by Debra Komar
He did find one nighttime distraction particularly compelling. According to a junior officer, Mr. John “was always trying to catch the Watchmen sleeping, coming by stealth wrapped up in his Blanket.” On one occasion, McLoughlin found a guard snoring and beat the man to within an inch of his life. Whether such corporal punishment was a necessary evil to ensure the fort’s security or a symptom of the chief trader’s declining mental stability was a subject ripe for debate. Curiously, even the man beaten for sleeping on his watch later admitted his harsh discipline was justified.
In between his midnight raids on the watchtowers, McLoughlin spent his twilight hours pacing, his thoughts a choir of despair. As each day drew to a close, his country wife prayed for exhaustion to overtake him. On the evening of April 19, he did not surrender until the light of dawn pierced the cracks of their room. With equal parts resignation and trepidation, McLoughlin pulled himself from his bed. There was work to be done, and if history were any guide, it would not happen without his constant vigilance and firm disciplinary hand. He looked a fright. On his best days, he had more hair than any man had use for, but he had let himself go, and his wild mane and boot-scrape beard did little to foster an image of sanity. He opened his window just a crack, a hedge against the cold and the nebulous threat. He shouted to Nahua to fetch him some food, but his barking was met only by silence.
Low-hanging clouds drained the blue from the sky, and the rain dripped incessantly. The sombre atmosphere matched his décor. Home was little more than a poor man’s still life: a timber box on the upper floor of the fort’s main house, punctuated with a few meagre possessions. Such was the price owed for the choices he’d made. He was just shy of thirty at a time when men counted themselves lucky to live a decade longer, and he was far from his ancestral home, although this was of no consequence to a peripatetic man like John McLoughlin.
He wasted little time on his morning ablutions, for personal grooming meant nothing in Fort Stikine. He dressed and drank, no doubt cursing the long-lost Nahua for robbing him of his morning meal. Then McLoughlin paused to take his wife’s hands, and they shared a few words. The words must have been few indeed, for he spoke only a smattering of her language, and she knew nothing of his. In more public settings, John relied on the services of Hanega Joe, the post’s ersatz translator. Joe claimed to have been educated in the United States and spoke “a little English,” a triumph of understatement. McLoughlin had already fired Hanega Joe once, only to rehire him almost immediately; desperation breeds forgiveness, and some English was better than none. But here, in the privacy of their room, the couple did what they could to make themselves understood. Even without words, their partings had taken on an air of finality.
It took all he had to leave the room, although his hesitancy had little to do with the menace waiting for him outside the door. Rather, it was a formidable crossbar, recently crafted by the fort’s carpenters and blacksmiths, preventing his exit. Call it what you will — a prescient shield against the looming evil or an artifact of his fevered paranoia — but “every night before he went to bed, he used to bar the door on the inside, as if he knew their treacherous intentions.” Whether such excessive precaution served to keep evil in or out is the question at the heart of this mystery.
one
L’Enfant Terrible
As a child of quiet privilege, much was expected of John McLoughlin Jr., yet he never failed to disappoint. He was labelled “l’enfant terrible” from the time he could crawl, and most who knew the boy dismissed him as a good-for-nothing, while the rest were convinced he was not good for much. Thinking poorly of John was a way of life for those cursed with his acquaintance. Even his closest allies felt he had earned such opprobrium, and his life became a litany of squandered opportunities.
John McLoughlin’s inability to play well with others was evident almost from birth. He burst forth on August 18, 1812, his tiny fists ready to do battle, and his head topped with a tuft of floss the colour of ravens. His birthdate was recorded for posterity, but the location remains an open question. Most who have given the matter any thought agree that John made his inauspicious debut in the fur trading post of Fort William, nestled in the shadow of the stone formation known as the Sleeping Giant in Thunder Bay, where his father was making a name for himself.
The White-Headed Eagle, John McLoughlin Sr., in a photo taken near the end of his life.
At six foot, four inches, John McLoughlin Sr. was impossible to ignore and wholly unforgettable. Formidable in every sense, he walked with purpose, even when he had nowhere to go. Eternally restless and chronically dissatisfied, he faced the world with the absolute certainty it would bend to his will. HBC governor George Simpson once called the senior McLoughlin a “proud giant,” adding that he cut “such a figure as I should not like to meet in a dark Night in one of the by-lanes in the neighbourhood of London.” Daughter Eloisa described him with military precision: “Stature tall. Hair white and partially grey. Eyes dark. Very strong frame. A slightly French accent. Good features.” Although his French accent polished off the rough edges, “he had a rapid way of speaking & sputterin” as though his brain and tongue were in a race to the finish. When angered, he lowered his voice in a way that made his displeasure all the more audible. He spoke English and French with equal command and knew at least one aboriginal dialect “tolerably well,” giving him “a good deal of influence with Indians.” For his efforts, the local tribes dubbed him the White-Headed Eagle, one of several nicknames he accrued in his lifetime, bestowed with respect if not necessarily affection.
What little wit McLoughlin Sr. possessed was gin-dry and seldom displayed. He had a hearty laugh, but his darker side was readily apparent. “My father was very quick tempered,” Eloisa recalled, while George Simpson pegged him as a man with an “ungovernable Violent temper and turbulent disposition.” Certainly this “stubborn, irascible” man “was well known for his use of physical punishment” and feared by his trading partners. Even Eloisa conceded her father was a stickler for rules, who expected that “what he said must be so.” “I think he required those about him to show him proper respect because he was in the Company and was the head man.” Mercifully, his surliness was short-lived. “Right off he cooled down when his temper was up, and was quite good hearted,” Eloisa recalled, “he was fond of children; very fond of ladies’ company; fond of talking and visiting.”
Dr. McLoughlin’s gregarious nature had served him well in business. He was a fixture of the burgeoning fur trade, one of “the lords of the lakes and the forests” who had inadvertently transformed the pursuit of commerce into the building of a nation and an empire. Heeding the call of the wild, McLoughlin signed up for a life that spit out lesser men without a second thought.
John McLoughlin Sr. was born on October 19, 1784, in Rivière-du-Loup, a crossroads on the southern shore of the St. Lawrence, 120 miles east of Quebec City. He was an earnest child, more interested in science and literature than roughhousing. He began studying medicine at fourteen and soon excelled at his chosen profession. In 1803, just shy of his nineteenth birthday, McLoughlin Sr. petitioned for leave to practise medicine. His application was certified by his tutor, Dr. Fisher, who swore he “behaved honestly, he possesses talents.” With that tepid recommendation, McLoughlin Sr. became a licensed physician, and the North West Company (NWC) eventually hired him as an entry-level surgeon.
Legend has it that McLoughlin Sr. only accepted the post to escape an assault charge after he tossed a drunken British soldier into the mud. The soldier had insulted the honour of McLoughlin’s female companion, but the military did not look kindly on any affront to the uniform, regardless of the character inhabiting it. The NWC contract saved McLoughlin from jail, and he was dispatched to Kaministikwia, where he took over the fort’s medical duties, a period he would recall in his dotage as “his sad Experiment.”
While at Kaministikwia, Dr. John’s interests were not entirely medical. During his first year he met Marguerite Wadin
McKay, the daughter of a Swiss Protestant and his Cree wife. At the time, Marguerite was the country wife of Alexander McKay, a fellow NWC employee. In 1810, McKay joined an expedition, led by Wilson Price Hunt and financed by millionaire magnate John Jacob Astor, which planned to follow in the footsteps of Lewis and Clark and their Corps of Discovery. McKay set sail for the Pacific Coast, leaving behind Marguerite and their young children, but the newly single mother soon found solace in the arms of the outpost’s doctor.
When it became clear Alexander McKay was never coming back, Dr. John and Marguerite made their relationship official by exchanging vows in a church ceremony. The nuptials had the added benefit of “giving full legal status to their children,” which in the summer of 1812 included a son they christened John.
Whether John McLoughlin Jr.’s childhood was idyllic or hellish is a matter of opinion and degree. He was never a biddable child, and his capacity for mischief grew faster than his bones. Curiously, John never mentioned his mother in his later correspondence, so their adult relationship can only be reconstructed by inference. His earliest years were lonely ones, but he was not alone for long. Sisters Marie Elisabeth and Eloisa joined the family by the time John was five. Brother David followed in 1821, but by then John was gone.
At age eight, young John was sent to study with the Reverend Mr. Glen in Montreal, at the first of what would be many boarding schools. The responsibility for his education fell squarely on his father, but Dr. McLoughlin, now in the employ of the HBC, was travelling constantly for business, leaving him little time for his son. En route to London, McLoughlin Sr. stopped in Montreal long enough to drop the boy on the doorstep of Dr. Simon Fraser, Dr. McLoughlin’s favourite uncle. Not to be confused with the famous explorer of the same name, Dr. Simon Fraser (1769-1844) was a major of the Terrebonne Division and a lieutenant of Her Majesty’s 42nd (Royal Highland) Regiment. Retired from active service, Dr. Fraser lived in a well-appointed home in one of Montreal’s better neighbourhoods.
Dr. McLoughlin had paid good money to place his son with Mr. Glen, but the arrangement was doomed from the start. John found himself alone and homesick in a strange city. His emotions fluctuated wildly and he chattered incessantly. The Reverend Mr. Glen soon sent him packing “on account of the habit [he] had of soiling [his] breeches and remaining in that condition for days.” John was dumped back in the lap of his great-uncle Simon, who took the boy to task: “I blamed your mother for this filthy habit. I am now convinced I was wrong, the blame lay solely on your innate perversity.” It seems that perversity extended beyond John’s scatological protests, for Mr. Glen also alleged John had “corrupted the morals of the other boys,” although no specifics were provided.
By this point, John’s sole contact with his family consisted of letters from his father, which were few and far between. Although his job required excessive correspondence, many of McLoughlin Sr.’s contemporaries were highly critical of his missives. HBC trader George Roberts spoke for many when he called Dr. McLoughlin “a very poor letter writer.” His spelling and grammar were marginal at best, and his awkward sentence structures left readers struggling to decipher his meaning. John, still in short pants, was equally limited in his literary abilities, and their relationship suffered.
The only known photograph of Marguerite Wadin McKay McLoughlin, wife of Dr. McLoughlin, mother of John Jr.
When Dr. McLoughlin returned from Europe, he briefly investigated other schools in Montreal but could find no suitable placement. It was the last time he had a direct hand in his son’s education. Frustrated, he once again imposed on his uncle, claiming, “I am so situated that it is impossible for me to attend to my little family concerns.” It proved quite an imposition, and Dr. McLoughlin took pains to express his gratitude to Fraser: “I feel very much obliged to you for the Kind attention you have hitherto shown my little Boy. I hope he minds what you say to him.”
Dr. McLoughlin’s hopes were soon dashed, as his son became a chronic disciplinary problem at school. The father may have been a prolific correspondent with his colleagues, but it seems he had little to say to his son, and the boy struggled with his anger and sense of abandonment. Three years passed without a single written word between them. Alone and ignored, John lashed out at those around him. When his latest headmaster threw up his hands and ordered the lad out, Dr. McLoughlin once again passed his son to Simon Fraser: “You are perfectly at liberty to adopt the plan you chuse in the mode of settling for my Sons Education and I feel certainly under obligation to you for the trouble you have taken.”
John was not the only child the senior McLoughlin foisted on his long-suffering uncle. Eventually he pawned off each of his remaining children on Fraser, but the latter three were far less demanding. Accordingly, Dr. McLoughlin had a very different relationship with his youngest children, and he was more openly affectionate, or at least as affectionate as one can be in an annual letter. He expected little of the girls, but Elisabeth, always “a frail child,” concerned him. She was sent to the Ursuline convent in Quebec and held under the watchful eye of her aunt, Sister St. Henry, the convent’s Mother Superior. Dr. McLoughlin’s instructions were quite explicit: “My object is not to give her a splendid Education but a good one — at least a good Education for a Girl.”
Fraser’s response was a lamentable sign of the times: “The Girl cannot be a nun on account of her birth. I think she ought to be sent to your mother.” Dr. McLoughlin did not agree. He valued education highly, even for girls, but his conviction was sorely tested when he received an invoice for £80 to cover Elisabeth’s annual tuition. The fee was more than three times what he expected to pay, although less than half the cost of his son’s education each year. Still, Dr. McLoughlin was in no position to argue; he sent the money, and Elisabeth remained at the convent.
As for John Jr., help came in the unlikely form of George Simpson, who was then acting governor of overseas operations for the Hudson’s Bay Company. Although just days into the post, Simpson was “never at ease with a problem until he had seen its nature for himself,” so he implemented a practice that became his administrative trademark: the annual grand tour. The Governor was not content to issue edicts from on high; he wanted to lay hands on every aspect of the operation, although that was more a symptom of his obsessive need for control than an actual management philosophy. Simpson vowed he would visit every one of the Company’s outposts, and each tour began and ended near Montreal, a town Simpson dismissed as “a filthy irregular place.” This travel itinerary put him in proximity to John’s perpetually changing roster of boarding schools.
George Simpson was new to the Company and looking to bank favours with his lieutenants, particularly John McLoughlin Sr. During one of his ceremonial passes through Montreal, Simpson feigned interest in the doctor’s children and visited Elisabeth in the Ursuline convent. He even went so far as to offer to “meet any drafts necessary for the children’s care,” although he later recanted the offer.
Simpson had children of his own, but he never expressed the slightest interest in them. He had left behind two daughters in Scotland: Maria, the eldest, and little Isabella. Simpson played no role in their upbringing and maintained no relationship with either of the mothers. More children by different women were to follow, and one observer noted that Simpson’s later offspring had “been taught to be afraid of their own Papa.” Family life held no charms for George Simpson, who “was never fully a parent, never a doting father or uncle.”
When Simpson paid a perfunctory call on John’s latest boarding school, he witnessed an altercation that cemented his impression of the young man, one that would have a direct impact on the events at Fort Stikine almost two decades later. It began with a stern reprimand of John from the headmaster, Dr. Newcombe, for “the offense of absenting himself from the House for a couple of hours on Sunday Evening after dark without accounting for his absence in a satisfactory manner, the night being wet and dark.” The scolding was harsh, but it was the boy’s reactio
n that captured Simpson’s attention. According to Simpson’s own account, the young man “flew into a violent passion, made use of highly improper Language and, providing himself with a bludgeon, threatened the Dr’s life.” Simpson tried to intervene by grabbing hold of the boy, but “instead of showing the least contrition, he burst out into the most violent gust of rage I ever witnessed, became quite frantic with passing, used the most provoking and unrespectful language to the Schoolmaster and, clenching his fist, threated revenge.”
John eventually calmed himself, but the damage was done. He began “to collect his Books and with an Oath declared he would not remain another night in the House.” He would get his wish, but the burden of rectifying the situation fell to Simpson, who later recalled that “the poor Schoolmaster was quite horrer [sic] struck and alarmed, begged me to take [John] with me.” Simpson declined and tried throwing money at the problem, but it was clear the boy had overstayed his welcome when Dr. Newcombe announced he would not “keep him another Week for £500.” Although he did not recognize it at the time, John McLoughlin Jr. had made a lifelong enemy of the powerful and petulant George Simpson.
Simpson deposited John at Simon Fraser’s front door and then washed his hands of the situation. The Governor’s one-strike policy was evident in a letter he sent to Fraser regarding Dr. McLoughlin’s problem child: “Up to the time the first complaint was lodged against him I had a very high opinion of the Young Man; his manners and address were pleasing, his temper appeared even and mild, his disposition good and of promising abilities.” Indeed, Simpson’s initial impression was so favourable he had considered giving “him a Seat in our Counting House” when the boy came of age. All that evaporated with John’s tantrum, forcing Simpson into the rare position of admitting he was wrong: “I have never been so grossly deceived in a Young Man, and regret it exceedingly on account of his Father, for whom I have a very great regard.” Simon Fraser’s patience had worn thin, and the number of schools in Montreal willing to house the teenaged recidivist had dwindled. John wrote to his father, begging to be allowed to come home. His father’s refusal was “full of wise and kind counsel,” but it struck John’s ears as rejection. Their entire relationship had been reduced to a series of letters and the exchange of money, a literal accounting of a father’s affection for his wayward son. Dr. McLoughlin closed his letter with a stern warning: “I expect you to pay particular attention to everything my uncle Desires you, as also your school master, as a complaint from them would Expose you to my Displeasure.”
