Thompson paused to rest as he completed the fourteenth and last kilometre of the long carry descending into Grand Portage. Grand Portage… David pondered the place name as he adjusted his pack a little. So this is the centre of the Northwesters’ fur trade. For good reason too, he concluded. The strenuous fourteen-kilometre portage connected the North West Company headquarters and the high point of the land. A better location could not have been chosen , he mused. David knew that from the strategic high point, three major drainages radiated outward to three distant and significant bodies of water. The Saskatchewan drains into Hudson Bay, the Mackenzie flows to the Arctic Ocean, and the St. Lawrence courses to the Atlantic. All NWC traffic to and from the vast fur regions went through Grand Portage on its way to Montreal.

      There was no mistaking the headquarters of the NWC. Thompson could smell the smoke from its cooking fires over a kilometre away. As he trudged closer, he could hear singing, shouting, then a chorus of barking dogs. Finally the stench of canine and human waste greeted him. It was the largest and most unruly settlement David Thompson had ever seen. Outside the towering five-and-a-half-metre stockade, a haphazard arrangement of birchbark lodgings housed Aboriginal People from several tribes. Scattered among these were a few ramshackle log huts belonging to the independent traders. They were busy skimming what trade they could from the Chipewyan, the Cree, from incoming parties, or from anyone discontented with the Company.

      Across the stream, a line of hide tents and upturned canoes formed the temporary homes of canoemen and voyageurs from Montreal. These were not the reserved Orkneymen of the HBC but brightly dressed French Canadians in blue and red. They sat drinking or singing or arguing loudly by the cooking fires. The less animated, probably recovering from the extended paddle along Lake Superior, lay about the camp.

      David made his way through the crowd. Inside, he saw hundreds of men, women, and children. Some were coming to or leaving the various storehouses, lodgings, and huts that occupied the interior. Others were busy unpacking furs or loading barrels onto handcarts. The largest building was the Cantine where boisterous hommes du nord were drinking rum and gambling loudly. Next to the Cantine was the jail mockingly called the pot au beurre or buttertub, where those inclined to fight or those too drunk to walk could sleep it off.

      David began to have grave doubts about his decision. What could such an unruly company want from him? Were they serious about mapping explorations? Alexander Fraser had greeted him warmly enough at Fraser House last June, he remembered. David was thankful for it too. Leaving the HBC had been a difficult choice, but Fraser had convinced him that the NWC wanted urgently to explore and map the west. “Go right t’ the top o’ the company, Laddie, and see McGillivray himself,” he had told him.

      David found the paymaster’s office and asked how to find William McGillivray, the senior company partner.

      “He’ll be in the main house,” said the paymaster pointing off to his right. “Can’t miss it sir, right in the middle. It’s the big log building with the balcony.”

      Thompson came upon the grand log structure in the centre of the courtyard. Inside, he found a great hall adorned with portraits of the company partners in regal poses and fine garments. Doors off the great hall led to the private apartments of the company’s partners. A manservant dressed in a black waistcoat and white collar greeted him.

      “I’m David Thompson to see Mr. McGillivray please,” said David.

      The elderly servant nodded, then, in his most sophisticated manner, ambled into one of the many rooms adjoining the great hall. The servant returned with a slow and deliberate saunter and, mustering up all the solemnity of a courtly occasion, said, “His Honour will see you straight away.”

      David passed through an open door of varnished oak and entered McGillivray’s finely appointed office. Two men rose slowly from a table at which they had been meeting and faced Thompson.

      “I’m William McGillivray,” said the middle-aged gentleman, the embossed silver buttons glinting on his red tunic. “And this is Alexander Mackenzie,” he said, introducing his partner.

      David felt somewhat out of place. He had long since given up his European clothes for leather breeches and moccasins, and he had never acquired the mannerisms of a gentleman. The men shook hands and McGillivray motioned for them to sit at the table. The manservant brought a silver tray with three stemmed crystal glasses, each one a third filled with brandy. Thompson declined his drink. This confirmed the rumours that Thompson was a teetotaller. McGillivray was prepared to overlook the shortcoming, although he would find it difficult to trust someone who wouldn’t raise a glass with him. Still, he thought, if Thompson is even half as capable as he was reported to be, it will be difficult not to take him on. God knows we need a map-maker.

      McGillivray was nephew to Simon McTavish, the company founder, but he was not put in charge of operations due to his uncle’s favour alone. He had worked his way through the ranks using shrewdness and intelligence. He was the company’s first nonFrench apprentice to winter inland, and he knew the trade intimately. Now he wanted to know more about David Thompson. Could Thompson be relied upon if things didn’t go his way? What was driving him to leave a promising career with the HBC? McGillivray knew it wasn’t the liberal, if not sometimes debased, lifestyle permitted within the NWC ranks. He doubted it was the extravagance the company afforded its English-speaking supervisors. He couldn’t see this thickset and trail-hardened man wanting personal servants to carry luxuries like soft bedding, tableware, and wine along the fur trail. None of that would appeal to Thompson’s seemingly Spartan nature. McGillivray even considered that Thompson might still be in the employ of the HBC as an agent sent to spy. The idea was farfetched but could not be entirely ruled out. The shrewd partner would wait and form his opinion after measuring up this quiet man during the course of their meeting.

      “Would you prefer wine instead of brandy, David?” asked McGillivray, though he knew the answer.

      “No thank you, sir. I don’t drink,” smiled Thompson.

      “I hope your judgment of those of us who enjoy the indulgence is not too severe David?”

      “Not at all, Mr. McGillivray, It’s just that for me the penalty seems to outweigh the pleasure.”

      “Then you don’t object to the use of alcohol in trade with the Indians?”

      “I won’t use it for trade myself, but if the NWC stops trading liquor to the Indians, the HBC traders will quickly fill the demand, and if both companies stop selling, then the independent traders and the Americans will supply even worse grades of cheap liquor and reap the profits. Although I might wish it otherwise, liquor is a principal currency,” David answered. He knew alcohol was the leading currency of trade for the NWC.