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.
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