4 These days men seem to find much to say in Meeting. We had less ministry when I was a boy; more often than not our worship was entirely silent. I used to find First Day mornings very hard in summer time, when Blencathra was clear of cloud and lay wide open with the whole depth of the blue sky above it. I would sit in Meeting with the sun streaming in at the window on my right hand, and watch the shaft of sunlight on the flagged floor at my feet, as it moved – oh so slowly – from the crack between two flagstones and across the grey stone to the next line. (I have sat on the elders’ bench these many years, but I am occasionally aware, even today, how far the sun has travelled in its morning journey across the cracks in the floor. I have observed it for fifty years; I know the time it tells to the very minute.) Long before I could tell the hour, however, I remember looking at the golden line crossing the floor beneath my dangling boots, when my legs were still too short for my feet to touch the floor. Our benches have no backs, and it was very hard, perched at the end of the row, not to fall off when I grew sleepy. One hour, an hour and a half . . . I would watch under my half-closed lids to see if the elders were anywhere near shaking hands, and there they would be, immoveable as the currock of grey stones atop Carrick Fell above us. So when aunt Judith descended upon us, in a way I was grateful for the diversion. Even as a child I was aware of a certain resistance in the silence into which her words would fall. I had a notion that the seeds landed not in fruitful soil, or even on stony ground, nor among the choking tares, but that somehow they were falling and falling down a deep dark well and meeting nothing.
CHAPTER 8
AFTER YONGE STREET, MONTREAL SEEMED LIKE THE very centre of the civilised world. William Mackenzie had become an old friend, his house a haven, albeit a dangerously luxurious one. The snow had melted and the fruit trees were beginning to bud. At Lachine the big canots du maître were preparing for their great journey. One bright morning early in Fifth Month I was in O'Sullivan's coffee house near La Place du Marche, five minutes’ walk from the Company offices. The place was crowded; I found an empty seat right in the draught from the door, and I ordered a cup of chocolate. What the elders of Mosedale would have said if they had seen me I care not to think. I picked up the only newspaper left on the rack, which turned out to be an American publication, several weeks old, so worn that the columns on the folds were unreadable. At home we did not have newspapers, but sometimes I used to read The Morning Post at the Royal Oak in Keswick, not surreptitiously precisely, but aware that certain Friends would decry my concern with military matters.1 I was reading a report from Washington City concerning the alliance between the British troops in Canada and the wild Indians in the west; I had not realised that fighting was already begun. I have the cutting by me yet:
. . . notwithstanding the British ‘'government'’ disavow the instigation of the savages to hostility against us, yet perhaps there are certain ‘persons’ in the employ and pay of that government, whose hands are not so clear of the blood of our citizens. It is a fact, sir, that Col. Grant, of the British army, who lately commanded at Amherstberg, did acknowledge (when he was remonstrated with by Governor Hull, in, 1807 on the inhuman policy of calling in savages to interfere in the disputes of civilised nations) that the object of himself and the British agents was to engage and retain the savages in their service in the event of war . . .
Suddenly my hat was seized by the brim and tipped off my head. I leaped to my feet and shoved the fellow back.2 He fell against the waiter. Coffee tipped from a pot all over the table by the window, splattering the white cloth, and the two gentlemen who sat opposite one another in the best seats.
A hue and cry broke out that made me blench, but I wouldn't give ground. I knocked the dent out of the brim of my hat, set it upon my head, and faced them all with folded arms. After all, I could pay my shot like the rest of them, and had as much right to sit in a public place as any man.
One of the coffee-bespattered gentlemen stood up. He was as tall as I was, but old enough to be my father, a high-complexioned gentleman, whether from being much outdoors or from good living I could not tell. He silenced the uproar with the raising of one hand, and explained to me. ‘This gentleman objects to you remaining covered, sir, within doors. In all conscience he acted hastily, but we are a civilised nation, and one sees his point, perhaps.’
I was too angry to be bashful. ‘It's not the custom of my people to doff a hat to any, save God Almighty, to whom alone do we defer.’
Several people began to argue at once, but he gestured again for silence. ‘Well, well. I think you must be Mr Greenhow, from Cumberland. Is that correct?’
Thus it was that I met William McGillivray, the head of the North West Company, disturbing him at his breakfast at the busiest time of year, when the brigades were preparing to set off from Lachine. But if I hadn't done so, I think all the efforts of my friend William Mackenzie on my behalf might have come to naught, for the loading of the canoes is very strictly done, and there is no space given to idle passengers. William had prepared the way for me, certainly, for so it was that my story had got about, but I thought in the days ahead that maybe the hand of God had been in it too, to throw me into the company of William McGillivray himself in such an unexpected manner.
William McGillivray was smooth with the polish of much wealth and a great position. The President of the North West Company has more power in his hand than the Czar of Russia, for he controls his own wealth, and his people prosper under him and therefore like him well.3They say the North West, being run entirely by dispossessed Scotch clansmen, is held together by bonds of kinships and loyalty that we Englishmen know nothing of.
I had wit enough to recognise that my errand might stand or fall by this encounter. I've never found it hard to get alongside folk, once I get into conversation. He clearly took an interest in me, or to the oddity of my religious principles. He fixed me with a piercing blue gaze, and questioned me thoroughly, all under the guise of ordinary small talk. He made me sit down at his table, and introduced his companion as a Mr McTavish.
He spoke to the waiter: ‘Another pot of coffee, and bring a cup for this gentleman.’ He turned to me. ‘Mr William Mackenzie has told me somewhat of your affairs, Mr Greenhow. You come from Cumberland, I understand?’
I sat with him less than an hour, and he said nothing of himself, but he seemed to me above all an unhappy man. I learned later that he had been much bereaved, whereat I was sorry, because for all the tales of high-handedness, quarrelling, and the debaucheries of the Beaver Club, I stood in his debt, for he made my way plain before me.
William McGillivray stood up, and shook my hand. ‘Come to my house after dinner tomorrow, Mr Greenhow. Say six o'clock. I'll have something for you. Anyone will tell you where I live.’
That was true: St Antoine House was evidently one of the landmarks of the place. As directed, I took the upper Lachine Road out of town, and turned right between impressive gateposts, and followed a long drive up on to the western slopes of Mount Royal. The drive led me through a park newly landscaped with groves of young trees, past a walled kitchen garden and a formal garden, complete with ornamental pond, which was divided from the estate by a ha-ha, up to a handsome two-storey mansion in the modern style, built of black stone, with an imposing façade and a conservatory and succession houses built to one side. It was bigger than Greta Hall or Thomas Wilkinson's pleasant house at Yanwath (Friend Thomas would have yearned over these gardens, though), but not on the magnificent scale of Dalemain, which I pass so often on my way to Yanwath. A uniformed butler led me to a well-appointed library, where I found William McGillivray at his desk, surrounded by more leather-bound volumes than I had ever thought to have crossed the Atlantic.4William McGillivray stood up to shake my hand, and with his own hands set a chair for me.
‘Now, Mr Greenhow, to business. My partner William Mackenzie has petitioned the Council that you may be given passage to Sainte Marie du Sault. To be honest, I cannot think that you will find your sist
er. Women and children are kidnapped occasionally. The population of the Red Man is much depleted by disease these days, which may account for it. They're a brave people, but they die easily. It's a hard thing to face, but if your sister's not dead, she's as good as dead to the world she came from.’
‘If she lives, friend, there's that within her which cannot die. I'll find her if I can.’
‘I see.’ He took a turn or two about the room, while I waited, and then he sat down and faced me frankly. ‘Well now. Your brother-in-law Alan Mackenzie was a North West Company employee, but officially we're under no obligation to yon, for your business with him is entirely domestic. However, the Company is not ungenerous. We don't take passengers in our canoes. A partner may take his servant, however. We have a partner, Hugh Chisholm, going back to Fort William. He says you can travel with him, if you're willing to do the work a servant would have done, as far as the Sault.’
‘I'll do whatever's necessary.’
‘Good. We can't afford to accommodate a useless man. I should tell you that Alan Mackenzie was clerk to Hugh Chisholm in the Athabasca region before he transferred to the Michilimackinac. Yes,’ – for he was watching me closely – ‘I thought that would interest you. I'll furnish you with Hugh's direction before you leave. He'll tell you what to bring, and so on.’
‘Friend, I am most grateful . . .’
‘In a minute. There's one small matter you can do for us in return.’ He picked up a sealed paper from his desk. ‘This. It's a letter – a small paper – I'd like you to deliver it to Alan Mackenzie, when you find him.’
‘I'll willingly do that for thee.’
‘Wait. There is that in this letter . . . In short, you must not let it fall into any hands but Alan Mackenzie's. If you find him not, then destroy the papers by fire. And let no man else have sight of it. Is that understood?’
I looked at the letter, then accosted him straightly. ‘I must ask thee, friend, if this paper contains any matter pertaining to the coming war? Does it incite Alan, or any other man, to any war or strife or fighting with outward weapons, for any end whatsoever?’
He met my eyes. ‘No, it's not about that. Do you want my oath on it?’
‘No. Thy word is sufficient.’
McGillivray moved a paperweight on his desk. ‘I regret I can't tell you the content of the letter. Suffice it to say that it is important to the Company, and will serve your brother-in-law well. You are a gentleman, sir, and I trust you to enquire no further.’
‘Friend, I'm no gentleman; I'm a farmer. But if thee's worried I might read the letter, I give thee my word I will not, just as thee has given thy word that the letter contains no matter contrary to my Society's testimony against all wars.’
He didn't comment on that, but asked me abruptly, ‘How many members of your . . . Society . . . do we have in Canada?’
‘I know not,’ I said, surprised. ‘The Friends at Yonge Street are maybe a hundred souls or more, and there are other settlements, for I heard them spoken of. Half a dozen Meetings, perhaps? I think thee might find close on a thousand Quakers, if thee searched this land from end to end.’
‘I see.’ McGillivray stood up. ‘It's been a pleasure to meet you, Mr Greenhow. I hope to see you in Montreal when you come back again. You will come and tell me how you prosper in the west.’
It was not a question, so I didn't answer it, but gave him my hand and thanked him for his help. I put the letter in my breeches pocket, next to my wallet – a plain coat hath no inner pockets – and bade William McGillivray farewell.
My friend William Mackenzie was not as excited about my good fortune as I expected him to be, for all that I owed it to him. Later that evening he took me into his bookroom, and addressed me solemnly. ‘Now lookee, lad, I've done my best for you, but there's more in it than you know. I don't want you on my conscience, and faith, I'd be sorry to lose you, for I've grown fond of you. No reason why a Quaker shouldn't join the great North West, either . . . This would be a fine beginning, so long as it don't turn out to be an untimely end . . .’
‘I thank thee, friend, but when I've found my sister I want nothing more than to go home.’
‘Ay, well, it's early days yet. A sober man – and tha'art always sober, laddie – is always at an advantage in business. And business is what we must come to now. Mr McGillivray gave you a letter to carry to young Alan Mackenzie? Nay, you needn't answer; I ken that he did.’
‘Friend, I know quite well that William McGillivray has his own motives. But if thee can tell me aught that will help me – for I'll admit both thy Company and the nature of the country are entirely strange to me – I'd be grateful. The first thing is, I asked William McGillivray, and I'll ask thee the same: is there aught of warmongering in the letter I must carry? For if there's anything whatsoever contrary to my Society's testimony against all wars, then I can't carry it.’
William looked at me sideways. ‘Even if you would forfeit all hope of reaching your brother-in-law thereby?’
‘Even so. But I wouldn't forfeit all hope. I'd find another way.’
‘Good lad. I've not read the letter, but I've talked to McGillivray. I tried to find you a place in the canoes, quite privily, but it got to the ears of the Council, and they wouldn't hear of it. Sadly you're a big lad, and there's no way we could slip you in without leaving behind at least three quarters of your weight in goods, and even if you could wield a paddle no one could take you for a voyageur. I felt bad, for I'd told you to come all the way back to Montreal from Yonge Street, and it looked likely ‘twould all be for naught. But then when the brigades came back McGillivray changed his mind all of a sudden – or was it because he met you? – one or the other, most likely a mix of the two – and today he sent for me. Now I cannot tell you all his mind – for one thing I know it not – but I can maybe prime you a little, for what you're going to meet at Mackinac.
‘Now mark me well. In the old days the Company controlled all the far trade in the west, from Athabasca to the Mississippi, and from Mackinac to the mountains. At least, it was never that simple . . . There was always the Hudson's Bay Company . . . the best men can be ill to work with . . . No need to go into that . . . In the good old days, the Yankees had no real interests north or west of St Louis. When you're out there, laddie, you may hear many a tale . . . But understand this: the North West Company now is one and indivisible. Hudson's Bay now . . . you'll have naught to do with that where you're going. All you need to know, lad, is that the North West Company is the fur trade in Canada. That is to say the Company is Canada, and the Company's interests are the same as Britain's interests, and that's all there is about it.’
‘They wouldn't say that in Yonge Street . . .’
‘Ay, but we're not in Yonge Street. Mark me well. Our troubles in the south-west began when the Yankees moved in. Did you know that the United States bought all the land west of the Mississippi to the sea? Ay, you'll say it can't be done, and you'd be in the right of it, except that it happened. Then – what would it be? – six, seven years back a Yankee expedition reached the Pacific. Now Mr Mackenzie, and Mr Fraser . . . but you needn't concern yourself with all that. The point is that the North West Company couldn't stay in Mackinac, because Mackinac was Yankee territory. So what did we do? The North West couldn't stay, but no reason why there shouldn't be another Canadian company there. And so the Michilimackinac Company was started, to trade in the American North West Territories and into the Mississippi. The Yankees might be hostile to us, but how could they stop us?’
‘When thee says “us”, thee means that the Michili . . . Michili . . .’
‘Michilimackinac.’
‘The Michilimackinac Company is the North West Company under a different name?’
‘It is – was – a different Company.’
‘But perhaps all the shareholders are men of the North West Company?’
‘Well, well, laddie, you're more fly to the time of day than I reckoned. Maybe that's just as well. Anyway, yo
ur brother-in-law Alan, when he came due for Montreal leave in the summer of 1809, was seconded to the Michilimackinac Company. It's difficult to move from clerk to hivernant, so the Company offered him a higher post in the Michilimackinac instead.’
‘So he's quite high up in his Company?’
‘Well, he got his promotion. Seemingly he fell in with a Hudson's Bay agent up in Athabasca back in ‘06 or ‘07. He and the Bay fellow wintered within half a mile of each other. Things got strained, but they came out of it without a fight, and young Mackenzie was commended by his hivernant – that's Hugh Chisholm – for his diplomatic handling of the situation. So – wanting to do the lad a good turn, I guess – Chisholm recommended him when they got back to Fort William, and Mackenzie was sent as a senior clerk to the Michilimackinac. Might as well have thrown him into a hornets’ nest and be done with it. And then the foolish lad makes his ridiculous marriage . . . Of course, if he'd still been in the North West he'd never have been allowed to take her beyond the Sault. But being down in Mackinac, I suppose he thought he could do as he liked, and no harm would come of it . . . I'm sorry, lad, I don't mean to offend your sensibilities.’
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