by Debra Komar
Outside Pressé’s locked cell, bedlam reigned. The fort’s complement was now heavily armed thanks to the competing war cries of Heroux and McLoughlin. Just then, Pressé heard seven or eight shots fired in rapid succession. He became “seriously alarmed” and hurled himself against the door, frantic to break free.
Although many had taken up arms, not everyone joined in the fray. When the call went out to shoot any Canadian on sight, everyone fitting that description went into hiding. Charles Belanger gathered up several of the wives and led them to the carpentry shop, where they huddled like frightened children. Louis Leclaire was too proud to cower with the women but he found similar sanctuary beneath the bench in the blacksmith’s shop. George Heron cast dignity aside and hid in the latrine, hoping its rancid vapours would deter all comers. Even the fort’s resident idiot, Oliver Martineau, knew better than to make himself a target. He bolted for the southeast bastion, where he promptly lay down and fell asleep.
McLoughlin remained upstairs, hunkered down with Antoine Kawannassé and Thomas McPherson. The lone thought rattling in his well-oiled brain was to arm himself, and McPherson watched helplessly as McLoughlin “was walking about the floor trying to load his rifle. He gave it to me to load as he could not do it himself, being too tipsy.” That was the last thing McPherson needed.
Thomas McPherson was already having a rough night, made all the more unbearable for being the only sober man left in the rogue’s gallery. He had spent the evening fetching liquor for his boss: “About 9 P.M., [McLoughlin] called in the Canadians and Iroquois and sent me into the Store for 3 Bottles of Rum, those 3 Bottles were filled 4 times in the course of the Night.” By then, McLoughlin was so wasted he “thought he saw a person in a white dress in front of the men’s house.” Unable to stand, he dispatched Kawannassé and McPherson “to see who it was, but [they] could neither see nor find any one.” McPherson had seen McLoughlin soused on many occasions, and experience had taught him that when McLoughlin drank, there was always hell to pay. In between rum runs, McPherson barricaded himself in his room, “apprehensive of Mr. McLoughlin’s violence.”
McPherson heard what followed through the floor in his room. Having guzzled “1½ Gallons of pure Spirits,” the chief trader and his men “began to fight.” As the shouting escalated, Heroux and Lasserte “ran out of the House with their Guns and [McLoughlin] sent all hands out after them.” McPherson would have remained locked in his room were it not for “Mr. McLoughlin, who had come for his Rifle on account [of] Heroux & Lasserte’s threatening him.”
McLoughlin ordered McPherson to take up his lantern and accompany him in “search of Urbain and Lasserte, who had secreted themselves.” McPherson thought the chief trader was simply paranoid, but he could not disobey a direct order. Holding aloft their lone source of light, he trailed McLoughlin as he hunted under the beds, although “for what object I cannot say.” McLoughlin then “went around in the Gallery and searched the Bastions but could not find Urbain and Lasserte.” As McPherson made his way into the southeast bastion, McLoughlin “ran down into the Area of the Fort, calling out ‘Fire, Fire,’” pleading with his loyal followers to commence shooting.
A hail of gunfire ensued, filling the night air with lead and the acrid smell of spent powder. A strange metered lull ensued as each man struggled to reload. Then, according to McPherson, “3 shots were fired near Fleury’s house and one from the Gallery.” From his hideout inside the carpenter’s workshop, Belanger heard one shot, followed almost immediately by another, “the ball passing through the door where I was standing.” Moments later, when the smoke finally cleared, McPherson learned that “one of those Shots took effect.”
Moonlight etched the scene in stark relief. The body of John McLoughlin lay crumpled in a pool of blood at the door of Urbain Heroux’s house.Leaving the safety of the carpentry shop, Charles Belanger saw McLoughlin “lying on his face, his rifle under his arm, quite dead.” He had been shot through the chest. The wound proved instantly fatal; there were no final words, no last desperate gasps — “he did not even say, ‘I am killed.’”
Almost immediately, the men began to speculate as to who had fired the lethal shot. Belanger posed the question to the growing crowd but his query met with stony silence and averted eyes. When pressed, several of the Canadians insisted, “We do not know, perhaps it was the Indians [from Tako].” When he asked the Kanakas, “some said it was Urbain and others said it was Antoine.” McPherson, having inherited the mantle of command by default, immediately sat down and drafted a letter to the Company, writing: “I do not know the very man that have done it, but some of the Islanders were on the Gallery…and they saw two men firing, who were Lasserte and Urbain.”
The debate raged on through the night, and by morning all agreed “the fatal shot had been fired by one Urbain Heroux.”
four
Dickson’s Folly
As 1835 drew to a close, “General” James Dickson materialized from thin air, devoid of biography or pedigree. He stepped onto history’s stage first in Washington and later New York, although it was Rupert’s Land where he staked his claim and cemented his infamy.
In the absence of hard facts, speculation ran rampant. Dickson had money, although its source remained elusive, and he was clearly educated. His bearing and “air of command led to rumours of a distinguished lineage…English, Scottish or possibly Indian.” He certainly looked the part; he was a well-knit specimen, rugged and ruddy, more ropey than muscular. George Simpson once described Dickson’s face as “covered with huge whiskers and mustachios and seamed with sabre wounds,” vestiges of a life hard lived. He claimed a vague prior association with Texas and the acquaintance of a number of well-regarded American military men who, in all likelihood, would not have known Dickson had they tripped over him.
As for the rank of general, it was a self-appointed commission. He commanded no troops, carried no colours, and bore no insignia. His uniform was entirely of his own design, as much a part of his spurious trappings as his blade-ravaged face. He was a man without country or conscience, but that was of little consequence to a visionary like James Dickson.
The general’s vision was every bit as grandiose as the man who conceived it. He dreamt of establishing an independent “Indian” state encompassing all of Rupert’s Land and extending as far south as Texas and California. He intended to raise an army of mercenaries and volunteers and launch an attack on Santa Fe, a New Mexican stronghold he assumed would collapse upon his approach. The fort’s capture would then pave his way into California, where he would create — and rule — a Native American utopia far from the meddlesome influence of European authorities.
To achieve his objectives, Dickson placed some misleading advertisements for recruits “to aid the cause of Texas.” He hoped to build a fighting force two hundred strong, but when he assembled his newly named Indian Liberating Army in Buffalo, New York, during the summer of 1836, the rank and file numbered only sixty. The majority were “half-breeds,” the unwanted sons of HBC traders and their aboriginal wives. One of the first to enlist was “Major” Martin McLeod, a would-be poet who kept a journal of his “Quixotic career,” peppered with quotations from Byron and other lyrical flights of fancy. He described his commander as “quite sanguine of success. As yet I know little of the man, but if I may judge from so short an acquaintance, he is somewhat visionary in his views.” Although he admired his chosen messiah, McLeod acknowledged that Dickson’s “movements at Buffalo [were] being looked upon with suspicion by the Americans.” McLeod would have done well to heed their skepticism.
The general’s disappointing recruitment drive left him no choice but to head north in search of more forgotten sons of the Honourable Company. One of his first ports of call was a bustling harbour town on the shores of Lake Ontario. McLeod captured the scene for posterity: “Remained one day at Toronto, do not like the place.…People kind enough apparently, but I think somewhat pompous. Why? God only knows. What have they to bost [sic]
of. Their town or city (as I believe it is call’d) is a muddy hole.” Still, even mudhole dwellers knew crazy when they saw it, and Dickson garnered only a handful of new recruits. Hoping for better luck in a bigger city, the crew headed east.
During Dickson’s sweep through Montreal, John McLoughlin Jr. signed on without a moment’s hesitation. His enlistment was not politically motivated, for he did not identify as “Indian” and cared little for their plight. Rather, he saw Dickson’s campaign as the perfect opportunity to prove to his father, Simpson, and all his detractors that he could succeed at some occupation. More to the point, Junior was flat broke and solvency was an alluring mirage.
At McLoughlin’s side was John George McKenzie, the son of Emperor Alexander McKenzie of the Athabasca and another chronic failure in his family’s eyes. Young McKenzie had accomplished little, but his father’s exalted status quickly earned him a place of honour among Dickson’s recruits. He was named “Secretary of State” and “Brigadier General,” ranks as heady as they were meaningless. Sadly, McKenzie was a very sick man; he lasted only as far as Sault Ste. Marie, where his failing health forced him to retreat to Berthier to spend the winter with his sister. There, McKenzie took a final turn for the worse and died in 1838.
Having lost his friend and Brigadier General, McLoughlin soon found another role model among Dickson’s ranks, a fellow Metis by the name of McBean. The two men “encountered many interesting anecdotes” as the liberation army made its way into the heart of Rupert’s Land in search of recruits. The voyage was circuitous and haphazard, a random itinerary of cities visited and revisited in the hopes of finding fresh recruits, and it proved more treacherous than expected once they reached the Sault. McLoughlin recalled, “Crossing the lakes Erie and Huron…took us at least one month, and we who expected to make it in fifteen days.…I was in command of one of our vessels.” Strong winds nearly capsized the boat, and it was only through “courage and resourcefulness that I was able to save the life of my men. The water was entering my vessel by tons. I was able to beach it on the beach and to save all my men with my small boat.” McBean showed similar grace under fire, and the two men were amply rewarded, as McLoughlin boasted to the folks back home: “For the devotion which I have shown, as well as McBean, the commander has given us the commission of Major in the cavalry. I am naturally satisfied with my rank as it increases my pay. We are very much liked by our general and by the other officers.”
Not everyone shared Dickson’s high opinion of the newly minted Major. Fellow libertine Martin McLeod saw things differently and made note in his diary, which now stands as the best account of Dickson’s ill-conceived march toward glory. McLeod recalled that during the near shipwreck, “McLoughlin and his men saved themselves at the expense of a good wetting but some of our luggage (which was carelessly left in the boat) was lost.…No lives lost fortunately.”
McLoughlin and McBean continued to bask in Dickson’s good graces. The general and his majors even vacationed together, enjoying a short foray to Detroit, where they raised some eyebrows among the local populace: “Rambled through Detroit. Think it a pleasant place enough. Increasing rapidly, like all the American towns. People inquisitive and rude. Much speculation as to who we are.” Five days later, the party still awaited the arrival of their schooner, and their impressions of the city soured after they “saw some of its curiosities and went to the menagerie, saw a variety of large snakes, birds, Monkeys and other beasts, besides some beastly spectators half seas over, chewing tobacco as if for a wager.”
Curiosities aside, Detroit proved pivotal for an altogether different reason. When the long-awaited schooner finally hauled anchor two days later, the city’s sheriff and his posse — whom McLeod called “his unwashed followers” — commandeered a boat and proceeded to hunt down Dickson and his mercenaries. It seems that, in addition to dining and taking in the sights, a number of Dickson’s men engaged in some rather nefarious pursuits, including killing livestock and other light pillage and plunder. Whether McLoughlin was counted in that number remains unclear. The sheriff’s boat quickly overtook Dickson’s schooner, and the lawman declared he was charging the crew with killing some oxen, valued at $150. McLeod thought the sheriff was “an ignorant brute and I longed to kick him.” McLeod dismissed this furor over cows as much ado about nothing and declared that “the person who talk[s] about it should be set down as a fool, and those who would believe accommodated with rooms in Bedlam.”
Dickson and his officers erroneously believed their militia was covered by the same wartime statutes that allowed advancing armies to take necessary provisions from civilians without compensation. The general was a zealous advocate of the ends justifying the means, a mindset that led to some contrary policies. For men looking to liberate the aboriginal populace, the army certainly never hesitated to exploit them, such as when they beguiled a Huron warrior and “his squaw” into handing over “some excellent Salmon trout in exchange for a couple of handkerchiefs.”
Like George Simpson, Dickson and his militia fancied themselves liberators, but they held in contempt those they sought to free. Throughout his journal, Martin McLeod disparaged the very people he claimed to be fighting for, referring to them as “Some savages” and far worse. In his more contemplative moments, he even wondered if they were doing the right thing: “Such is the manner of these simple but happy people…I could not but envy their happiness yet upon reflection, to me, they appear miserable. How noble and truly philanthropic the attempt of regenerating these people. The[y] are, I feel confident, susceptible of all the refinements of civilized life. Still, perhaps, they would not be so happy.”
The refinements of civilized life included the sartorial, at least in Dickson’s army. To celebrate his new commission, McLoughlin wanted a uniform befitting his rank. He wrote to John Fraser in Montreal, asking to have one tailored: “The coat must be red worked with silver lace on the chest and collar with large silver epauletts [sic] and two pair of pantaloons, one black and the other…with gold lace on the sides.…do not be afraid of the Expense. I shall pay for it.” The garish design was not his own. The company’s roster included Hy Hartnell, a doctor who enlisted in Dickson’s brigade purely in search of adventure. Hartnell reported for duty resplendent in full regalia, having “already prepared a sort of ‘horse marine’ uniform in addition to a famous pair of moustaches and hessian boots.” The doctor’s self-styled livery quickly became the envy of the complement, and those with means rushed to have their own suits fashioned.
Having reached the Sault as winter fell, Dickson foolishly pushed his troops ever northward. Their local guides abandoned them during their trek in the freezing wilderness with few provisions. Dissension in the ranks grew as many begged to overwinter in the protective confines of the city. Even Dickson’s once-favoured sons McLoughlin and McBean “endeavoured to persuade a number of the men to return with them by pointing out the great dangers they were exposing themselves to — Such as starving or freezing to death.” At one point it seemed inevitable that the men would resort to “casting lots to eat each other.” It never quite came to cannibalism, but man’s best friend was soon on the menu: “Out of Provisions, obliged to kill one of our dogs.” Much to his delight, McLeod found “Dog’s meat excellent eating.”
Unable to convince his comrades to retreat, McLoughlin soldiered on with his men. He recounted his struggles to John Fraser: “Since I last wrote you I have met with many hardships in the way of traveling and starvation — The whole winter I did not sleep in a house, always travelled and still I am not at the end of my journey.” McLoughlin was initially horrified at the prospect of eating dog but later recalled the delicacy with fondness, having been reduced to “long living on corn and pork (and not of the very best, exposed to cold).…I anticipate more yet which will be worse.” Privations notwithstanding, McLoughlin’s lowest point came when he lost all faith in Dickson, telling Fraser, “The more I think on the subject, the more I see my folly.”
Joh
n Fraser knew his cousin had made a fateful mistake, and he did not hesitate to tell him so, counselling McLoughlin that “a man such as your Dixon [sic], who is a self created General without either sufficient money or influence, a man without any principles, as he well denoted by your landing on the Island Huron to commit plunder…why such a man ought to have been hung on the spot, he must be a worthless villain…a degraded vagabond, one whom the world abhors and despises.” McLoughlin shamefully concurred but he had no other vocational options. Fraser, his most loyal and trusted adviser, entreated him to “join your Honorable Father who waits anxiously for his lost son.…he will receive you with his arms open, he will soothe the pain and suffering you are feeling, he will restore you to yourself and make a new man of you.”
Even in the worst of times, father and son were unable to communicate directly. After hearing second-hand tales of his son’s descent into paramilitary purgatory, Dr. McLoughlin softened his stance and once again used John Fraser as a back-channel emissary. McLoughlin Sr. offered to let his son come home, but John Jr. possessed too much pride to beg his father for help. Furthermore, he knew full well George Simpson hated him, and nothing shy of a miracle would compel the Governor to offer him a place in the Hudson’s Bay Company. Miserable but resigned, McLoughlin kept his word to Dickson and continued to march northward into the snow-covered heart of Rupert’s Land.
There was only one problem: Dickson did not have permission from the Hudson’s Bay Company to enter their territory, nor was he likely to get it. The general’s rabble-rousing had outraged and unnerved Simpson. Although the messenger was insane, his message was not, and Dickson’s proposal found strong support among the aboriginal populations, particularly the disavowed progeny of the HBC. The general’s credibility was negligible but his timing could not have been better. His campaign took full advantage of the escalating misery and public resentment arising from President Andrew Jackson’s disastrous Indian Removal Act of 1830. The government’s push to open the American west for white settlement had culminated in the “Trail of Tears” and the forced expulsion of Cherokee and other “civilized tribes” from their ancestral lands. The Honourable Company had become a despised and often ridiculed monopoly, and it could ill-afford such a wholesale public relations disaster.
