, for however lowly he held his fellows, his contemporaries thought even less of him. He had earned his place as “one of the best-hated men in North America.” He was “despised” by his closest relations; the kindest thoughts they could muster were that he was “plausible and full of animal spirits.” His cousin Thomas declared the Governor to be a “severe and most repulsive master” who was “guilty of many little meannesses…quite beneath a Gentleman, and…are indicative of his birth.”
George Simpson came by his dysfunction honestly, for he was quite literally “a bastard by birth and by persuasion.” He was born the unintended by-product of a “non-conjugal relationship” between an eponymously named Scottish lawyer and an unknown mother and was left to be raised by his aunt Mary.
While still in his teens, he was sent to apprentice at the London brokerage firm of his uncle Geddes, “where his talents soon advanced him to the first seat at the desk.” The firm dealt in sugar, one of the top commodities of the day, but it was all the same to young Master Simpson.
The first requirement of any social climber is a good toehold, and he found sure footing in Andrew Colvile, one of the partners in his uncle’s firm. Simpson possessed plenty of derring-do, and Colvile was taken by the young man’s “sufficient promptness and determination.” Colvile also held a seat on the Committee of the Hudson’s Bay Company, an institution then mired in turmoil thanks to the feisty antics of its overseas governor, William Williams. The sitting governor had been “chosen for his courage rather than his business acumen or his good judgment,” and his unique brand of rash diplomacy had landed him in hot water with the Company’s competitors. Arrest warrants were issued for Williams following his attack on North West Company employees in Grand Rapids, and the Company feared he would soon be captured. HBC leaders were quietly on the hunt for an acting governor for Rupert’s Land, and Colvile nominated the red-headed spitfire with the impenetrable Scottish brogue, George Simpson. It bears noting Andrew Colvile “did not allow consideration of personality to intrude into his business affairs.”
Simpson thought himself the perfect candidate and felt his nomination deserved serious consideration despite his having “no background…or demonstrable skills.” What Simpson had was “an authority combining the despotism of military rule with the strict surveillance and mean parsimony of the avaricious trader.” The rest he could learn, as, thankfully, “the North-West Company had previously reduced the business to a perfect system, which he had only to follow.” The HBC’s London Committee clearly agreed, and Simpson became the “heir apparent to the HBC’s overseas operations” in 1820. His notice of appointment explicitly stated his powers were limited and temporary at best, but Simpson overlooked such conditions.
The HBC were “the ultimate absentee landlords,” and Simpson was their new superintendent, although he acted as if he owned the place. He landed with a resounding thud on the shores of British North America, teeming “with the lordly hauteur of a man in charge of his private universe.” According to one employee firmly under the jackboot of an increasingly “despotic” Simpson, the little emperor treated his underlings “as if we had been so many cattle,” and saw himself “clothed with a power so unlimited, it is not to be wondered at that a man who rose from a humble situation should in the end forget what he was and play the tyrant.”
His unwelcome habit of “acting as uncrowned king” was brought to the fore in his first meeting with William Williams. The sitting governor’s days as a free man were numbered and, under duress, he agreed to step down and let Simpson take charge. Luck and timing continued to be on Simpson’s side; in less than one year, an unknown, unskilled sugar clerk had gone from locum tenens to the overseas governor of one of the most powerful monopolies on the planet. With the nod of the outgoing governor and the stroke of a pen, Simpson’s rule was now “more absolute than that of any governor under the British Crown.”
Simpson found himself in the enviable position of answering only to the HBC’s London-based governor Sir John Henry Pelly and his committee. Simpson considered “his role in Hudson’s Bay Company as proxy for the British government in North America,” a self-serving interpretation that was equal parts ego and truth. He was a master of misdirection and exaggeration, but Simpson’s true font of power was “the slowness of the communications system with London.” In an age before transatlantic telegraphy, correspondence travelled by ship and often took a year to reach its destination. Simpson always did Governor Pelly the courtesy of writing a letter, ostensibly seeking permission, only to then do as he pleased, safe in the knowledge it would be a year or more before he would be called to account, by which time the damage was inevitably done.
Buoyed by his mercurial rise through the ranks, Simpson transformed overnight from
insufferable to unbearable. He introduced sweeping policy changes and imposed cost-cutting measures he called “Œconomy.” He slashed wages, eliminated “old and useless men,” and denied pension benefits to widows and dependents. His belt-tightening was seen by those affected as “parsimony of a very questionable and impolitic kind.” It became an issue of character, as many employees felt “economy so ill-timed argued as little in favour of the Governor’s judgement as of his humanity.” It was the worst kind of micromanaging, but it fattened the bottom line, and that was all the proof Simpson needed to show he was steering the Company in the right direction. The shareholders in London appreciated his efforts, but the men in the field were not impressed. They labelled him “mangeur du lard” — a “pork-eater,” untutored in the ways of the trade. They had a point, and Simpson had a morale problem.
In his first act as governor of the northern department, Simpson called a meeting of the Company’s chief factors, summoning Dr. McLoughlin and his peers to York Factory. The host and his skeptics were led to the dining hall, where a sumptuous banquet awaited. Wine, port, and spirits flowed freely, loosening the tongues and tempers of those assembled. By sun-up, the Governor had won over his critics, save for Dr. McLoughlin. Simpson was a master “in the art of getting his way,” and McLoughlin soon had a very large target on his back.
Company regulations required Simpson to meet with a full council of his factors once a year, but the Governor detested both regulations and the chief factors. He weaned them off the mandate by holding “sham” councils, which were nothing more than a recitation of fait accompli edicts from London, reducing the factors from full shareholders to glorified errand boys. Dr. McLoughlin rebelled, but Simpson remained confident in his shameless power grab, gloating the factors “could outvote me, but it has never been so.”
Governor Simpson had become that most loathsome of creatures: a narcissist with actual power. His bosses in London swore by Simpson just as the men in the field swore at him, though rarely to his face. His detractors tried to warn the home office: “The Committee received several hints of the Governor’s ‘strange management’ but they only smiled at the insinuations.”
Dr. McLoughlin saw through Simpson’s carefully crafted façade and hated him for the same reason the HBC loved him: his ruthlessly inhumane approach to business. The animosity between the two men had been instantaneous. Simpson and McLoughlin Sr. first crossed swords on July 26, 1824, when the newly appointed governor transferred the doctor to Fort Astoria. Simpson agreed to meet him there, leaving several weeks after the chief factor was dispatched. The journey from Fort William required both men to make a series of lengthy portages, and what began as business travel soon escalated into a cross-country grudge match.
Dr. McLoughlin had a twenty-day lead but Simpson, driving his voyageurs to the point of exhaustion, soon caught up, and McLoughlin never heard the end of it. Throughout the journey, Simpson had dined on “tidbits and wine” served to him on china by his manservant in between naps, all while his rugged engagés chased their daily allotment of pemmican with another six hours of hard paddling. Those in the trenches were painfully familiar with meals consisting of nothing but “Hudson’s Bay sauce” — a euphemism for hunger and privation — and while such class disparity undoubtedly caused resentment, the crewmen knew the temper of their captain well enough to keep their displeasure to themselves.
After weeks of arduous travel, Dr. McLoughlin was dressed in “Clothes that had once been fashionable but [were] now covered with a thousand patches of different Colours, his beard would do honor to the chin of a Grizzly Bear, his face and hands evidently Shewing that he had not lost much time on his Toilette, loaded with Arms and his own Herculean dimensions for a tout ensemble that would convey a good idea of the highwaymen of former Days.” The Governor, meanwhile, was playing dress-up. Simpson had temporarily eschewed his usual finery in favour of the checked chemise, green blanket coat, moccasins, and unkempt beard of a voyageur.
Such adventures can lead to the sort of bond forged in foxholes, but their competitive natures, and mutual distrust, drove a wedge between the Governor and the doctor. The demands of work forced the men to broker a fragile détente once the competing teams arrived in the Columbia District, but the brittle truce did not hold for long. The Governor dismissed Dr. McLoughlin as “a Radical” who “would be a troublesome man to the Company if he had sufficient influence to form and tact to manage a party.” He thought Simpson was arrogant, ridiculous, and dangerously short-sighted.
Simpson and McLoughlin Sr. continued to square off on matters great and small over the next three decades. The two were more alike than either man cared to admit, yet on one topic they were in complete agreement: the Hudson’s Bay Company was no place for John McLoughlin Jr. For Dr. McLoughlin, his hesitation was born of parental concern. He wanted to protect his son from the so-called Honourable Company and its tyrannical leader, although pride and the likelihood John Jr. would reflect poorly on him may also have coloured his thinking. Simpson, on the other hand, was driven by his disdain for those of mixed race in general, and for John Jr. in particular, thanks to the boy’s tantrum in a Montreal boarding school sixteen years prior. Whatever their respective motivation, the net result was the same: John Jr.’s future did not rest in the Canadian fur trade. His application was summarily rejected.
It was official: John McLoughlin Jr. was unemployable. Even a company that routinely hired criminals and deviants did not want him, and his desperation was about to lead him into strange and dangerous territory.
Thursday, April 21, 1842 — Midnight
fort stikine
As recounted by Thomas McPherson.
It began with Benoni Fleury, pie-eyed and slobbering in the arms of John McLoughlin, who was himself “half-seas over,” an era-specific euphemism for drunkenness. William Lasserte lingered like a useless prop as McLoughlin fought to tuck his servant in for the night, but things soon got out of hand. To hear Fleury tell it: “I fell to bed, in doing which a scuffle took place between us and I unfortunately tore the sleeve of his shirt.” The rent was accidental but McLoughlin “became outraged and thrashed [Fleury] unmercifully, so much so that Lasserte requested leave to desist.” The boldfaced challenge to his authority inflamed McLoughlin, who “flew at Lasserte and struck him repeatedly.” Lasserte had no choice but to turn tail and run, with McLoughlin on his heels. At one point, McLoughlin managed to grab hold of Lasserte and smacked him again for good measure. Lasserte wrenched free and fled, with McLoughlin staggering in pursuit. Lasserte made for the staircase, leaving McLoughlin listing in his wake. Step by step, McLoughlin pulled himself halfway up the flight of stairs before finally giving up the chase. He then stormed into Belanger’s room, where he found Simon Aneuharazie, Francois Pressé, Urbain Heroux, and Charles Belanger drinking to excess. McLoughlin grabbed Aneuharazie by the throat, mistaking him for Lasserte. A terrified Aneuharazie gulped for air as he told his master he had the wrong man. McLoughlin relinquished his death grip and lurched from the room, leaving the men bewildered.
Lasserte waited for McLoughlin to leave, then headed into the room where Aneuharazie sat rubbing his swollen throat. Lasserte tried to rally his colleagues with tales of the master’s abuse, but to no avail. He then proposed a plan that bordered on mutiny, suggesting they capture and bind McLoughlin if he once again “became outrageous.” Aneuharazie was still smarting from the last drubbing, and Lasserte could find no takers among the drunken cohort, save for Urbain Heroux.
It was a fateful meeting of unsound minds. Heroux had imbibed heavily for the past eight hours and was exhausted, having not slept in many nights. Illiterate and uneducated, Heroux was a profoundly superstitious man. He was frightened of the dark and terrified to be alone at night, certain that “there is a danger near me.” His fears were well-founded, for McLoughlin “appeared particularly irritated against Heroux.”
Lasserte’s treacherous pleas found a receptive audience in Heroux. He took up the
cause and “Urbain made his escape through the door, calling out ‘take care of yourselves, [McLoughlin] is maltreating Fleury.’” In truth, the mistreatment had ended the moment Fleury passed out cold, but Heroux’s warning finally roused the men to action.
Meanwhile, McLoughlin continued storming through the halls of the outpost. Drawn by the commotion, Francois Pressé stood peering out the door of the big house when he heard McLoughlin cry, “They have wounded me. I must kill some of them.” McLoughlin then ran to where the Kanakas lay sleeping and tried to marshal his troops by shouting “Aux arms, aux arms!” Pressé was a little drunk and still did not know what all the fuss was about, but he heeded his master’s call. He ran to his quarters and grabbed his rifle, only to come face to face with a raging John McLoughlin.
Despite his recent call to arms, there was something about the sight of Pressé with a gun that made McLoughlin uneasy. Paranoia tightened its grip, and McLoughlin turned on Pressé, whispering, “You also want to kill me.” He confiscated Pressé’s gun and ordered those within earshot to place him in irons. Pressé did not resist, later saying he had only been following orders and knew better than to challenge McLoughlin when he was so far gone. Despite the chief’s call for shackles, Antoine Kawannassé refused to comply. Pressé had done nothing wrong, and Kawannassé saw no indication the man had “any bad intention.” Outraged at again being defied, McLoughlin grabbed hold of Pressé’s shirt collar and bum-rushed him toward the holding cell. The awkward motion, mixed with spirits, caused McLoughlin to trip, and “his rifle fell and went off.” Startled by the noise, McLoughlin righted himself and slapped the cuffs on Pressé, locking him in the outpost’s makeshift cell.
McLoughlin, shaken and shaking, then headed upstairs to hide in McPherson’s room. Fortunately for Pressé, McLoughlin had been too drunk to secure the chains properly, and Pressé “succeeded in extricating [himself] from the irons.” Locked in a room with no hope of escape, Pressé was “in dread for my life,” horrified by the ruckus emanating from the other side of the wall. He pressed his ear to the door and his hair stood on end as he overheard McLoughlin give Antoine Kawannassé a final chilling directive: “The first Canadian you see, shoot him.”