by Maia Caron
André went on, in a voice more peevish than before. “Riel knew what he was doing, the fiend. Give the petition to the Archbishop of St. Boniface before sending it to Ottawa. Trick Macdonald into thinking the North-West and Manitoba are aligned in their efforts.”
Father Fourmond, a young priest and new to the region, had a pinched look to his face, as if remembering something distasteful. “If they truly meant to support him, they would have stayed.”
“They know what evil Louis wreaked in Red River,” said Father Vegreville. “Evil they are not keen to visit twice.”
Moulin cleared his throat, eager to get off this topic. “One of the women of Batoche let it slip in confession that her husband is one of Riel’s inner circle,” he said. “Riel told them at a meeting that he was a prophet from God. They fired their weapons in joy to hear it.”
Father André had returned his attention to the bowl of stew before him. With a spoon halfway to his mouth, he said, “Charles Nolin has told me that Riel spent two years in an insane asylum.”
The priests stared at him with incredulous expressions.
“Can you trust Nolin?” Moulin asked. “How does he know?” He could not imagine Riel in a straitjacket, although his actions at the Ouellette wedding made him worthy of one.
“The half-breeds should know the truth,” said Fourmond.
“That their leader is insane?” André said, chewing thoughtfully. “It’s too fantastic to believe. They will think we are spreading lies about him. Riel would discover that Nolin is our man here and we still need him. And it would give him reason to turn the people against us. Non, we must get rid of Riel.”
He had hardly finished saying this when there was a stamping of feet outside the door and in a moment, it opened. Riel and William Jackson came in, shaking snow off their coats. Riel took off his hat and shot Father André an accusatory look. “We came to pray at the chapel. I asked God why we had not received an answer from Ottawa. When we left, I was shown your sleigh outside the rectory. I did not expect to find you here, plotting.”
Moulin glared at him. “Now that you are finished the petition, you will leave the country, non?”
Riel raised his brows and regarded the pot of stew, a half-eaten bannock on the table. “The Métis survive on flour and water and save the meat for you.” He looked meaningfully at Father André’s prodigious stomach. “Do you forget Christ’s frugal ways?”
Father André sent a warning glance to the other priests. “We have our divine mission directly from the apostles.”
“The apostles supported themselves by the work of their hands,” Riel said with a shake of his head. “It would do you good to return to sacred poverty.”
André’s blue eyes burned with indignation. “Twenty-five years I rode out with your people on the hunts.” He thrust out his calloused hands. “Gabriel will tell you I have shouldered my share of buffalo meat to the wagons. And God knows I have damaged myself living in drafty tents on the plains.”
Riel surveyed them with a long look, breath shallow in his chest. “You do not deserve to be called priests or fathers by my people. When I return to Batoche, I will insist they address you as ‘servants of God.’”
Fourmond leaped out of his chair. “Show your respect, Louis.”
“The Métis have a spiritual centre.” Riel’s eyes were wide, his voice louder. “It is not an overfed white priest, but a prophet chosen by God from their own people.”
William Jackson chose this awkward moment to make his mark. “Do you not think,” he said, “that priests put themselves too high above the people they serve? Christ himself did not wish to be worshipped.”
Moulin noted that Jackson’s French was improving, but like a typical Anglais, he still managed to butcher the most dignified language in the world.
Father André turned an outraged eye to Jackson. “Is it you, a Methodist, who whispers heresy in Riel’s ear? Soon we will hear you say the Pope must be removed from his place in Rome.”
“As he should,” said Riel.
André reared up so fast, the dishes on the table rattled. “Assez!” He jerked his soutane down over his stomach. “Keep up this insanity and you will no longer be allowed to partake in the sacraments.”
Riel covered his face. “Father, my passion to help the Métis is too great,” he said from between his fingers. “It sometimes overwhelms me—I say things I regret.”
The priests stared at Riel in horror. Moulin had to restrain himself from clapping. What a performance. Riel had spent two years in bedlam. His behaviour was erratic, certainement, but he was no rambling fool.
“The petition writing was very … enervant,” Jackson said in his awful French. “Riel is exhausted. Please don’t punish him.”
Riel put on his hat, chastened, but André came out from behind the table. “You have sacrificed much for your people. Do you not think you should have a little something in exchange for all the work you have done?” Riel looked up with a guarded expression, and André hurried on. “I will write to the Territorial Council, get them to use their influence with Ottawa and win you an indemnity.”
Riel took out a handkerchief and passed it over his face, straightened his coat. “Indemnity?”
“You have spent years of your life working to bring the Métis their rights. You were Governor of Red River and brought Manitoba into Confederation.”
Riel seemed mildly surprised, as if he had not considered all these things together. “I lived as an outlaw, one step ahead of Macdonald’s assassins. I did not benefit from scrip in Manitoba—my land was confiscated.” He paused for a moment. “How much do you believe all that is worth? I would think many thousands of dollars.”
André blanched. “Something to carry you. My thought was five thousand—”
Riel laughed. “What an amount. Five thousand was the bounty put on my head fifteen years ago. You do not know that Macdonald sent a party of men after me. I refused a purse of $35,000 dollars and the advice to take a trip over the water and the wide world.”
“What of your wife and children, Louis?” said Father Moulin. “If we get you some money, you can go back to Montana and start a new life.”
Riel was silent for a moment. “If the request comes from you with a convincing argument …” At this, he turned on his heel and was gone. William Jackson trailed out after him, leaving the door wide open.
After Father Fourmond had closed the door, André said, “Thirty-five thousand dollars. It would take much less than that.”
“Macdonald has bribed him once to leave,” Moulin said. “Will he do it again?” He laughed bitterly. “Le pauvre fou. Turning the people against us.”
“Some of the French breeds in the South Branch speak quietly against him,” said Moulin. “Charles Nolin says Xavier Letendre and Roger Goulet do not wish to be involved in insurrection.”
“It’s obvious that Jackson is affecting him,” said Fourmond.
“He is converting to Catholicism,” said Moulin. “Josette is teaching him the catechism.”
André blinked. “Who?”
“Josette Lavoie, a woman in Batoche.”
“Why her?”
Moulin hesitated. He had not bothered Father André with news of Riel’s little ceremony at berry-picking camp, but now he regretted the decision. “Riel has made her his Mary Magdalene,” he said, playing with a spoon on the table. “She has education from Red River—was meant to be a nun.”
André frowned. “Then she would have only good influence on Riel.”
“She’s the granddaughter of Chief Big Bear. Closer to an Indian than any of the Métis women. She blasphemes regularly.” Moulin was anxious to avoid a dressing down. He would not admit that Josette had somehow manipulated him into granting an indulgence. He chose one of her other transgressions. “She said one could trace the Virgin Mary’s lineage back to Eve—and therefore Eve herself must be exempt from original sin.”
André sat down heavily. “Do you see how a viper po
isons the nest? Before too long we will have more of these women …” He glanced up at Moulin. “A pity you have allowed subversion of good order among your parishioners.” He paused for a long moment, a hand across his eyes. “Let slip to some of your half-breed gossips that the great Louis Riel has requested money for services to his people, and that he’s agreed to abandon them as soon as it’s paid.”
a dire blessing
“C’est beau, maman,” Patrice said, patting one of Norbert’s sled dogs through its tapis.
Josette secured the knotted red ribbons that decorated the standing irons of their harnesses. Many an evening since Christmas, she had sat close by the fire, adding new beadwork to their tapis, copying a regal scroll design that she’d seen on one of Father Moulin’s church vestments. All of this to please Norbert, who stood beside the sled, as grimfaced as she’d ever seen him.
Hundreds of Métis had gathered on the frozen surface of the Saskatchewan River for the annual New Year’s Day dog race. A few inches of fresh snow had fallen last night and it looked like more coming, the sky heavy with cloud that hung close above the treeline. Norbert had the most impressive get up of dogs and sled in the South Branch, but last year he had come in second. Josette could tell by the set of his mouth that this year he would accept nothing but first place. She prayed he would win for two reasons: they were in desperate need of the bag of flour donated by Xavier Letendre as the prize, and she wished to avoid what seemed to be his looming punishment—for what, she did not know.
Since Norbert had returned from the north in mid-December, he slept turned from her on their straw pallet, his muscled back forming a silent rebuke. She had a crick in her neck from ranging as far as she could from him, listening as he drew tortured breath through his oft-broken nose and dreading a half-awake, scrabbling reach between her legs, but he had not touched her since the night before Riel had arrived. How long had it been? Six moons. All because Gabriel had warned him away—she heard it from one of the women—and the threat of crossing him had stayed her husband’s hand.
A large fire had been built at the end of the Carlton Trail on the riverbank. Cleophile stood near it with other young people, a blanket around her shoulders. She laughed at something Alexandre Dumont was saying and Josette thought it was the first time in a long while she had seen her daughter happy. Norbert pulled on a pair of gloves and mounted his sled. As he whipped his dogs into the starting area, Cleophile stared after him with thinly veiled contempt. Josette feared that she had grown to hate her father after witnessing him beat her. It was a form of solidarity, but she did not know how to broach the subject with her daughter, who would surely disagree, just to be contrary.
Only Michel Dumas had a team that was as fast as Norbert’s, but Dumas’ dogs were not known for endurance and this was a ten-mile race—five miles down river and five back. As each team and its captain lined up, Dumas bragged of the new track he’d put on his sled, falling silent when Father Moulin came along, a hand lifted to bless the four teams taking part. The expression on the priest’s face was sour. He did not approve of the Métis dog and horse races for the betting that went on, but believed much would be forgiven by God if he sanctified the activity. After he had blessed Norbert’s team, he shook his hand and wished him and his family good health in the new year. He nodded to Josette and moved on, his eyes flicking over the dogs. Disapproval turned into astonishment.
“Quoi,” he cried, pointing at the dogs’ felt jackets.
Norbert presumed he had an issue with the bells. “When they hear them, they run faster,” he explained.
“Non,” Moulin roared. He charged forward, staring at Josette. “Did you bead that design?” She took a step back, too stunned by this outburst to answer. Moulin lunged at the lead dog and pulled at its tapis, but the dog snapped at him. “Get these off—it is desecration to put a sacred symbol of the Church on a dog.” He jerked his hand in a gestural insult from the old country and went off up the trail, his thin boots kicking up snow.
It was too late to do anything about the tapis, for Emmanuel Champagne had lifted his rifle to fire the starting shot. Beneath his fur hat, Norbert’s face was the same colour as the red sash around his waist. The gun went off and the dogs sprang into a loping run, but Norbert’s team had already fallen behind Michel Dumas’ as they raced down the frozen river. When the last team disappeared out of sight around the bend, the women went back to visiting and tending pots of stew that had been set to cook over embers in a fire pit.
Riel was speaking to some Métis who had come across the river from Duck Lake for the festivities. A few Batoche men were taking wagers on who would win the race and others had struck up a game of cards on a blanket, the betting already brisk. Like Moulin, Louis did not approve, but he made comments about the cards some men were holding, laughing louder than anyone. He would not look at Josette, but she was sure he had witnessed the volatile episode with Moulin. Hadn’t it proven that she was not his spy? She would not be so easily put aside, forgotten, or accused. Only she knew Louis’ true purpose here, yet he had the audacity to ignore her.
Eulalie brought Patrice and Wahsis to her skirts. The top buttons on Wahsis’ coat had come undone, exposing his chest to the cold, and Josette drew him close to do them up again. She was surprised when Domatilde Gravelle whisked the children away to play with others their age. In a bid to make herself useful, Josette waded into knee-deep snow, making for the bush to gather firewood, but another woman shooed her from the task, and she could see the Old Crows eyeing her and then Riel, expecting her to fulfill her role.
Go to him, Mary.
Henriette Parenteau had taken a bowl of bannock dough from the back of a cart and carried it to the fire pit. She motioned for Josette to kneel beside her in the packed snow. The two of them began to form rounds, patting them into the hot cast iron fry pans that had been banked on the coals. Gabriel had just come down the trail with Damase Carrière, the two of them speaking in urgent, hushed tones. With Madeleine always hovering, she had not had the chance to go to him, to finally share the secret Riel had asked her to keep: that he intended to destroy the Roman Church and replace it with his own.
Despite concern from the women, Josette felt more like an outsider. And the threat of Norbert. He would think she had beaded the tapis to humiliate him and now had reason to discipline her. Gabriel had warned him; Riel had promised that God would save her. And yet neither of them, much less their punishing God, had looked her way. She wished that William Jackson was here, but he had gone to spend the Christmas season in Prince Albert with his family. The Métis laughed, drank, and gambled, trusting Riel, when he could not be trusted. Yet Father Moulin had insisted that she and Gabriel possessed the influence and power to turn them all.
Henriette tested the top of a bannock with her finger then flipped it in the pan, “My husband wishes to know if it is true,” she said in a low voice. “I told him you would know.”
“What is true?”
“That Riel has asked for money, a payment to make him go away.”
“From who?” she said, then regretted it, for Henriette looked taken aback. Josette willed herself not to redden and said with authority, “It’s an evil rumour—started by those who wish him gone.” She looked up at Louis, silently daring him to glance at her. And he did, almost mournfully, his eyes drifting away again. He would surely not ask for payment to go away if he was close to realizing his dream.
Last night, the Batoche Métis had gathered in the church. When the moon had risen high, they shook hands, exchanged wishes: good luck to you, we will get our lands, pray for rain on the crops this year—not too much, just enough. There had been no word from Ottawa on the petition, and Riel had been assured again and again that it would be answered quickly. When the men went outside and discharged their rifles into the air after Mass, Josette had watched him kneel alone before the altar. And she knew. He did not mourn the passing of light, as she did, the Christmas season soon to be over with its fleeting j
oys, leaving them to face dark days and long nights. He prayed for guidance to create a new church while on his knees in the very one he wished to destroy.
As more people came up from the river to the fire, a horseman appeared on the west bank. His Appaloosa gelding came across, and she saw the rider was Louis Schmidt, Riel’s old friend from Red River, who now lived in Prince Albert. Riel and Gabriel went down to meet him at the river’s edge. Schmidt dismounted, handsome in a long coat and leather boots, like those the white men wore. He held the reins, face animated, sharing news.
Josette walked toward them with resolve, a woman, not invited, but determined that she would be. Gabriel had to know that the man he followed, despite her warnings, was on a path to destruction. The English half-breeds and white settlers were Protestant. They would withdraw support for Riel when they discovered he meant to use his political authority to stage a holy war and throw down the Catholic religion. And the Métis of Batoche? They would refuse to leave the Church.
When she drew near, Gabriel broke away to meet her. The cold had whitened a scar she had not noticed on the bridge of his nose, where it crooked to the side, slashed in some long-ago fight. He wore a troubled expression, his eyes dark and unwavering, and had on the old buffalo coat that Madeleine had made for him years ago. She remembered seeing him wear it, captain of one of the last hunts, standing with a hand to his horse just after the herds had been sighted on the plains, waiting for Moulin to finish Mass so he could mount and lead his hundreds of riders forward, horses reined in, advancing as one, ready to give chase.
“The petition has been received in Ottawa,” Gabriel said.
It bothered her that his face remained grave, that he avoided her eyes. The man who had once looked into her soul and did not turn from what he had seen there was now brusque, his attitude dismissive. “Good,” she said. “We will have news soon.”
“No news that it has been read,” he muttered, “only that it goes to the Queen.”
