by Caron, Maia;
At midnight, josette left her three children asleep in a dugout on the riverbank. Behind a diffuse screen of cloud, the Leaves-Appear Moon shed ghostly light upon the water. She had been kept awake, sure that Alexandre was out there, taking advantage of Cleophile. When she had discovered the two of them in the hay loft last week, he had claimed to be courting Mary-Jane Ouellette, yet Josette could see Mary-Jane at one of the fires, helping Marguerite Riel with her little son, Jean, who was up and fretting with a chest cold.
Scouts had come in with news that the English army was only eight miles to the south and would arrive at dawn. But the Métis campfires still burned and Baptiste Arcand played his fiddle for a few men who had been drinking and dancing with feverish bravado, as they had in the old days before a buffalo hunt. Some women were occupied with melting down tins and pots for ammunition at a large kettle. On the west bank, the fires of Lean Crow’s band flickered, their war drums beating out a steady rhythm.
A cool wind had come up and blew patterns of shadow across the surface of the river. Josette put her back to it and went quickly up the trail, meaning to act on her suspicions—catch Cleophile and Alexandre in the act. Earlier, Riel had allowed two steers to be killed and the Métis had eaten well. The smell of roasting meat must have carried a mile in every direction. If anyone would be drawn to camp for a meal, it would have been Cleophile, who had bitterly complained during the fast.
Near the cemetery, a few young men were taking the hobbles off the dairy cows. Josette found Mimoux and passed a hand along her wide flank. The cow seemed content in the company of those of her kind, trotting off happily when the boys switched at their backsides to herd them north.
The moon revealed itself and poured light on the meadow. Josette whispered a prayer to it. “Nohkô, lead me to my daughter.”
Napoleon Arcand had been following behind the cows with a shovel. When she asked if he’d seen Cleophile and Alexandre, he shook his head and continued with the task of scooping manure.
Only a day had passed since her daughter had confessed to Moulin. Initially, Josette had blamed herself for neglecting Cleophile, but then she reasoned what must have happened during that confession. Her daughter had been desperate to share with someone that Alexandre had been messing around with her. Out of shame, she had been unable to admit it, and Moulin, in his usual manner, had tried to get it out of her. Cleophile, pressured to reveal something, had panicked and told him what he would already have suspected: she had felt Josette’s distraction the past few months—helping Riel and Jackson—as profound neglect. A sin. Despite the soundness of this explanation, the priest’s admonition that God had raised up evil against her out of her own house lingered like a curse.
What he had said about Riel spending two years in an insane asylum was too specific to be vindictive spite. She had been right: Riel was kiskwesew. Did Gabriel know that their leader had been so deranged that the only safe place for him had been an institution? Somehow, she feared that he did.
Dew was on the prairie grass, wetting the hem of Josette’s skirts as she went up the sloping meadow toward the church. Her mind ranged to the first moment when she sensed something might be wrong with her daughter. Had it been before Riel arrived in the South Branch, or after?
She followed one of the cow trails that criss-crossed the bush behind the church and rectory, and soon passed lanterns flashing between the trees, where men were at work fortifying the rifle pits. The south meadow between the church and the village was full of tents, the canvas peaks like the backs of white pelicans fishing on the river in spring. Men were still up, smoking and talking around a few small fires.
When Josette passed through the village of Batoche, she paused in front of Letendre’s house, where she knew the council was meeting. She would have liked to know if Gabriel was there or down with his scouts, watching the Anglais army. Other men might eventually sleep tonight, but he would not. Why did she continue to think of him, worried that he was tired or in pain?
She went up the stairs of Boyer’s house. Riel’s chapel on the second floor was deserted. Moonlight shone through a window, flooding the altar with light. The image of Saint Bernadette had fallen to the side and she straightened it, noticing as she did that the letter from Bishop Bourget had been removed. With the English army so close to Batoche, Riel would not be without his mentor’s blessing.
When she turned to leave, she heard a bump from the room at the end of the hall, where Boyer and his wife had slept before deserting last week. Josette turned her head to listen. Another bump and the murmur of a male voice. She almost ran toward the door, sure that she had caught them in the act, and pulled it open. Cleophile was kneeling, facing away from her. The man she thought to be Alexandre lay on the bed, his pants down around his ankles and his head back, face hidden behind a clutched blanket.
Josette gave a cry and stepped into the room. “Alexandre—Cleophile.” Her daughter on the floor, arms now flung over her head. She would not turn. The man on the bed sat straight up, pulling at his pants.
Josette stood there a long moment. It was not Alexandre, or any other boy in the village.
It was Norbert.
he hears god
At two in the morning, Father Moulin tiptoed down the stairs of the rectory, a rosary still in his hands. He had used it many times in the last few hours, and the night was far from over. The priests and nuns were imprisoned here like animals, with hardly a wink of sleep between them. He hesitated, listening to the nuns’ muffled prayers in the upstairs chapel.
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee.
The kitchen and front hall were thankfully empty of half-breed women who had visited after dark, sneaking in with a jar of milk, or a stolen piece of beef. After they had stopped coming, the priests heard the impossible scrapings of a fiddle and hesitant laughter from the riverbank camp. He and Father Fourmond had crept like thieves to look over the bluff, amazed to find campfires still burning. Men dancing, women hovering over a cauldron, and the awful black stench of melting tin and lead. All of it to the ominous noise of drumming from les sauvages across the river. From their hiding place, Moulin and Fourmond had looked at each other. Had these people not heard the news? After weeks of anticipation and waiting, the Anglais army marched one thousand-strong upon Batoche.
The priests had returned to the rectory, hoping for a few hours of rest, when Moulin had woken to find Cleophile Lavoie standing at the foot of his bed. He had sat up so fast, his head whirled. Why had she come in, crouched over and hardly breathing, like a wounded rabbit in the bush? His exclamation of surprise had brought the nuns and priests. They had found nothing physically wrong with the girl, but despite their questions, she refused to speak. It was as if she had witnessed a great calamity and remained haunted by it. She steadfastly refused to leave, and was soothed only when the nuns had invited her to pray the rosary. Moulin had just left them in the second-floor chapel.
He opened the door and sniffed at the air. No more drumming from across the river or frantic fiddling from the half-breed camp. Only the meadow and long shadows of trees cast by a moon, almost to full. Closing the door, he bent his head.
I pray not that thou shouldest take them out of the world, but that thou shouldest keep them from evil.
He wove the rosary around his fingers and thought back to Cleophile’s confession. Was it only yesterday? She had been visibly upset, but when Moulin encouraged her to share her sins, she had admitted guilt at scorning her mother for spending too much time in St. Laurent with Riel and William Jackson.
Josette should have come with the women tonight, begging forgiveness for the sin of neglecting her daughter. The priests had remained steadfast in their promise to refuse sacraments to the families of those who took up arms. But when the women had arrived with food, Moulin, Fourmond, and Vegreville had agreed to unburden them in exchange for some news. They listened patiently to their rushed confessions, each one merging with the next. “I fear the soldiers will burn
my house … My children are sick, hungry … We are doomed.”
Charlotte Gervais had been there with a bibi in a beaded cradleboard upon her back. She begged them to pray for her husband, who they learned was in Poundmaker’s camp near Duck Lake. “He will hang if the English catch him,” she cried. “How will I feed our children?”
“I am surprised to find you here,” Moulin had said to her. “We saw you today across the river, accepting the body of Christ from Riel.”
Her mouth dropped open in surprise and Moulin laughed. “Do you not think we can see his blasphemous outdoor chapel from here? Even in the midst of hell, one must keep track of the devil.”
“You will not speak of him in such a manner,” Charlotte said. “He is guided by the Spirit of God. The council has voted that God will use a miracle to save us.”
Moulin had regarded her with compassion, and, because there was no longer reason to keep it from them, he said, “Ma p’tite, what kind of man tables a motion to his governing council asking them to vote on a miracle from God? A crazy one! Your leader has spent two years in an insane asylum—he endangers your people.” Of course, she and the other women ran, as if they had just discovered that he and the priests carried the pox. The poor Métis were so easily led, so easily overcome. But rumours that Poundmaker was on the trail worried him. In a matter of hours, there would be a clash of titans here, and the priests and nuns caught in the crossfire. The man commanding les Anglais was a British gentleman. He would immediately recognize the white steeple of the church, yet the Indians could not be trusted.
Moulin chewed at a ragged thumbnail. Desperate for some contemplative time of his own, he went into the kitchen to put on a pot of water for tea, when the door was flung open and he turned to find Josette, long black hair flying around her head.
Her eyes were wide with accusation. “Where is she?”
Moulin stared at her angrily. “She is safe—with the nuns.” Josette bolted for the stairs and he managed to get there before she did, blocking her way. “She is praying.”
“Let me see her.” Her hands were surprisingly strong on his arm, her thin body trembling with emotion. She repeated over and over, “Let me see her,” and when he finally shoved her backward, “How could you let this happen?”
“What has happened?” he asked, frustrated at the mystery. “She will not speak.”
Her eyes widened. “You don’t know!”
“I know enough,” he said. “You are a neglectful mother …”
But she had already run out the door.
god of war
Riel’s council had gathered in Letendre’s house. Charles Trottier squatted on his haunches near the door. David Tourond and Philip Gariépy leaned against the wall, looking grimly at the other eight Exovedes seated around the table, their faces thrown into shadow by a single candle, the only light in the room.
Gabriel straddled an empty rum keg that had been in Letendre’s storehouse, watching Riel at the head of the table. Moise Ouellette had just asked a question that should have been simple enough to answer: “When is Poundmaker coming in?”
But Riel was taking his time about it. He remained silent, the stem of his pipe—long gone out—held between his teeth. Gabriel waited to hear the explanation that he and Riel had agreed upon earlier. When Riel had visited him privately with the letter from Poundmaker, Gabriel had fought a rising sense of doom. He knew the chief. If he hadn’t come in by now, he never would. But to avoid more Métis desertions, he and Riel had decided to feed the rumours that Poundmaker was in Duck Lake.
Riel set his pipe aside and looked at it a moment. “I cannot lie to my Exovedes,” he said. “Poundmaker will not be here for another week.”
Philippe Garnot glanced up at Riel, his pen hovering over the minute book.
Moise threw up his hands. “Then we cannot win.”
A sudden pain streaked across the top of Gabriel’s head. This was not the time for Riel to suffer an attack of conscience. He had just destroyed his councillors’ hopes that God would work His miracle by bringing the Indians. And on the eve of the battle of their lives. Middleton didn’t know the truth, and Gabriel wanted to use his fear of a Custer situation to his best advantage. Poundmaker’s presence would be useful as both encouragement and threat, even seven days’ ride from Batoche.
Maxime Lépine said quietly, but with an undercurrent of intimidation, “Let the women and children go.”
“Our men will not stay,” Gabriel said, “if their families aren’t here.”
Lépine slapped his palm on the table in outrage. “We endanger women and children so their men can fight and die?”
Riel cleared his throat, silencing the room. “God will punish Middleton for attacking us here on sacred land—attacking us on the Lord’s day of rest.”
Lépine and Ouellette exchanged looks. They still could not accept that Riel’s church had honoured the old testament and declared Saturday their Sabbath.
“If your brother Ambroise had come from Red River the men would not desert,” Riel said. “If my brothers and André Nault had been here too.” His Bible and diary were stacked on the table in front of him. He had been carrying them everywhere the past few days. Placing one hand on his Bible, he looked with purpose into the eyes of each man. “God has told me that Gabriel will hold off Middleton for three days,” he said. “When the army invades, we will send a scout north to find Poundmaker’s camp. If the Rattler Society hears we are winning, they will convince him to ride south.”
Heads turned to Gabriel, who tried not to appear stunned. Hold off Middleton for three days? Riel had frustrated him one too many times. And it was impossible. They would be lucky to hold off Middleton for a day, at best.
The men were falling for it, though. Renewed hope shone in their eyes. They would believe anything Riel said if it came from God. Of course Poundmaker would consider it a decisive victory if they held the English off that long. Although Gabriel had allowed a messenger through to give Middleton a report of Poundmaker’s victory at Cut Knife, the telegraph wires between Battleford and Clark’s Crossing were still down. Despite English efforts to repair them, Middleton could not get news. But if rumours were spread that the chief and his warriors were in Duck Lake, only a few hours’ ride west, the old general might make tactical errors that Gabriel could use against him.
The Indian commissioner, one of Macdonald’s men in the Territories, had issued a proclamation ordering, “all good Indians to stay quietly on their reserves.” Middleton had sent soldiers out to put up notices on trees along the Humboldt Trail. Gabriel’s scouts had torn them down, but it was proof the old general still feared losing his hair.
Gabriel shifted restlessly on the keg. His plan of defence for Batoche was complicated, and he only had so many men to make it work. He was anxious to get out there and direct their efforts against the army’s attack at dawn.
After making his proclamation, Riel had lapsed into a reflective mood and Garnot called the meeting to a close. The council members were filing out, claiming their rifles at the door. Gabriel picked up his own gun, but Riel rose from his chair.
“The Spirit that is good enough to guide me has said, ‘By dint of hard blows strive to defend every inch of ground.’”
Gabriel looked around. “Tell your Spirit I need more men—ammunition.” He regretted his cutting tone, but Riel had put him on the spot.
Riel’s dark eyes were intent, his expression guarded. “How many do we have?”
“Two hundred and fifty. At most.”
“Soon you will have thousands of Cree warriors. Until then, how do we hold off Middleton?”
“Ravages,” Gabriel said without hesitation. “Strike hard and kill enough men that he does the same thing he did in Tourond’s Coulee—retreat to avoid losing more.”
Riel shook his head. “I have fears you will expose yourself too much in battle, and there are not enough rifle pits.”
For a man who claimed they would be saved by divine
intervention, Riel was not leaving anything to chance. “The men have been digging for weeks.” Gabriel shouldered his rifle as a signal that he must go, but Riel opened his diary; he ripped a piece of paper from the binding and offered him a pencil.
“Show me how you will defend the City of God.”
Gabriel’s head was throbbing and he did not have time for this, but he took the pencil in his hand, the feel of it strange to him. He could speak six languages, yet had never felt the need to read or write and had only used a pen when his mark was needed on a petition to the government.
With ham-fisted strokes, he drew a few stick buildings at the top of the paper to represent the village, a large circle for the meadow just south of it, a thick stand of trees and bush separating that and the church and rectory. He managed a curved pass of river and bluff to the left, then the open plateau that was Mission Ridge, slightly behind and between the bluff and the rectory.
“The army will march along the trail,” he said, making two X marks for the houses on Caron’s and Gareau’s river lots, and a line to show the low crest of hill where the Humboldt Trail came up from the south. Gabriel scratched his beard and studied the map, calculating yardage and shooting range. “Roughly half a mile from the church and rectory to the hill … same distance back to the village. We’ll use these houses in the middle as our main defence.”
Riel was surveying the map with a skeptical expression. “Middleton will shell the pits.”
“I saw how he positioned his cannon at Tourond’s Coulee. They must be on level ground. He will have to place them here.” He pointed to the low hill. “My best shots with Winchester repeaters are across the river to kill the Rababou man. Then we capture the gun.”
Riel did not seem convinced. “If it was a month later, the leaves would be on the trees.”
“It is not a month later. It is not a lot of things we want.” Gabriel added a few jagged crosses to show the cemetery on the bluff by the river. The thought of Isidore, buried under a mound of dirt. He forced the image out of his mind and made slash marks for the gradual slope from the cemetery to the church and rectory, circles for every small draw and gully. “We’ve dug pits in here,” he said, indicating the trees lining the meadow and around the church and rectory. “The small aspen and willow underbrush will hide our rifle pits from Middleton’s gunners.”
