by Caron, Maia;
“Where is Cleophile?” she said to Alexandre. He had obviously heard her question, but did not respond. Madeleine asked if she was safe and he nodded, but his expression was so grave, she leaned out and grabbed his arm. “Why won’t you tell me?”
With reluctance, he whispered in her ear that Gabriel had found Josette that morning on the Jolie Prairie. He had asked Alex not to tell anyone that Cleophile had been poorly used by her own father, and that she was in the rectory with the priests. Madeleine sat back on her heels, digesting this news, then looked back at the Ouellette’s dugout. She could just see Josette’s profile, afflicted, yet also resigned, her skin luminous as a saint’s.
Alexandre had sighted the steamer and crawled in to join her. From between the cart wheels, Madeleine stared hard down the river. She had seen the Northcote pass many times on its way north to Prince Albert with Hudson’s Bay cargo. But as it sailed around the south bend, she noticed that its decks and pilothouse had been fortified with an odd number of looted goods, including the pool table from Gabriel’s saloon. She frowned at the sight of several mattresses lashed to the railing.
There was only the sound of birds in the trees as the ship sailed toward them, pulling two barges of supplies in its wake. It motored past the camp and angled in toward the crossing. The engine slowed as it drew closer to the ferry cables high on the banks and she held her breath, waiting for them to drop. But a sudden, piercing whistle came from the pilothouse, and a few Métis on the other side of the river started shooting. Soldiers came out on the deck and dove behind the mattresses, returning fire. Men in the pits on the west bank and those on the bluff above made the ship a target, and bullets whizzed over the dugouts. Madeleine exchanged a defeated glance with Alexandre. Gabriel’s first plan of defence had failed.
She craned her neck to see him ride along the stony lower bank on their side of the river. He shouted for his men not to waste ammunition but could not be heard over the Northcote’s frantic whistle as it swung into the current again.
“You will not die before I do,” she muttered, watching her husband gesture vigorously to his men. In the past few days, his head wound had begun to close, but these efforts would have it bleeding again. A few nights ago, he had come into their dugout and lay down next to her. She had expected him to fall into immediate sleep, but in a moment, he placed his hand on her shoulder.
“You are ill, ma p’tite,” he had said. “Promise to tell me if you suffer.”
When she had laughed bitterly, saying she did not have long to keep that promise, he broke down. He was in pain from his wound, spent, but she had closed her eyes, arms around his heaving shoulders, beyond caring if he wept out of guilt or grief.
A bullet flew past and hit the dirt above their dugout, and women screamed, shielding children with their bodies. The ferry cables were still strung too high across the river. Men operating them seemed to be pulling when they should let them go slack. The boat sailed underneath the cables, and Madeleine could hear Gabriel yelling to lower them, lower them, lower them. Finally one dropped and caught the smokestack, tearing it off. Flames immediately burst out of the wreckage strewn across the deck and the ship twisted until it faced backwards in the current, its engine now useless. Cheers erupted from the Métis and whoops of celebration from the Indians, but the steamer soon drifted around the north bend. Gabriel was shouting for the men to get to the church and rectory rifle pits, and Alexandre ran out of the dugout.
“You will not go to the fight,” Madeleine called after him but was distracted by a fragment of prayer that floated to her on the wind. She stalked to Riel’s dugout, finding him on his knees in the dirt with his wife and children, saying the rosary.
“You said God would not let les Anglais into Batoche,” she cried, “and they are here!”
Riel frowned, opened his eyes. “Kneel,” he said. “You will help Gabriel more with prayer.”
Napoléon Nault appeared above them on the bluff. “The English are setting up their cannon,” he shouted. “Stay down.”
smoke and
mirrors
Father moulin peered out from behind the curtain at the front window of the rectory. Heavy firing had come only a moment ago from the river, but now it was quiet. Gun smoke settled in the basin like mist or low-lying cloud, and he thought it looked almost beautiful. The priests and nuns had listened to the Métis attacking the Anglais boat and watched the prairie, anticipating an army approaching from the south. At last they had come, red-coated soldiers moving into battle formation on the small hill above Caron’s house.
“Nous sommes sauvés,” he said to Fathers Fourmond and Vegreville. We are saved. Soldiers were unhitching horses from a gun carriage and manoeuvring the cannon into position. Before Moulin had time to react, the echo drifted down, an officer shouting in English, “Common shell, percussion fuse—load!”
A sudden explosion shook the earth. Two more blasts were followed by the sound of wood splintering and glass breaking. Caron’s and Gareau’s houses were hit, four hundred yards away. Half-breed fighters streamed out and ran back toward the church. Powder in the cannon balls ignited and the houses burst into flames. Some rebel sharpshooters on the opposite bank of the river were targeting the artillery men, who dropped back as a smaller gun was rolled up, its menacing barrels aimed straight at the church.
“Alors,” exclaimed Moulin. “What evil is this?”
A man with elaborate moustaches had settled himself behind the gun and cranked its handle, sending quick fire across the river. After silencing the half-breed snipers, he swung it around and raked the entire meadow, tearing up bushes on either side of the church.
Father Vegreville opened the door, grabbed Riel’s white flag and frantically waved it. The priests rushed out behind him, only to face a line of soldiers that had risen out of a small gully behind the burning houses. At the sight of guns pointed directly at them, Moulin crossed himself, praying that their black cassocks were obvious against the white outer walls of the rectory. But the machine gun went off again, bullets ripping into the paneling above their heads. Moulin ducked and covered his head as slivers of wood rained down on them.
A shout had come from the direction of the hill, and when he dared look up, an officer on a black horse had appeared, yelling for a ceasefire. From his fine dress uniform and bearing, Moulin presumed that it was General Middleton. A few of his men rallied around him and the group rode warily toward the rectory, watching the surrounding bushes. The nuns had come out, their heads down, blinking against the sun. Moulin was keenly aware of Métis running through the trees and jumping into the rifle pits to the west of the rectory. Would Dumont respect the white flag?
General Middleton kept his head turned to the river as his horse approached. He took an unlit cigar from between his teeth, and said to one of his officers, “Get some men down there, Boulton—find the damn ship!”
When they had brought their horses to the rectory steps, the general removed his Astrakhan fur cap and introduced himself as commander of the Dominion Army. Moulin cringed to hear both the English language and a cultured British accent. Although stout and long in the tooth, the general cut an impressive figure. Drooping moustaches as white as his hair had been masterfully curved at each end to draw attention away from a weak chin. His bloated Anglais face was animated by indignant blue eyes.
Father Vegreville spoke in halting English. “You are at Batoche. The half-breeds … they are in rifle pits all around.”
General Middleton looked off to the river again and then away. He took a matchbook from his breast pocket and struck one, lighting his cigar.
“Riel said you will …” Moulin broke off, trying to remember his English. “He said you will let your men at these nuns.”
Middleton took a deep draw on his cigar and exhaled a pall of smoke. “Outrageous,” he said with a cough.
“Monsieur, my church is at the middle of your fight,” said Moulin. “It was built only a few years ago. Save it and bring you
r protection.”
“If you are not with the rebels,” the general said irritably, “of course you shall have it.” He glanced over his shoulder to the big guns on the hill. “How many men does Riel have fighting here?”
“Quoi? Not as much as he would like you to think. Many run away. Two hundred or less will fight. Those are stubborn mules,” Moulin said with a shrug. “And good shots, eh?”
Instead of answering directly, Middleton tilted his cigar and studied the lighted end, as if he were at home in his study. Another puff and he levelled his gaze at Moulin. “Guns and ammunition?”
“The women melt kettles for bullets,” volunteered Vegreville. “They are poor people but proud. They will put on a show—make you think their numbers are many.”
“Do not be fooled,” said Moulin. “They are enfants, like children—peace-loving and fight under protest.”
The general told them that his doctors would commandeer the church as a field hospital, claim it as neutral ground on the battlefield. He managed a gentlemanly bow from the saddle and before turning his horse, regarded the priests with a long, curious look. “Why on earth are you still here if you knew we would attack the village?”
The priests and nuns looked at each other. How to say it in English? “Riel holds us against our will,” said Moulin. “C’est impossible to escape. We fear les sauvages on the trail. They do not love the church as much as the half-breeds.”
Middleton had gone white as death. “We posted proclamations,” he said, “ordering Indians quietly to their reserves.”
“Gabriel sent men to tear them down,” Fourmond said. “The women say Riel waits for Chief Poundmaker and his Cree guerriers. His people are under command of the Rattler Society—”
The general’s hand dropped to the sabre hilt at his waist. “Poundmaker? Do you know where he is?”
“A few hours’ ride—at Duck Lake,” Father Fourmond offered helpfully. “He waits to hear how well you do this day.”
“We shall do very well indeed,” Middleton said archly, but the news appeared to have unsettled him. “These rebels have not been on the business end of a Gatling gun!” He wheeled his horse and spurred it back toward the hill.
Moulin thought he did not look as tall in the saddle as he had when riding down.
ravages
In a rifle pit midpoint between the church and Mission Ridge, Gabriel centred his gun sight on General Middleton’s broad back as he rode away from the rectory.
“The priests said something to work him up,” he said to Salomon Boucher, who knelt beside him.
Boucher spit in the dirt. “He is angry we attacked his steamship.”
“Take a shot at him,” said Michel Dumas, at his other elbow. “Finish it here.”
Even if Middleton were in range, Gabriel could not be made to pull the trigger while Father Moulin still stood on the rectory porch with Riel’s white flag in his hand. As Middleton’s group went up the hill, two wagons came down, teamsters whipping and yelling at their mules. Gabriel watched as the wagons careened to a stop in front of the church and soldiers spilled out to unload stretchers and supplies.
“This is good,” he said. “Le général plans for us to hit some of his men.”
He repositioned his rifle in an opening in the log barricade along the front of the pit and sighted Moulin. The priest strutted like a rooster now that les Anglais were setting up a field hospital in his church. His eyes not leaving the priest’s face, Gabriel swore to himself that he would find Moulin later, even if he had to steal into the church and kill these soldiers to do it.
He tried to get his breath under control, still winded after his pursuit of the steamship. The Métis had disabled the Northcote, but its ammunition and supplies were still protected by soldiers on board. Gabriel had come up the bank to find that the general had already advanced a troop of his men past the cemetery. Under cover of cannon and Rababou fire, a line of redcoats had swarmed up the slope and thrown themselves into a small draw at the edge of Mission Ridge, not two hundred yards to the southwest. Too close. Too soon.
When the priests had finally disappeared into the rectory and closed the door, Gabriel said to Boucher, “Go up the river and check on the government ship. Make certain it still founders—and that White Cap’s Sioux come back.” He had last seen them galloping along the bank after the boat, and was afraid they would not return. He needed every man.
When Boucher ran for his horse, Gabriel glanced down at his right hand. An Anglais bullet had bloodied his knuckles during the steamship fight, but had not penetrated deep enough to affect his aim. He had not had time to take medicine tea since last night, and now his head roared with a pain that sparked sudden flashes of light in his eyes.
A fine powdered ash still fell from the sky, all that was left of Caron’s and Gareau’s houses, which had almost burned to the ground. Gabriel pulled out his field glasses to scan the small draw near the ridge. The redcoats were out of the range of Métis guns, but they were not taking a chance by showing their heads. He moved the glasses back to the hill, where an officer was yelling an order for gunners to load more shells into the cannons. He adjusted his focus on the man who operated the Rababou gun, leaning over the long barrels in his blue uniform, to examine some part of its mechanism.
Gabriel blinked to clear his vision. “We’ll get down the riverbank,” he said to Dumas, “come up close to the Rababou gun and capture it.” The words had hardly left his mouth when both cannon went off together, the shells soaring over their heads into the trees and the meadow south of the village. Le Rababou began its rapid, stuttering attack to cover one of Middleton’s officers, who rode down past the burning houses, his fine horse goose-stepping at tight rein. He yelled something in English to the soldiers lying in the draw. They stared at him for a moment and then, in a chaotic jumble, fixed long knives to the ends of their rifles. Shoulder to shoulder, they shuffled into line and angled forward. Gabriel levelled his gun, determined that the Métis would not be flanked or the women’s riverbank dugouts discovered.
“This is where we do ravages,” he said to the men in the surrounding pits and let out a war cry as the signal for them to fire in one continuous volley. The sound of so many guns going off at once was deafening. The redcoats dropped so quickly, Gabriel was sure they had all been killed, but when the Rababou man turned his barrel and aimed it in the direction of the pits, the soldiers cautiously raised themselves and advanced under its protective fire. Gabriel cursed. Still out of range. He would not misjudge distance again and waste their precious ammunition.
The powerful barrage of Métis weaponry had sent the Anglais cannon horses rearing in their limbers. Patrice Fleury’s snipers across the river let loose some carefully aimed shots at Middleton’s gunners, who trampled each other, leaving the guns unmanned.
Gabriel could hear an officer shout at them, “Goddamn, get back here, or I’ll shoot you myself.”
When the smoke cleared, one of the gunners lay on the ground, half his head blown away, the front of his uniform a mess of brains and blood. Gabriel’s eyes had not left le Rababou, placed strategically between the abandoned cannon, the man behind it swinging the barrel, determined to stop the marksmen on the west bank. Redcoats had crept closer to the ridge, and Gabriel whistled again for the Métis to fire another volley. He wedged the stock of his rifle against his shoulder and—in an effort to replicate the devil gun’s intensity—unloaded ten shots, hitting several soldiers, who fell back, screaming. Others went down on their stomachs in a panic and crawled along on elbows and knees, cowering under the blast. A few soldiers came out of the church with stretchers, and Gabriel whistled to hold fire while they picked up their wounded and ran back again.
Another deliberately placed shot echoed from one of Fleury’s snipers across the river, and a second later, the Rababou gunman grabbed his shoulder. Gabriel ran with Dumas to a rifle pit farther east in the trees. After throwing himself in, he held his breath, hoping his prayers had been an
swered. When he cautiously lifted his head to look, the man remained at the gun, turning the crank with one hand, spent cartridges flying from the central shaft like pellets of hail.
“Calisse,” Gabriel swore. Only a flesh wound.
He realized with a start that during the last barrage, another battalion of soldiers had stolen along the bluff near the cemetery and others had managed to find cover out of shooting distance in bushes to the left of the church. He whistled to his men to hold until they had a clear shot, but the troops did not advance further. Although his rifle pits denied the enemy a target, Gabriel did not like his position.
Just then, a large number of Sioux came in from the north, moving among the dense poplar and willow as if they were converging on a Blackfoot village, intent on stealing horses. And without warning, the impossible sight of Norbert Lavoie, who had arrived with Little Ghost and a few of Lean Crow’s men. Why had he come back? Gabriel stared hard at Norbert, willing him to turn, then whistled, ordering his men to go up and shoot as they advanced. Norbert ran ahead, firing with the accuracy that Gabriel had seen him use years ago, during the buffalo hunts. Soon there was confusion down near the cemetery, with a few more redcoats hit and clutching at their wounds. Gabriel and Dumas threw themselves into a pit in the trees closer to the rectory. Norbert was only thirty yards away from them now, on one knee, quickly reloading his gun. Gabriel pushed a few more bullets into his own magazine. In the next barrage, would he have the nerve to shoot him?
