by Maia Caron
Marguerite’s jealousy dissolved and she felt that she could breathe again. Gabriel Dumont. Looking at Josette as if her pain was his own.
She was not the woman who should fear Josette’s presence in her husband’s life.
II
their blood is
water
On a bright cold day in early March, Riel strode past the rectory to the church, where Fathers Moulin, Fourmond, and Vegreville stood like dark gatekeepers. Gabriel was at his side and almost all of Batoche following at their heels, but the priests stared them down. Moulin stepped forward, barring Riel’s path.
My soul is among lions, Riel thought, putting a hand in his pocket to feel for the telegram. He prayed for temperance, but here was the most important moment in his life and no priest would stop him. “Let us in.”
“You will not use the church for meetings,” Moulin said, loud enough for the crowd to hear. “Father André forbids it.”
“God forbids it,” Fourmond said from behind him. His eyes went to Gabriel’s rifle. “And there will be no gun in a church!”
Riel showed him the telegram. “God directs me. The answer to our petition has come from Ottawa. If you do not wish to hear what Macdonald has to say, do not come in. You are no longer welcome.” He and Gabriel pushed past the priests, who could do nothing but allow the rest of the Métis to enter.
Riel stood at the altar rail and watched as his people packed the pews and aisles. A few of the young men had come with wood and tinder to build a fire in the stove. Before long, the room was warm, the air filled with the rising breath of hundreds of souls, waiting. Gabriel stood to the side, holding le Petit in front of him. From the moment they had received the telegram two days ago, he and Gabriel and his capitaines had had their heads together. Every diplomatic process had been undertaken in appeal to Ottawa, but rebellion was their only recourse. They had gone directly to Prince Albert and met the English half-breeds and white settlers. Riel had been furious at Macdonald’s response and mentioned that it might be necessary to take up arms for the glory of God, the honour of religion, and their salvation. The men of Prince Albert had looked at him with frightened eyes.
The white settlers wanted their rights, but not if it meant fighting for it. And the English half-breeds? Their blood was water. They had shaken his hand at the end of the meeting and mumbled that rebellion against the Dominion should be avoided at all cost. Some of them had quietly been getting their land claims settled by Ottawa. How easily they forgot the petition they had signed, their wider rights. And the Manitoba Métis who had come to pledge their allegiance—where were they now? Where were his own brothers, or Ambroise Lépine, and André Nault, who had three sons living here? The French Métis of Batoche might face Macdonald with only God as their protector.
Riel looked down to where Josette sat with William Jackson. The cut on her lip had healed, leaving a tight scar where Father Moulin had made a clumsy attempt at stitching it. Mary Magdalene beaten by her husband and the Christ could not save her. Riel regretted thinking of her as a spy and letting his resentment show in spurning her these past three months. She was angry, he could see, and he must woo her back again, for he needed her now more than ever.
William wore the ceinture fléchée the Ouellette girl had made him tied like a scarf around his neck and he muttered to himself—probably the penitentiary prayer that he had learned for his conversion. Riel was thankful for William’s help to draft the petition, but the man had changed, often quoting scripture to no one in particular, mixing Biblical verse with that of the romantic poets.
Riel tapped the telegram on the lectern. “We have our answer from Ottawa,” he said. “Sir John A. Macdonald invites you to register your river lot claims at the Dominion Lands Office in Prince Albert. There is to be a commission formed to count your heads.”
To his consternation, people turned in the pews, laughing, congratulating each other. “This is no cause for celebration. It is a delaying tactic, an insult.” He scanned the crowd. Did they not remember that Macdonald had done the same thing in Red River?
Charles Nolin stood near the door with Xavier Letendre and Roger Goulet at either elbow, as if under his influence. Nolin held his hands up. “Wait! Ottawa is at least forming a commission. It is due process and we must follow it.”
Riel considered telling the people that spies lived among them, but he marshalled his expression. When he and William had happened upon the priests’ meeting in St. Laurent, Father André had used a very specific word that Riel did not like: insanity. Was it coincidence? He did not think so. Nolin, finally sharing his secret. Gabriel had banned him from their meetings, but how long before the news that Riel had spent two years in an insane asylum got out to the people? He could say the priests were spreading lies, but the damage would be done and the Métis would lose faith in him.
He let his eyes pass over Nolin, thumbs now hooked defiantly in his vest pockets. Judas. “Macdonald has ignored our rights under the Manitoba Act,” Riel said. “Ignored our right to fair government. Ottawa will do the same thing here as it did in Red River. Do you remember it took them years to decide how to assess your claims there?” Too many of them still looked at him with baffled expressions.
Maxime Lépine stood in his pew. “I left for Batoche in ’76, when Ottawa issued an order-in-council—said we were locking up large and valuable tracts of land—seriously retarding the settlement of the country. Said we’d only get scrip from then on.”
With a grateful look to him, Riel said, “Macdonald ensured money scrip would be the only way to settle your land claims. A dollar an acre and speculators lurking at the Dominion Lands offices to buy it for less.” Now he could see the light of recall in his people’s eyes. He made the mistake of looking in Nolin’s direction, only to find him holding up his hands again.
“You executed Thomas Scott,” Nolin said. “Macdonald punished us by stealing away every right we had in Red River.” He looked around like a politician, registering the impact of his words. “We lost our lands in Manitoba, and we will surely lose them here.”
Thomas Scott again. It would always be Thomas Scott. But the crowd shifted, as if considering Nolin’s words. “You were there when they brought in Norbert Parisien,” Riel said, “murdered by Scott himself.” The people were wide-eyed, some of them too young to remember, others had forgotten the details. To win them back, Riel pressed on. “What you have built here is beautiful. Sons farming beside their fathers, beside their brothers. Who is ready to crouch and submit? To sell your lands and community for nothing to speculators?”
Philippe Gariépy stood in his pew. “I did it in Red River. I will not here!”
Riel paused for a moment, allowing the people to turn to each other and quietly share their fears. With a finger pointed at Nolin, he said, “This man resists me in hopes he will be rewarded by government agents.” He waited as the disquiet escalated. “And so, the Church! Father André has written his cronies in Ottawa, begging them to remove me. How do I know this? Just as Judas was paid by the priests to betray Christ, André offered me money, a bribe for me to leave you.” The crowd erupted in anger, and he exchanged a glance with Gabriel. “Perhaps he is right and I should leave.”
Again, there was chaos, calls of “Stay, stay!”
Riel looked around, meeting outraged stares. “What if Macdonald ignores the petition only because he still wants me dead?” There was more emphatic dissent and he took a deep breath, filling his lungs.
“They cannot make me leave. For I am as David who fled from King Saul into the wilderness. God has made a covenant with me. My kingdom is forever established in the North-West.”
The crowd hushed, faces turned up to him with reverence. If this were his church, he would bid each of them to come forth; he would take up the bread, the cup and offer it to them. This is my body, this is my blood … Then he noticed Josette looking up at him, her eyes like those of some wrathful temptress. Almost beseeching, daring: tell them your new ch
urch will head this kingdom, tell them.
“These are rash words, Louis,” said Nolin. “The Dominion will bring men to fight us.”
Riel glared down at him. “We have God on our side. If Macdonald wishes to remove the prophet from his place at the head of his people, let him come.”
The crowd erupted in cheers and Nolin patted the air with his hands to quiet them. “The feast of St. Joseph comes soon. If you wish to fight for the love of God, I propose we hold a novena—after nine days of prayerful reflection, the people will think more favourably upon your plan.”
“The time for prayer is finished,” Gabriel said. “We vote for action.”
Riel was dismayed when the crowd’s excitement grew at the promise of a religious festival. To refuse it would make him seem vindictive. He wanted to go straight to Nolin and wring his neck.
“Nine days is too long.” As soon as Riel had said the words, it occurred to him that hundreds of Métis would come in to pray, and he smiled to himself. “A novena—yes,” he said, avoiding Gabriel’s angry look. He would speak to him later, and in nine days they would both watch the smug look on Nolin’s face turn to disbelief when he understood that they meant to use the Feast of St. Joseph as a method of recruitment. And to finally tell the Métis why he had come.
the world will
know
Under a waning winter sun, Lawrence Clarke came up from Qu’Appelle in the south and passed along the Carlton Trail through Batoche. It was the kind of frigid March day he’d grown accustomed to in this country—oppressive grey and a chill damp that crept in at the joints.
Over the collar of his lynx coat, he surveyed the ramshackle buildings that made up what they called a village, if four stores, a black-smithy, and a saloon could be considered such. It looked prosperous enough in summer with the trees in leaf, but in winter it was no more than a ghost town. A few half-breeds milled about in front of the blacksmith’s on what represented a street—packed snow mixed with frozen mud—but Garnot’s saloon was closed up tight. One of their squaws came out of Fisher’s store, a bundle of cloth under her arm. He asked her where everyone had gone.
“The Feast of St. Joseph, on the Jolie Prairie.”
He turned his horse to Fisher’s Crossing. Just when he needed someone close to Riel, they were busy honouring one of their dead Catholic saints. It bothered him that Macdonald had sent an answer to the breeds: register your river lots! It was a political move, useless, as Riel would surely know, but it might give him time to bring the Indians on side. Clarke had an incendiary rumour to share, false, yet enough to ensure that Riel’s famous temper was roused to action.
His horse stepped out onto the frozen river, following a packed snow trail used by those following the Carlton Trail between Duck Lake and Batoche. Three riders emerged from the trees on the far bank. Clarke studied the men and their fur-lined moccasins, rough woollen coats. Scouts by the look of them. The two parties met in the middle of the river, and after customary greetings, Clarke asked, “Where is everyone? What’s happening?”
“We hoped you’d tell us something,” Michel Dumas said with a frown. “You met with the men in Ottawa.”
Clarke smiled. “There is talk in Qu’Appelle that since Riel received the telegram from Macdonald, he’s held meetings every night—riling up the Indians.”
Dumas exchanged a look with his men. “You hear wrong, mon ami. Riel is staying peacefully with us at Batoche. What is happening?”
“Plenty,” replied Clarke. He could almost feel the railway feeder contract in his hand. “Police are mustering at Humboldt. I saw them with my own eyes.”
“You speak of the police that went into Fort Carlton,” said one of the scouts.
Clarke laughed. Not one gopher moved across the prairie that Gabriel Dumont and his scouts did not know about. “That was only Crozier moving a few men. I’m talking about Commissioner Irvine and five hundred of his police.” He paused, enjoying the looks on their faces. “They’ll be here in two days to arrest Riel and Dumont.”
Dumas immediately spurred his horse. Without so much as a fare-thee-well, the others followed, trotting their horses across the river and up the trail toward the village. Clarke smiled to himself. Riel would hear this news within minutes. In case they decided to shoot the messenger, he urged his own mount in the other direction. As his horse scrambled up the west bank, Clarke thought of the moment when he’d walked into the office of the most powerful man in the Dominion. The prime minister had welcomed him with hand outstretched, impatient to hear from someone fresh from the half-breeds. Also in the office were some of his ministers and business cronies—men who had a vested interest in completing the Canadian Pacific Railway. When Macdonald had finished reading Riel’s petition, he sighed deeply and rubbed his eyes.
“Riel demands a province with its own government,” he said with a chuckle. “A lot of breeds running an agriculturally valuable twelve million acres.” He threw the petition on his desk. “A rough band of them sitting in the House.”
David McPherson, Minister of the Interior, picked up the petition. “White settlers in Prince Albert have signed it.”
Macdonald stood and walked to the window, hands in his pant pockets. “Aye, but it’s by Riel’s hand sure enough.”
Clarke relished the memory. He had expected Macdonald to rage with anger that Riel had been cocky enough to make such demands. Instead, he seemed almost pleased to have the petition finally in his hands.
“Riel has a temper,” Clarke had ventured, testing his influence. “If he gets the Indians riled …”
But Macdonald did not respond, only stood looking out over the Rideau Canal. The men in the room seemed to take this in stride, talking amongst themselves as if the prime minister weren’t present.
“How to send troops?” asked the minister of militia.
Cornelius Van Horne, who had been sprawled on a settee near the door, got up and sauntered into the middle of the room, a cigar held to his nose. He was the man who had managed the building of Macdonald’s railroad before they’d run out of money to finish it. “What is this Batoche in miles?” he asked, lighting the cigar. “I would think a thousand at least.” He took a long pull and blew a mouthful of smoke to the ceiling. “Can you see the headlines? Savage Indians and half-breeds threaten the North-West. Grit opposition endangers Dominion by refusing loan to finish railway. Volunteer troops struggle valiantly to put down savage rebellion.”
The meeting had gone on for hours, with Van Horne standing over a map of the unfinished railway sections. “A few gaps in the line here and there—that’ll pose a problem,” he’d said, leaning his fists on the desk. “But we can get a couple thousand troops out there in ten days, eleven at a stretch.”
Clarke had listened with fascination. He had missed his calling, for the halls of power in Ottawa were infinitely more interesting than dealing with dirty Indians and ignorant half-breeds in the far North-West.
His horse found the trail, and when he flicked the reins, it leaped forward. He was anxious to get safely to Fort Carlton by nightfall. This territory would soon be crawling with half-breeds, with their guns loaded for bear.
feast of the
novena
In the centre of the Jolie Prairie, men circled an ox with spears and war axes. The animal stood with its four hooves planted in the packed snow, eyes rolling, and breath coming in defeated huffs. Josette was among a group of women who watched as Damase Carrière threw the first spear and struck the ox in the neck. It toppled and was hit by another and another in quick succession, in an old Biblical ritual meant to remind them how God had sacrificed his only son for their souls.
After the ox fell, the women pulled knives from their skirts and set to work. Josette knelt in the snow at its rump, first skinning the hide then slicing at the still-warm flesh, her coat sleeves stained with blood. In less than an hour, the animal had been gutted, the hide saved for curing, and large joints of meat hewn off, destined for a spit that had bee
n built over the fire.
Josette wiped her hands and knife on the snow and searched for the familiar figure of William Jackson. He stood near a sleigh, exhausted and red-eyed, for he had been up all night praying before his baptism. Despite her estrangement from Riel, she had been moved during the ceremony earlier, watching him act as William’s godfather and choosing his new Catholic name: Honoré Joseph Jaxon.
Hundreds of Métis from all over the South Branch had convened for the Feast of St. Joseph and the end of the nine-day novena. Norbert was still absent almost three months after attacking her. Gone north, his relations said. Josette hoped he would never return. Her eyes went to Gabriel, who was speaking to a crowd of men. When Riel had gathered them in the church to share Ottawa’s answer to the petition, Josette had watched Gabriel standing at his side. That he’d brought le Petit into a house of worship had sent her a strong message: he would follow Riel regardless of anything he might do or say. Last summer among the birch trees, she had laid out her fear to him: Riel will make us suffer. I will not let him fail, Gabriel had told her, confident in his leader. Events had spiralled out of his control, and she would no longer hold him to a promise he could not keep. He was the only one to think that Norbert would be in a punishing mood after losing the dog race, following them to save her from rape or death.
The women tended the roasting meat and put bannock pans to the fire. Father Moulin stood among them with Father Fourmond. Moulin sidled up to Josette and nodded his head toward Riel.
“You would agree he has been acting prideful, non?” When she did not reply, he went on. “Does your Spinoza not say that extreme pride indicates infirmity of spirit?”
