The Bastard of Fort Stikine Page 15

  Governor Simpson led the investigation into Thomas’s death, and his efforts were cursory at best. His official ruling was that the wound was self-inflicted, Thomas having “committed suicide while of unsound mind, after murdering two of his four Metis companions.” Eyewitnesses begged to differ. One survivor swore Thomas had shot one of his Metis travelling companions, John Bird, killing him instantly before mortally wounding a second man, Antoine Legros. A third Metis — Legros’s son, James Bruce — ran for the horses and rode back to the main camp. When a search party returned to the scene the next day, they came upon the remains of Legros and Bird. Lying beside them was Thomas, still very much among the living. From that moment on, accounts differ, but all agree that in the minutes that followed, Thomas died of a gunshot wound to the head.

  There is no question George Simpson was instrumental in covering up the event, but writer James Raffan wonders whether the Governor’s culpability ran even deeper. Raffan reasons that “if Simpson had wanted a full and impartial investigation” of his cousin’s death, he could have simply ordered one. Raffan also questions why Simpson buried his cousin in a pauper’s grave alongside the two men Thomas had murdered. Raffan is not alone in thinking Simpson had a hand in Thomas’s death — historians Marjory Harper and Vilhjalmur Stefansson reached the same conclusion independently, although all three stop short of saying Simpson’s finger was on the trigger.

  Sir George certainly had the final word on Thomas’s legacy, as he controlled the public dissemination of the Arctic expedition’s accomplishments. He arranged to have a chronicle published that extolled the foray’s successes, and he distributed the credit as he saw fit. Many took exception to Simpson’s revisionist history, including John McLean, who marked his protest for posterity: “Mr. Dease’s name is mentioned in the published narrative of the expedition, where he is represented as being employed merely as purveyor. It might have been said with equal propriety that Mr. [George] Simpson was employed merely as astronomer.” The Governor’s efforts to besmirch his cousin’s memory did not stop there. Simpson also went to great lengths to repress many of Thomas’s accomplishments, squelching any hope Thomas might achieve his long-desired fame posthumously. His campaign to snuff out his cousin’s light ultimately failed, and in an ironic footnote, the citizens of Dingwall have since elevated Thomas to far greater heights of infamy than George Simpson.

  Simpson’s unchecked autocracy received a cruel validation when Queen Victoria knighted him for his limited contributions to the Arctic expedition, and the undeserved investiture caused his head to balloon. The ginger-haired whoreson was now Sir George Simpson, and those in his presence were never permitted to forget it. Once knighted, he began to rewrite his own history, crafting a biography worthy of the man he had become. To mask all traces of his ignoble birth, Simpson designed (or pilfered) a heraldic crest featuring a falcon volant resting on a garland of Scottish thistle. An unfurled banner bore his freshly coined motto, Alis nutrior, which translates roughly to “fed by their wings,” or as one wag interpreted it, “It is sometimes pleasant to act like a madman.” He even had the crest carved into his dining room chairs and stitched into some tapestries.

  Simpson was made a knight bachelor, an honour bestowing the non-hereditary title of Sir to the recipient alone. He was now a paladin, but the glory was short-lived and his detractors gleefully crowed, “The bauble perishes with him.” Far more galling to Simpson was the fact his superior, HBC Governor John Henry Pelly, was made a baronet, a title that would pass to his sons. It was a perverse display of aristocratic injustice, but Sir George still resented others sharing in his unwarranted accolades.

  The investment ceremony was held in the throne room at Buckingham Palace on January 25, 1841. No written account survives of the event’s particulars, but one historian envisioned the scene as a comedic clash of tiny titans, imagining that Simpson wore heels under his pearl grey spats, raising him to a dizzying five foot seven inches and allowing him to tower over the diminutive monarch, who stood a mere five feet tall. No doubt Sir George accepted his knighthood with his usual preening, receiving as his due that which others had achieved. His critics were more willing to call out the Governor, including John McLean, who seethed, “Sir George owes his ribbon to the successful issue of the Arctic expedition conducted by Messrs. Dease and [Thomas] Simpson. His share of the merit consisted of drawing out instructions for those gentlemen, which occupied about half-an-hour of his time at the desk.”

  The Governor’s callous indifference to the fate of his own cousin formed the template for all future death investigations conducted under his watch, including John McLoughlin’s. Simpson’s corrupt handling of Thomas’s demise filled Dr. McLoughlin with despair and trepidation, for if Simpson cared so little for his own blood killed in the Company’s service, could Dr. McLoughlin reasonably expect more when the victim was kin to another?

  ten

  An Irresistible Force, an Immovable Object

  As 1842 drew to a close, the travesty of Fort Stikine no longer referred solely to the killing of its chief trader. The Company’s investigation had little to do with John McLoughlin Jr. and everything to do with the escalating war of words between Simpson and the victim’s increasingly irrational father. As the two men locked horns, many believed their mutual destruction was assured.

  Both men refused to yield, and their relationship deteriorated. For George Simpson, such conflict was of no concern, but “McLoughlin’s loyalty to the Company, which would normally guarantee discretion, was also becoming suspect.” The Governor had expected Dr. McLoughlin to simply swallow “the pill without daring to complain of its bitterness,” something the doctor could not bring himself to do. Consequently, Sir George no longer trusted McLoughlin to act in the Company’s best interests, and so Simpson began to work in ways that were decidedly not in the doctor’s best interest.

  McLoughlin, in turn, accused Simpson of being deluded and heartless. The Governor’s self-image was “ludicrously unrealistic,” and his callousness was the stuff of legend. One oft-humiliated underling confronted Simpson, saying, “You are pleased to jest with the hardships I experienced…you ought to have considered it sufficient to have made me your dupe, and not add[ed] insult to oppression.” Dr. McLoughlin believed the Governor combined “the prepossessing manners of a gentleman [with] all the craft and subtlety of an intriguing courtier,” and that “his cold and callous heart was incapable of sympathising with the woes and pains of his fellow-men.” Neither combatant came off well in the exchange, as the clash revealed the intractable demands of each man’s ego: “Simpson expected to rule; McLoughlin was accustomed to independence.”

  HBC Governor Pelly took the matter seriously but refused to get serious about it. He grew weary as the squabble dragged into its second year, lost track of who said what, and did not have the patience to find his way back. As the barrage of insults rained down from both sides, the Company’s stewards insulated themselves from the fray.

  Their cloak of plausible deniability was torn asunder, however, when Simpson and McLoughlin stopped talking to each other and began sending their toxic missives directly to Company headquarters. The first bombshell landed early in 1843, when a thick envelope arrived in London containing Simpson’s bellicose response to McLoughlin’s latest letter. Like a petulant child, Simpson refused to deal with his uncompromising sibling, preferring to make his case directly to the father figure that loved him best, confident he would receive vindication.

  In all things, Simpson cultivated the appearance of a man more sinned against than sinning, and his letter fashioned him the innocent victim of Dr. McLoughlin’s unwarranted attacks. He did not mince words, claiming, “It is evident Mr. McLoughlin is ignorant” of how “difficult and troublesome [it is] to obtain the ends of justice.” The doctor’s ignorance was so egregious that Simpson had no recourse but to address all of McLoughlin’s accusations. With each point the Governor masterfully blended whinging with an abdication of responsibilit
y.

  With regard to Dr. McLoughlin’s critique of the first depositions, Simpson retorted: “I had no power to cross examine the witnesses…after the most rigid investigation…I still firmly believe the main features of the evidence they gave, in reference to the conduct and habits of the unfortunate young man, were substantially correct.” It was a curious approach, for Simpson had never before claimed he did not have the power to do something, and in this particular case he did possess the authority to interrogate the witnesses —he simply chose not to. As to the credibility of the witnesses, the Governor grudgingly agreed there were “many worthless characters in the Service.” Experience had taught Simpson that even good employees inevitably “became slothful and insolent,” and this became a real concern when the hired hands started out as “the very dross and outcast of the human species.” From Simpson’s vantage point, the violence at Fort Stikine was simply a prophecy fulfilled. Indeed, the Governor had predicted just such an occurrence more than two decades earlier. The problem, he opined, was the loathsome necessity of hiring Canadians, who were both easily beguiled and readily treasonous: “If humoured with trifles, anything may be done with them, but if treated with uniform harshness and severity, they will Mutiny to a certainty.” McLoughlin Jr. had caused his own demise through his excessive abuse of his men, or so Simpson still believed.

  In a magnanimous feint, the little emperor conceded he might have been mistaken when he accused John Jr. of cooking the books, and he heaved a sigh of relief “to find it is better than I was led to suppose.” Although he had never expected to be challenged on the point, the Governor knew how easily such allegations could be disproved. Simpson deftly shifted the blame to a conveniently placed straw man who “led [him] to suppose.” It was a curious sleight of hand that quickly became a recurring theme throughout his screed.

  Simpson then rewrote history, claiming Dr. McLoughlin had made the decision to leave his son in sole command of Stikine. In the midst of this temporal juggling act, Simpson paused long enough to disparage the son one last time: “From what Mr. McLoughlin knew of his son’s previous conduct, he ought never in my opinion to have been placed in charge of Stikine; and I believe that those who knew the young man best are aware that when under the influence of liquor, he was violent to madness, and even in his sober moments he was ever more ready with his hand than was necessary or proper.”

  To prove John Jr. was quick with his fists, Simpson relied on the hearsay of John Rowand, chief factor of the Saskatchewan District. Rowand said Dr. McLoughlin had been “informed by their servant La Graise that the conduct of Mr. McLoughlin Jr. was exceedingly violent and irregular, and that in an act of violence, of then recent occurrence, a sword was broken.” Simpson claimed to have once laid his hand on the blade, “which I afterwards found at Stikine, and if my recollection fails not, forwarded to Vancouver.” He conceded that finding the broken sabre would lend some (much needed) credibility to the account, but the sword in question was never seen again.

  The Governor then took umbrage at McLoughlin’s allegation that his investigation had been biased and inept. Simpson stated the inquiries conducted under McLoughlin’s auspices was done “at Least as much with a View of Exonerating your Son as of Eliciting the truth.”

  George Simpson’s letter to the board was a textbook of misdirection and obfuscation, and an acid test of his power to persuade. The facts were never as important as their delivery. Simpson held tight to his conviction that the men responsible for killing McLoughlin could be trusted to give a fair and impartial account, and he alluded to evidence corroborating his theory of the killing, even if he could not produce it. But Simpson’s defence of self was ultimately not based on evidence or testimony — it was a thinly veiled plea for the Committee’s unwavering support. He had given his life to the Company, and he now expected the board to repay him by taking his side in this fight. For once in his fabled career, Simpson could not retreat, and so he forced Governor Pelly and Committee to stand behind him.

  In the months that followed, Pelly and the board did line up behind Simpson, although their rationale had nothing to do with the arguments offered by either side, or any strong conviction as to what had happened to John McLoughlin Jr. Rather, the decision came down to a single guiding principle: “Simpson was indispensable, McLoughlin was not.”

  §

  Dr. McLoughlin lacked Simpson’s clout and charisma, but he remained a force to be reckoned with, and he could not let the matter drop. He fired off another tedious screed, then stalled for time as he waited for his latest round of evidence and newly acquired depositions to arrive in London for the Committee’s consideration. The doctor’s evidentiary package promised to shed “new light” on the case, proving once and for all that the “crime was clearly long pre-mediated,” and that “the charges of habitual intoxication and excessive severity were trumped up after the deed was committed as a screen to the villainy of the culprits.”

  A new day finally dawned at corporate headquarters in 1843. After wading through Dr. McLoughlin’s averments, the Company’s secretary, Archibald Barclay, wrote to Simpson regarding this new evidence, and for the first time, Simpson received a gentle smack on the nose. Having reviewed each set of depositions, the Committee decided both inquiries were fatally flawed. Barclay told Simpson, “[The] evidence taken since you were at Stikine is no doubt loose, irrelevant often little to be depended upon, but it is not nearly so bad as that given before yourself at Stikine.” Barclay felt the solution to halting the palace intrigue was simple: the Committee would commission a third round of witness depositions, to be conducted by an impartial third party. Actually, the process had begun earlier that year, when the board agreed such an unprecedented move was necessary to appease the two warring factions. The impartiality of the new investigator was a smokescreen, however, and Barclay privately assured Simpson that Dr. McLoughlin “has not been allowed to triumph.”

  Governor Pelly and the Committee also informed Dr. McLoughlin of the renewed investigation, but they were quick to reprimand him on a number of fronts. First, Pelly berated McLoughlin for not raising his objections regarding the men at Stikine before his son’s death. He reminded the doctor that “the persons placed there were supposed to be fit for their several situations, and able to discharge the duties they had to perform. It unfortunately turned out otherwise; they proved incapable and worthless, but that was not the fault of Sir George Simpson.” Dr. McLoughlin was again slapped on the wrist for his heated and personal attacks: “You have thus virtually refuted your own charge and acquitted Sir George Simpson of any blame that does not equally attach to yourself.”

  In the decades since, historians have concurred, voicing their belief that McLoughlin Sr.’s vitriol did more harm than good. W. Kaye Lamb was certain had the doctor not made his contest with Simpson so personal, the Committee might have done more. John S. Galbraith felt Simpson had “already damned himself” with his callous handling of McLoughlin’s murder, forever damaging his credibility with the Committee, but that Sir George was “saved” by Dr. McLoughlin’s crusade, which had “lost all sense of proportion.”

  But how history might view the tussle did not concern the Committee as much as the prospect of negative publicity. What all the senior officers knew — but the public did not — was that the killing at Fort Stikine was not an isolated event. Violence and murder were commonplace in the outposts, and the shareholders did everything in their power to keep it quiet. Governor Pelly and the Committee relied heavily on that code of silence, and they appealed to McLoughlin’s passions as a father, as well as his rational business sense. Pelly reminded McLoughlin that his son’s legacy was at stake, and that tales of barbaric corporal punishment “may be the fabrications of worthless or malicious persons, but unfortunately the effect is the same as if they were well founded: the service is injured, men of good character are deterred from entering it.” The Company also needed to save face with their trading partners, for it was simply not good bus
iness practice “that such scenes as those which occurred at Stikine should be witnessed by the Natives.” Surely Dr. McLoughlin, as an invested shareholder, could see that.

  Dr. McLoughlin held an entirely different view, and he was in no mood to be placated or told what to think. His response to the Company’s pleas for discretion cut to the quick: “Is murder not to be punished because it is Embarrassing to Both Companies?” It was now McLoughlin’s turn to wield guilt as a cudgel, and he reminded the Committee his son was both a Christian and an Englishman, and therefore deserving of proper justice: “I presume there is no place under Christian Dominion where a British subject is murdered but it will be Enquired into.”

  Still, McLoughlin could ill afford to alienate the Committee, given that he remained in their employ and they were making positive strides to seek justice for his son. If another investigation could meet that end — particularly an inquiry devoid of Simpson’s input — then so be it. He signed the truce and temporarily held his fire.

  §

  Enter James Douglas, the bastion of impartiality appointed to conduct the third investigation on the Company’s behalf. Although chosen for his even hand, Douglas had a troubled history with Simpson and had, of late, fallen out of favour with the senior McLoughlin. Dr. McLoughlin’s incessant raving had forced Simpson and the Committee to systematically strip him of his authority, and Douglas had quietly succeeded McLoughlin as the district’s chief factor, a move that ruffled the feathers of the white-headed eagle.

  An official, if awkward, portrait of Sir James Douglas, taken in 1863 by G.R. Fardon.

  Though not quite as tall as Dr. McLoughlin, Douglas was every bit as imposing as his predecessor. His contemporaries found him to be a “cold brave man…with a wooden hard face.” Those under his command called him “Old Square-Toes,” a moniker lacking in affection or discernible meaning.