Scattered Bones (22 page)

Étienne has arranged to meet his star witness for a last-minute pep talk. He smiles just thinking about his first encounter with this delightful man. A couple of parishioners had warned him, “When you meet him whatever you do, don’t call him Weasel. Otherwise he gets upset.” So when Étienne shook his hand, he said, “Hilliard Morin, isn’t it?”

“Just call me Weasel,” had been the response. And, with his little moustache, sharp nose and beady eyes, he looks just like the creature he’s named after. His personality, though, is very different. Étienne has never met a milder, kinder man.

Weasel uses a warehouse owned by St. Gertrude’s as a base for his carpentry business. He’s very skilled and much in demand. He’s also a trapper
par excellence
.

Étienne spots Weasel through the door. He walks in, and the usual sour feeling washes over him. The dog halters, whips, and dried up pelts hanging on the wall are all that’s left of what was once a thriving enterprise.

A month before Étienne arrived at St. Gertrude’s Mission some twenty years ago, a forest fire had savaged the territory. While the village of Pelican Narrows was saved, the surrounding woodland was devastated. The priest had never seen anything so ugly. Mangled black trees lay across one another – he thought of Christian martyrs burned at the stake. Not only had the fur-bearing animals disappeared, but so had woodland caribou, moose, bear, grouse, ptarmigan, hare, woodchucks, porcupines, even rabbits. By January, the Cree were barely surviving on the few fish that could be jerked through the ice.

The manager of the Hudson’s Bay Company Post at that time was a particularly obnoxious individual, haughty, opinionated and, as Étienne realized after one conversation with him, full of ambition. The way to get ahead, the man had concluded, was to be as stingy as possible with his native customers.

With the arrival of trading posts on the east side of Hudson Bay, a tradition of gift-giving had evolved over centuries. The Indians presented the white traders with their most valuable furs – an unusual pelt, a silver fox for instance, was especially prized – and the Whites handed over exotic European goods – lace, embroidery, silk, gartering. By the turn of the twentieth century, this exchange was pretty well one-sided. The HBC donations of canned foods, tea, oatmeal, often kept the Indians alive during those times when hunger threatened. But just when the need was greatest, the company abruptly eliminated these handouts, claiming it could no longer afford them. Étienne arrived at St. Gertrude Mission to find his parishioners near starvation.

Day after day, all through that long winter, he trekked out to the winter camps, to comfort his flock and to distribute flour, lard, bacon, bought with donations from charitable Catholics in Quebec.

In the spring the forest bloomed again. When beaver and muskrat appeared in the lakes, rivers and muskegs, the trappers set aside a small portion of their catch in appreciation of what the “good Father” had done for them. When Étienne returned to Pelican Narrows with these furs, he discovered that there were plenty of middlemen eager to buy them.

The business grew like wild fire. A trapper would bring Étienne his catch, the priest would sell the furs to buyers in Prince Albert, and turn the profit over to the trapper, thereby eliminating the mark-up imposed by the HBC. Étienne had a head for business and the enterprise expanded.

The HBC manager was, of course, furious at this assault on his trade. He decided to confront the priest face to face. Étienne had smiled pleasantly while he sipped his tea, but promised nothing, and the next day he sent over one pelt, ragged and dried up with age. It was meant as a joke, but it resulted in the gauntlet being thrown down. Over the next year a fur war had raged between the HBC and the Bonnald enterprise.

It was the Cree trappers who benefited. To squelch the business flowing to the priest, the Company had to restore gift-giving, hand over substantial advances, and pay decent prices for furs. Eventually, an equilibrium of sorts settled in – the HBC and St. Gertrude’s each got about half the business. Then, one day, Arthur Jan showed up with Bibiane Ratt in tow, and the battle resumed with new ferocity.

Among Étienne’s trippers – those hired to travel to the Cree camps and transport their catch back – Antoine McAuley was the most skilled, always arriving with the most valuable furs. One passion ruled his life – his sled dogs. Ciderboy, the leader with his bright blue eyes and orange coat, sharp-nosed Rainbow, Tina, sleek and jet black, snow-white Bud, smart-as-a-fox Reggie, burly Busker, and the joker of the bunch, Mickey. They were champions, having won the famous long-distance race at Nome, Alaska. Antoine’s wife claimed he loved these animals more than his children.

One evening Antoine was calmly smoking his pipe beside his cabin’s stove when he heard a strange growling sound. He rushed outside to find the dogs vomiting up black blood. After a half hour of agony, all six lay dead.

Word spread that Bibiane Ratt had mixed a poison with their food. Although never proven, it was warning enough for the devastated Antoine. He cut off all ties with Étienne, even stopped attending services at St. Gertrude’s.

About the same time, Étienne received a letter from Bishop Charlebois pointing out that there was a long-standing, written agreement in place – Oblates could set up missions in the HBC-dominated territories as long as they didn’t engage in the fur trade. Someone with inside information had sent a letter outlining the priest’s operation in such detail that the church authorities had no alternative but to act. Étienne was ordered to stop trading or he would be transferred to another mission. The last thing he wanted was to be separated from Sally, Joe and his parishioners whom he had come to love so deeply, so he acquiesced.

One last grand sale took place in Prince Albert – six lots of furs which brought in the princely sum of $6,200. The entire Pelican Narrows population partied for three days on the proceeds.

In fact, Étienne was relieved that the business was closed down. His parishioners were beginning to see the church more as a market place than a House of God. And his conscience was acting up. He had taken fees for bookkeeping and other services, money he had banked for Joe’s education and certain luxuries he hungered after –
an expensive first edition of Walt Whitman’s
Leaves of Grass
for example. But it bothers him still when now and then he hears Jan bragging about his great victory – “The priest’s job is to save souls, not poke his nose into business he knows nothing about.” Étienne thinks that everything that is corrupt and abusive about the fur trade is personified in this man.

The same scenario is played out over and over again. A trapper arrives with his season’s catch. Arthur pokes at each pelt with disdain. “Look here, this one’s torn and too greasy. That one’s too dark a colour on the skin side, no gloss or thickness, dried up. Obviously caught summers ago. This bunch is almost worthless but, because I like you, I’ll give you seventy-cents for each of these pathetic specimens.”

The trapper squeals in pain. Haggling follows, and a final price of ninety cents is agreed upon,
a good fifty cents below the going rate.

Russell Smith at the Hudson’s Bay Post is a far fairer man, and many trappers do business with him, but many others, mostly those working area far away from Pelican Narrows, have become entangled in Arthur Jan’s net. His bait is so enticing.

Since the fur business began, the traders had allowed the Indians to stock up on provisions which they then paid for with the next season’s catch. It led to abuses. Some trappers got so far in over their heads they could never in their lifetime pay back what they owed. The HBC finally decided that credit would no longer be given.

Étienne has watched with dismay the repercussions of this stupid, short-sighted decision. Arthur Jan hands out advances like St. Nicholas does candies. He stocks the most modern goods, anything customers want but don’t need – toothpaste, hard candies, canned meat, umbrellas, and the much loved HP sauce. And there’s an added attraction in doing business with Arthur which the priest finds despicable. Every now and then Bibiane Ratt cooks up a batch of liquor so potent it could render a person blind if he drank too much, and this is sold for exorbitant amounts of money. Despite Étienne‘s warnings, many Cree have fallen for Jan’s trap. They are so deeply in his debt that the fur trader can toy with them as he likes.

Emile McCallum for example. Last January Bibiane Ratt and two accomplices walked unannounced into Emile’s cabin. They tied him and his wife to a chair, stuffing their mouths with rags. The three men carried in buckets of water which they used to put out the fire, the stack was removed and the handsome new stove carried off to Arthur Jan’s warehouse. Never mind it was 50 below and Emile’s large family almost froze to death. No use asking the Mounties for help – the nearest depot was at Prince Albert, 300 miles away – so Emile pleaded with Étienne to intervene. When the priest did so, Arthur just laughed at him.

“That McCallum half-breed’s a piker, a lazy no-good. But you can tell him the stove cancelled out his debt. My door is open to him again. He can pick out a fancy hat for his wife any time he likes.”

Étienne realized that not only was there was nothing to be done about the man’s predicament, but soon Mrs. McCallum would show up at St. Gertrude’s decked out like a harlot, having picked out a new outfit at Arthur Jan’s store. More debt for poor Emile.

The situation was untenable. The priest began methodically collecting evidence against the trader. Last winter he sent a barrage of letters and telegrams to members of parliament, to cabinet ministers, and finally to the prime minister. The effort paid off – an inquiry has been ordered by the government into Arthur Jan’s dealings. Étienne is gratified; a reputation built up from his forty years acting as God’s emissary finally counts for something.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

By the time the priest arrives
,
the little post office connected to the Hudson’s Bay Company is packed. It is stifling hot, and the stink wafting from arm pits is breathtakingly sharp. He nods assurances at the Cree milling about. He’s had a hard time persuading them to come forward with their stories and none of them look happy – Arthur Jan is such a vindictive man.

Normally, the justice of the peace would have presided over such a hearing, but in this case that individual is the accused himself. The Indian agent will take his place, although, to the relief of everyone, he is not to act as a judge but merely to preside over the inquiry, and then send the details on to Ottawa.

Bob Taylor, who sits behind a desk at the front of the small room, announces that the proceedings will begin, but “Only an hour will be allotted. I have not a minute more to spare.”

Étienne groans. How is he to get the story out of these slow-talking, long-winded Cree in such short a time? He wondered how the Indian agent would undermine the investigation. Now he knows.

Hilliard Morin is called as the first witness. He swears on a bible that he will tell the truth.

“Mr. Morin,” the priest begins, “would you please tell us what happened three years ago last April.”

“I was out tending my trap line – a good season that, lots of beaver, muskrats. Weather was good so I travelled quite a ways – new territory, eighty miles east of Pelican.

“I sort of stumbled across it. It had rained, but that afternoon the sun was shining brightly and I spotted this white rock. It dazzled my eye. I looked closer and there was a gold vein running through. There’d been a lot of rock hounds around Pelican that year so I had an idea it might be worth something. I chipped a bunch of pieces off and put them in my sack.”

“What did you do with them then?”

“I’d heard that Mr. Jan knew something about minerals so when I got to Pelican I showed it to him.”

“What happened after you handed over the sample?”

“Nothing much. Mr. Jan told me he’d send the pieces I’d brought in to Ottawa, see what they were made of. Heard nothing, so kind of forgot about it. Then a few months ago, Mr. Jan told me there was a mine going to be built right where I’d found them rocks. And he wanted to thank me.”

“And how did he do that?”

“He gave me some tea, a bag of flour, a little lard, sugar, a blanket, and five dollars.”

“Thank you, Mr. Morin. You did well.”

“And I thank you, Father Bonnald. You are always a friend to us Indians.”

The priest then tells the Indian agent that he wants two documents to be included as an addendum to the complaint.

“I don’t believe that’s permissible,” says Taylor. “We’re supposed to be taking down witness statements only.”

Étienne eyeballs the man. “If you refuse,” he says in the sternest voice he can muster, “I will inform not only Mr. Krail, Director of Indian Affairs, but also the Prime Minister, Mr. William Lyon Mackenzie King, that you have obstructed these proceedings.”

Bob Taylor’s face reddens. The priest has always been a nuisance but never such an outright troublemaker. “Very well, but please, Father Bonnald, don’t waste time.”

“The first is the official registration of mineral rights issued at The Pas, on November 24, 1921 for 80 acres, longitude 101˚, latitude 55˚, the very place from which Mr. Morin says he took his samples and gave them to Arthur Jan. You see that those listed as claimants are Mr. Jan, Mr. Thomas Whitewood of Vancouver and you, yourself, Mr. Taylor.”