My latest book, Barclay of the Mounted, tells the story of a young man’s western adventures with the newly-formed North-West Mounted Police.
IF ANYONE WERE to ask me (and many a time people have) what proved to be the major difference between the settling of the American West and the settling of the Canadian West in the latter half of the 19th century, I would have to say, in all modesty, that the difference hinged entirely on an organization that I hold near and dear to my heart and one that I am proud to have been a member—the North-West Mounted Police.
While in the United States our American cousins attempted to subdue the savage Red Indians of the western frontier, the Canadian government, in its paternal nature, sought to bring peace and protection to its native people. This is made clear when one looks at the two separate units each country sent forth; one a blue-coated army of soldiers, the other a scarlet-clad force of policemen.
Now, I am not attempting to raise the ire of our friendly neighbours to the south—I am confident they did the best they could with what they had to work with—but one only need look at the parallel history of each country and the point is made clear. There were, between 1857 and 1875, twenty-three major battles in the American West; from Texas to the Dakota Territories, and from Iowa to the Nevada Territories were battles with such tell-tale names as Battle Mountain, Mountain Meadows Massacre, Sand Creek Massacre, and Massacre Canyon. The very names conjure up images of savage and bloody conflicts.
In 1873 the Canadian West also witnessed a massacre at Cypress Hills, north of Montana. It was perpetrated by American wolf-hunters against a band of Assiniboine. Upon hearing that women and children were among the group of natives attacked, the newly formed government in Ottawa realized immediate action was warranted to secure and protect the Canadian natives, not to mention the vast Canadian frontier. And so, the North-West Mounted Police was formed as a vanguard against American encroachment.
One hundred and fifty men of the NWMP travelled by steamer through the Great Lakes, then overland to Lower Fort Gary, a Hudson Bay post on the Red River near Lake Winnipeg. Upon learning that American whiskey peddlers had the audacity to build armed forts in the west, not to mention that the total native population was some thirty thousand, the North-West Mounted Police force was doubled, and another one hundred and fifty men were recruited.
That is where I came in; my name is Henry Barclay. In 1874 I was a student at Upper Canada College in Toronto when one day a recruiting poster caught my eye. It read:
NORTH-WEST MOUNTED POLICE
150 additional Constables and Sub-Constables being required for the above Force, the following information is published for the guidance of those desirous of joining the Force: -
(1).-Candidates must be active, able-bodied men of thoroughly sound constitution and exemplary character. They should be able to ride well, and to read and write either the English or French language.
(2).-The term of engagement is three years.
(3).-the rates of payments are as follows.-
Constables........$1 per diem.
Sub-Constables.....75 c. "
with free rations; a free kit on joining; clothing; boots;
quarters; fuel; and light; and the Government is empowered to give a free grant of 100 acres of land to all well-conducted men on completion of three years' service.
(4).-All transport expenses of those who are approved and accepted of service will be borne by the Government.
The document stated when and where the recruitment would take place and it was signed, G. A. French, Lt. Colonel, Commissioner N.W.M.P.
I felt I met the requirements in every way; from a young age I had spent my summers at my uncle’s farm where I would work beside my cousins. We would always find time to swim, ride and shoot, box and wrestle. As for being of exemplary character, I had on numerous occasions heard my aunt Maude refer to me as ‘a true character’.
Needless to say, the proposal appealed to me, as it would to any young man, and so, eagerly encouraged by my teachers to join, I signed up immediately for a life of excitement and adventure with the North-West Mounted Police.
I had come from a long line of adventurous and loyal fighting men. In order to remain loyal to the Crown, my great-great-grandfather fled North Carolina as a loyalist in 1782, my great-grandfather fought the Americans in the War of 1812, and my grandfather helped put down the Rebellion of Upper Canada in 1837, and my father had been in the militia that helped fend off Fenian attacks in the 1860's. In keeping with my illustrious lineage, I viewed this western excursion as my contribution to defending the country I was raised to love and respect.
I will always treasure the parting words spoken by my father as my unit prepared to leave Toronto by train. My father looked at me with those steely, grey eyes, his strong jaw set, the tips of his moustache neatly waxed, and said, "Son,"—he always called me son since I was named after my mother's brother whom my father could not stomach. "Son," he said, "you are about to embark upon a great journey, one that will change your life forever. Your mother and I both know you will give a good account of yourself and make your family and country proud. We know you will not do anything to embarrass us or besmirch the family name." He seemed to emphasize the last part most of all, then added, "Always remember; be brave, be bold, be British, be a Barclay." He shook my hand firmly and I hugged my mother who was weeping into her handkerchief, and in between sobs made some reference about not getting myself killed. I promised my dear mother that I would not.
As my train pulled out, I waved goodbye to my parents, dressed in my scarlet tunic, pillbox hat, steel grey riding breeches, polished black boots and a copy of The Best Loved Poems of Our Times tucked in my breast pocket. It was a book I had recently acquired and would not consider braving the wilds of the frontier without Milton, Shakespeare, Byron and Shelley. Aboard the train I entertained my fellow recruits with a recitation of Longfellow's Song of Hiawatha, which I had naturally committed to memory.
On June 6, 1874, we left Toronto and travelled by rail to Fargo, North Dakota, then a forced march covering one hundred and sixty miles in five days north across the border to Fort Dufferin. There we were met by one hundred men of the first contingency who had already lost a third of their force to desertion and discharge. It would appear not all of them had been of sound condition and exemplary character.
I soon noticed that most of these men rode freshly broken western broncos. They were lively, spirited beasts, so lively and spirited in fact that they had to be kept separated from our eastern mounts that were chosen mainly for their appearance, but already appeared to be in a sorry state. That very night we experienced the extreme western weather that would become typical; a fierce summer thunderstorm spooked our eastern horses, and when lightning struck and lit up the night sky they bolted. With the help of the first contingent riding their broncos—that did not allow a small thing such as thunder and lightning to frighten them—most of our mounts were rounded up by morning.
I took this opportunity to trade my skittish mare for a more reliable western bronco. It did not take me long to learn that my new mount still had a bit of wildness left in him. This became painfully evident when it succeeded in throwing me on five separate occasions—once upon my head. This of course did not deter me. I simply dusted myself off, adjusted my hat, now well dented, and climbed back into the saddle determined to show the beast who was master. I named my new mount Alfred, after Lord Tennyson, whose Charge of the Light Brigade is an inspiration to all those facing certain death. I would have preferred to name it after my favourite poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, but since Henry is my name, I thought it would only cause undo confusion. I would also have wished to have named it after Ralph Waldo Emerson, but no self-respecting member of the Force would have a horse named Ralph or even Waldo—so Alfred it was.
On July 8 we left Fort Dufferin and began the great march west. Our immediate objective was the American-held stronghold appropriately named Fort Whoop-Up, some eight hundred miles away. We would route the whiskey traders and establish a fort of our own. At Roche Percee on the Souris River, our column split, the weaker group of men and beasts heading north to establish a post at Fort Edmonton another nine hundred miles to the northwest. I, of course, stayed with the main column of five divisions and we proceeded to Fort Whoop-Up.
I do not believe the ancient Egyptians suffered such plagues as we encountered on our westward trek; winds that never seemed to end, dust blinded the eyes and choked the throat, mosquitoes buzzed about until you thought you would go mad, and, of course, dysentery. We were harried with locust, beleaguered by hail, hemmed in by fire, and scourged by searing heat. We ran short of food, fuel and water, and by September we encountered freezing rain. This was proving to be more of an adventure than we were prepared for. We who were sent to be the guardians of the west, dressed in our bright red serge, had been reduced to a ragtag bunch of cold, hungry and rain-soaked men who were having a hard time remembering what had brought us here in the first place. But in the true fashion of the Force, we would not admit defeat—not to one another at any rate.
On September 10 we reached the junction of the South Saskatchewan and Bow rivers where Fort Whoop-Up was reported to be, but we found no fort, we found nothing. It appeared we were lost. That moment would have been a good time to admit defeat, some of us thought, but Commissioner George Arthur French decided to do the only thing possible when faced with such a logistical problem—he crossed the border to Fort Benton, Montana to ask for directions and supplies. While there, he discovered Fort Whoop-Up still lay seventy-five miles to the west from where our scouts told us it was. Commissioner French turned back to command the territorial headquarters, while Assistant Commissioner James Farquharson Macleod, a splendid leader, would take us to Fort Whoop-Up.
Finally, on October 9, we reached our long-sought-after objective. It was an anti-climactic arrival to say the least. Fort Whoop-Up was situated at the junction of the Oldman and St. Mary rivers. The fort itself was a large, intimidating structure—a fourteen-foot stockade with pointed stakes surrounded it, iron bars guarded every window, door and chimney, and cannons stood on corner bastions. Above the walls the American flag blew defiantly in the wind.
As we took up positions surrounding the fort, Assistant Commissioner Macleod brazenly approached the gates and banged on them. To our disbelief we learned from the lone occupant of the fort that the American traders had heard of our coming, sold this man the building and fled, whiskey and all.
It was an auspicious beginning, to say the least, one that would mirror other occasions when the mere mention of the North-West Mounted Police would be enough to give pause to a wrongdoer. A year later we had established several posts throughout the west to let all know we were here to stay, to protect and serve all the inhabitants. Maintien le Droit—Uphold the Right… that was our motto.
I was stationed at Fort Walsh, built that spring on the banks of Battle Creek in the Cypress Hills. We had suffered a long winter of deep snow and temperatures so low a man feared the frozen loss of certain body parts. Summer was a welcome relief from the cold, harsh weather and I looked forward to spending some time in the saddle and seeing more of the territory I was to patrol. This is what I had in mind when I was called to the commander's office.
Inspector James Walsh was as fine a man and officer as I'd ever met, and I chose to use him as a role model in my career as a member of the Force. Walsh was not a large man but possessed a commanding presence. His heavy moustache and steely gaze mirrored his strong-willed determination. He expected strict obedience from his men and generally got it. Inside his office I greeted Walsh with a crisp salute.
"Good morning, Barclay."
"Good morning, Superintendent."
"Constable Barclay, I called you here because of a complaint I received."
"I swear it was not me, sir," I protested.
"At ease, Constable," he said. "The complaint was not against you. There is a small band of Sioux camped just south of here. Now these Sioux are friendly enough. I have personally met their leader, Chief Walking Bear, and though they may appear somewhat ragged, they are under our protection, and when they have a problem, we have a problem. Do you follow me?"
"No sir… I mean yes sir."
"It seems some American traders came into their camp peddling some bad whiskey. Walking Bear admits that his people were weak and gave up their winter robes for one cup of the intoxicant. Now whether the Indians should have traded for the whiskey is not the question. The point of the matter is that whiskey is prohibited in this region and these peddlers illegally brought in the contraband for the sole purpose of trade. I do not think I have to tell you what to do."
"No sir… I mean yes sir."
"What?"
"I mean no sir. I mean sir... exactly what is it you wish me to do?"
"I want these traders tracked down, confiscate their whiskey and fine them for illegal trade."
"Yes sir!"
I had joined the Force as a sub-constable, but my natural talent and ability could not help but shine through and become obvious to my superiors who promoted me to constable right after the New Year. If I had any hopes of moving up through the ranks (and of course I did) I had to prove myself capable of performing any task put before me, however menial. By giving me this assignment Superintendent Walsh expressed to me his complete confidence. I puffed up my chest with pride and was determined to prove that his confidence in me was not misplaced.
Before leaving the fort, Superintendent Walsh informed me he had no other men to spare for this duty, but I would not be going alone. I was to meet up with Andre Messier, a Métis scout we of the Force used from time to time. So, with supplies for a week (one never knew how long an assignment might last) and my copy of The Best Loved Poems of Our Times tucked neatly into my tunic I set out on my trusted bronco Alfred.
I found Andre Messier waiting for me in a coulee just south of the fort. He was the son of a French voyageur who had taken a Blood Indian squaw for a wife. It was difficult to guess the man's age, though in his life he was reputed to be a trapper, trader, buffalo hunter, a scout and God only knew what else. We had met once or twice before, and his appearance never failed to fascinate me. He was short, with the bowlegs from spending a good deal of time in the saddle. He spoke both French and English passably, along with perhaps a dozen or so different native dialects—that was of course when he spoke at all. The fact was, Andre Messier was the quietest man I ever met, and it was not only his voice that was quiet. Messier had the ability to come up on a person and those moccasin feet of his never made a sound. Even his horse, a flea-bit, flop-eared, sad looking beast walked as silently as its master. The scout himself was not much to look at. He was a small, compact man dressed in a dirty battered derby hat with clothes betraying his French-Indian heritage; high moccasins trimmed with porcupine quills, fringed leather britches, a greasy calico shirt tied about the waist with a worn but colourful silk sash. Say what you would about Messier, he may have looked like the wreck of the Hesperus, but he was also the best tracker around, and could also act as an interpreter… if he had a mind to.
Messier was sitting on the ground chewing a piece of pemmican, while his horse stood close by mimicking its rider by chewing at some grass. He did not look up at my approach, nor greet me in any way, but simply climbed onto his horse. Obviously, the man possessed no social graces nor believed in paying his betters their due. We rode in silence to the Sioux camp; that is to say Messier remained silent while I recited the very best of Keats, Shelley and Longfellow hoping to lend a little culture that the Métis desperately lacked.
The hills soon disappeared to be replaced by a flat, featureless landscape that was the prairie. These were the plains, a boring and inhospitable land as I'd ever seen. By all appearance this land could support very little life, and that of only Indians.
As we came upon the Sioux camp I was immediately struck by Longfellow's opinion of the noble savage, and I can say in all honesty if the poet himself had been there, I would have slapped his face. These, surely, were not the Indians Longfellow referred to as visionary, sorrowful, triumphant and exultant. Here before me was the most down-trod, miserable, vermin infested, pitiful-looking band of natives I'd ever seen. And their camp was as dirty and dingy as were they all. Still, they were under the protection of the Queen, and I wore the Queen's scarlet, so I was duty bound to serve. I met the Sioux chief, Walking Bear, and heard his sad story, though Messier's translation, which I am certain, lost many of the finer points.
After a formal introduction the chief went into a long oratory, from which Messier translated into, "Bad men come. Trade bad whiskey. Take robes."
I then explained my position and purpose with authoritative enthusiasm and flamboyant hand gestures. "As a member of the North-West Mounted Police I am here as a representative of the Great White Mother who, even across the big ocean, loves her children in Canada. I wear the scarlet surge that is red with the blood of her enemies. I have sworn an oath to protect and serve the subjects of the Great White Mother. We of the Force are here to preserve the peace, and to bring order to the frontier. We come in peace but will not allow anyone to break the law whether they were Red men or White men. I will track down these whiskey traders and punish them. On this you have my word as a gentleman and a member of the North-West Mounted Police."
From my rather eloquent speech Messier mumbled a few words to the chief in Sioux and left it at that.
In gratitude Chief Walking Bear embraced me as did other members of the tribe. Messier refused to even touch the Sioux which I took to be the height of rudeness and lack of civility. It was soon after leaving the Sioux camp that I discovered the reason for the scout’s reluctance to come in contact with the natives. Unbeknownst to me the Sioux had presented me with a parting gift; a hoard of prairie lice had infested my person.
"Don't touch dirty Indian," came Messier's belated advice. Luckily the Métis did offer up a cure for ridding me of the lice, though it did not seem to befit a constabulary of the Force. The remedy, Messier instructed, was to strip naked and rub down my entire body with Juniper oil from my medical kit. I then had to roam the prairie in my altogether in search of an anthill, upon which I was to lay my clothes. It did not seem fitting or proper for a young gentleman such as myself to be subjected to such a humiliating position—I was here representing Her Royal Highness, after all—but since I had little choice in the matter, I succumbed to the treatment.
"Ant eat lice," Messier stated simply.
True enough the ants rid my clothes of the lice and I was able to put on my uniform.
We continued following the whiskey peddlers' trail and I had to admit Messier proved to be an able tracker. Even when the ground became hard and bare, the Métis was still able to see the spoor which remained indiscernible to my white eyes. After two days out of the Sioux encampment we crossed the border into the Montana Territory. I was concerned about entering United States territory and hoped we would soon catch up to the peddlers.
My hopes were realized the next evening when Messier pointed out a small camp barely visible in the failing light of day. The camp surely belonged to the men we were pursuing. Since the topography of the land remained incredibly flat, we could not hope to approach them unaware, so I told Messier we would confront them in the first light of morning while they still lay in their bedrolls. Messier did not comment on this, and we moved further off so our presence would not be detected.
That night we made a cold camp and ate pemmican. Since arriving out west, members of the Force discovered pemmican was a staple diet of the natives. It consisted of dried animal meat pounded fine in an animal skin and mixed with bone marrow. Pemmican travelled well and kept for years and was quite palatable if one’s taste was not too discernible. Later I entertained my companion with readings from my book. Messier must have been extremely tired for he was snoring in his bedroll before I was halfway through Alfred Noyes's The Highwayman.
Messier woke me early in the morning just before sunup. We broke camp and made our way quietly towards the traders. While in their camp, Messier remained on his horse with his Henry rifle across his saddle. I climbed down from Alfred and observed the traders who still lay sleeping on the ground around a campfire that smouldered the tiniest bit. The traders numbered only four, and since they would readily respect a sworn officer of the law, I saw no problem taking them into custody. The morning sun was just beginning to spread its first golden rays in the eastern sky as I gently kicked at one of them. The man woke groggily, wiping the sleep from his eyes with the heel of his hands. He stood up and looked about him as if he were dreaming. His gaze came to rest on me and stared in disbelief.
"I am Constable Henry Barclay, of the North-West Mounted Police," I informed him. "I am charging you men with illegally trading whiskey to a band of Sioux Indians north of here. Alcohol is strictly forbidden in Canada, and I am forced to fine all of you and confiscate your whiskey and return the buffalo robes to the natives who traded them to you."
During my declaration the remainder of the traders roused and stood staring at me as if I were either an apparition or a mad man. They were an unsavoury looking lot with heavy beards and large flop hats that covered tangled masses of hair. One of them, I noticed, carried a long scar down his face that did not enhance his appearance at all. They were dressed in stained, grimy buckskins that stank of smoke and sweat, and all of them carried large hunting knives in worn leather scabbards and pistols tucked into their belts.
"You got the wrong men," growled the nastiest looking one of the group, and obviously the leader.
"I beg to differ," said I. "We followed your tracks from the Sioux camp, and it led us here."
"Tweren’t us!" the leader insisted.
"Chief Walking Bear gave me complete descriptions of you men," I countered. Now this was not exactly the truth. Upon asking Walking Bear for a description of the whiskey traders the Sioux chief had been unable to comply, stating that to him all white men looked alike.
"Maybe we were at the Sioux camp," the man reluctantly admitted. "But we didn't trade them no whiskey. We don't even have any whiskey!"
I squatted down by the dwindling campfire and recharged it until it came to life. I then walked over to a collection of small wooden casks the traders had huddled together. One cask was tapped with a spigot, and I poured a small amount from the cask into a tin cup. One sniff told me this was whiskey only in the broadest sense of the word. A little taste revealed that if a person consumed enough of this concoction, it would render them blind, or terribly sick if not dead. Whiskey traders had devised several inexpensive formulas with which they traded exclusively to the natives. One such concoction that carried quite a kick was composed of diluted high-proof alcohol, Jamaica ginger for taste, tea leaves for colour, and chewing tobacco for kick. This they boiled and brewed and then added molasses to thicken. Walking back, I dumped the contents of the cup into the fire where it violently burst into flames.
"That don't mean nothing," scarface spouted. "It don't mean we traded it to them Sioux."
At this I walked over to a stack of buffalo robes piled up next to the whiskey casks. Sorting through the robes, I gave the appearance of inspecting them with a trained eye.
"These are Sioux robes," I stated with as much authority as I could muster. Now the truth of the matter was I did not know one buffalo robe from another, but the traders did not seem to know this, for they all began looking mighty guilty.
"It still don't prove nothing," scarface said, then the leader said, "Maybe we were up in that dirty Sioux camp, and we did trade some whiskey to those redskins. It may be against your laws, but we're on American soil now. You Canada boys can’t touch us here no way, no how. It tain’t no none of your business."
Though he lacked culture and intelligence (not to mention his insistence of imploring double negatives) in his own crude way the trader may have hit upon a point of contention. I was still relatively new to the job and did not know the intricacies of law as it pertained to an international border. But as I had learned from my superior, Superintendent Walsh, a mounted policeman was often put upon to make up the law as he went along in his duty.
"We may be on American soil now," I told them. “But you broke the law on Canadian soil and that makes it my business."
They all looked at one another quite nervously, then suddenly the leader pulled his pistol from his belt, pointed it at my chest, and fired. I was caught completely by surprise and as his gun erupted in smoke and sound, I felt a sharp pain over my heart
Stephen Gaspar and his wife Susan live in Windsor, Ontario, across the Detroit River from Motown. He has two grown sons and two grandsons.
As a member of the newly-formed North-West Mounted Police, Henry Barclay arrived in the chaotic Canadian West in 1874.
