by Maia Caron
“Of course. He does not love the priests for working against us, and his heart is on war.”
War. Then it had come to that. Gabriel had visited Métis communities for hundreds of miles, ensuring Riel would have support in the event of rebellion. All of this had been sparked by Lawrence Clarke’s claim that five hundred police were coming to arrest them. Métis scouts had been sent south, but not one police had left Qu’Appelle, much less five hundred.
No one in Batoche had remarked on why Clarke had spread a vicious rumour. There had been more consternation over Riel’s new church and the name he had chosen for the members of his provisional government. Exovedate. Some of the councillors’ wives had gossiped about the meaning of this Latin word, annoyed that Riel considered their men “sheep that had left the herd.”
“The Old Crows,” she said, trying to lighten the mood, “will die before allowing a Saturday Sabbath.”
Honoré smiled, but a weak laugh died in his throat at the sound of footsteps in the hall. Riel stepped into the room, taking off his hat. “Ah, you’ve come to pray.” He looked around with an admiring glance and knelt in front of the altar, beckoning for them to join him.
Honoré hesitated and turned slightly, as if ready to run, but in a moment, he sank slowly to his knees. Josette could not move or even look at Riel. Months had passed with no word between them, and now he acted as if all was well.
Riel crossed himself and fixed his eyes on the Blessed Virgin. “Mary Immaculate, Divine Mother,” he prayed, “hasten to make everyone see, through the almighty grace of Jesus Christ, that God has sent me to redeem the honour of His people, to redeem the glory of the true faith. Make Superintendent Crozier surrender Fort Carlton to us. Change the obstinate mind of Moise Ouellette. In your mercy, make him freely and gracefully acknowledge that it is permissible to leave the Roman Church.” He paused and waited for Honoré to finish a coughing fit. “May your power send the Indians quickly to us. Let them arrive very soon, provided with good weapons and a large supply of ammunition. Amen.”
Incredibly, Riel reached up and found Josette’s hand, tugged at it gently, as if encouraging her to kneel beside him. She resisted and he let it go. Did he think that she would so quickly trust him again? It was a travesty to think that his God would listen intently to all of these worries and work to grant his wishes.
He opened his eyes and looked up at her. “The council has agreed to send two emissaries to Big Bear,” he said. “Ready yourself to leave with them tomorrow morning for Frog Lake with a letter for your grandfather.”
“We will take it,” Honoré said, his eyes intense. “Josette and I together.”
Riel gave him a hard look. “You can sanctify the chapel on the west side of the river with your prayers.” With a brief glance at Josette, Honoré scrambled to his feet and hurried out. She started to follow, fearing that he would cross the river and keep on going. She would never see him again.
Riel got up off his knees. “Why are you here, if not to help me?”
She stopped and let out the breath she’d been holding. “I am here wondering why I do not have a place among your exiled sheep,” she said, turning to look at him. “Is it because I’m a spy? Or because I am a woman?”
He was careful not to meet her eyes. “I was mistaken,” he said. “Honoré said you were heartbroken.”
She stood in the centre of the room, her face hot. “You read my poem in front of everyone.” She gestured to her lip. “And this because of it.”
“The Spirit of God tells me you still have a role in this mission. He has told me the miracle I need to show the Métis I am a prophet is to bring the Indians to my side.”
“No,” she said. “What more must I do?” She thrust her arms out. “Give you my blood?”
He breathed in audibly, as if suffering her presence. “Scouts came in last night. Big Bear has finally been forced by his band to move on his reserve.”
“He wants them to live.”
“You are also his relation. Why does he not think of your right to live here, free on your own lands?”
She wanted to finally tell him that she had not a drop of Big Bear’s blood in her veins, but something stopped her. After all Riel had done, did she still fear his judgement? “Mosom will not listen. You said it yourself.”
Riel made for the door, as though he could no longer stand to be opposed. He turned in the hallway. “Ride north and I will know I was right in placing my trust in you.” Josette stood still, a flush of indignation rising to her throat. How could he speak of trust after betraying her? He must have thought that she was considering the request, for in a moment he added, “Convince Big Bear and his warriors to return with you to Batoche.”
He left as quickly as he had come and Josette went to the window then paced back toward the altar, her skirts dragging at the hem. Despite Gabriel’s involvement, Riel took an impossible line, threatening to exterminate the police at Fort Carlton and sending her north at a time of war. She heard her grandfather’s voice, The spirit is not good with him. If he hadn’t supported Riel by now, he never would.
With purpose now, she put her fingers to the Bishop Bourget letter and turned it over. She read, “You have a mission, which you will have to accomplish in all respects,” and dropped it as if she’d been burned.
god’s ear
Hours before dawn, Josette bent over Honoré Jaxon, slumped on her kitchen floor. Earlier, she had come out to put more wood in the stove and was surprised by a noise on the porch. She found him sitting on the steps, gibbering like a madman. He told her that he had just walked from Batoche where he had been praying with Riel.
Josette had exclaimed at the sight of Honoré’s bare feet, blue with cold. “You walked eight miles without moccasins? In the snow?”
She had brought him inside, her hair still unbound around her shoulders, and Honoré raised a hand to touch it, whispering, “The virgin bathed the feet of the lord with her own tears when he came off the cross—dried them with her hair.” As his feet began to thaw near the fire, he moaned in pain. She had wrapped him in blankets, praying he would not wake Norbert and the children, and prepared a decoction of plantain leaves on the stove.
When she made him drink the tea, Honoré gripped her hand. “We must go to your grandfather. I did not tell you … a secret. I am the son of a Virginia father and French Indian mother—born in the Montana Territory.”
“You are from the east,” she said, keeping her voice low. “Born a Methodist, you told me yourself.”
“No, no I was taken by my uncle, my uncle who hunted buffalo with the Métis in Montana … taken back to the east when just a child.”
She looked away, shaken at his quick descent into madness.
“Listen,” he said, pulling her close. “Whatever happens, remember Riel dances on the edge of the universe and has God’s ear. He sent me his thoughts last night—I could read his mind because he wanted me to. You and I are the only ones who understand him.”
His eyelids fluttered and he fell silent. She knew that he was wrong. Gabriel understood Riel more than any of them. Yesterday, he had stopped to see her before he left on a recruiting mission. She had gone out on the porch with him, while his men waited on their horses in the yard, and had caught his scent after days on the trail: the smell of sweat and horse and leather.
Although he had finally sought her out, he seemed uneasy.
“Norbert hasn’t touched you?” Gabriel searched her face, as though looking for proof.
“Namoyanitaw,” she said, there is nothing wrong.
“Maxime said Riel wanted to send you north. That you said no.”
“I’ve seen his letter,” she said, relieved to finally have Gabriel to herself. “This Bishop Bourget said Riel would have to accomplish the mission in all respects. You know he will die trying.”
“He prays to the spirit of God for guidance.” Gabriel raised his eyes to her. “I do not trust the spirit of God.”
His hands were
on the brim of his hat, rough and chapped from the cold, the fingernails pale, trimmed close with a knife, and oddly beautiful. “Riel suspected me of being a spy,” she said. “Father Moulin was right, he is losing his mind.”
“He believes God will protect us and he keeps things from me—what I need to know if we will win a war,” Gabriel said. “I need you to remain his disciple.”
She had absolved him of his promise. But she had closed her heart to Riel. Now Gabriel, the one man she admired, the only one to save her from Norbert, was asking her to become the Magdalene again. She glanced up. His steady gaze faltered as it had in the birch grove last summer, and she glimpsed him for a moment, unguarded and questioning. “The Métis would follow you,” she said, but he turned abruptly and put on his hat.
“I do not like Riel’s new church, either,” he said quietly. “This idea he has of being our saviour …” He shook his head. “Men are already running away. I can’t have you turn from him, too.” He went down the steps and got on his horse, spurring it into a full gallop, the other men following.
Josette checked the sleeping form of Honoré again and went to stoke the fire in the dark kitchen. Gabriel had made every effort to support Riel and now, with war imminent, the prophet would trust only his God to win it for them. Gabriel already faced Métis deserting. She had to help him.
She had just dipped a cup into the flour sack to make bannock when a voice said from behind her, “What is this?” Norbert had come out of the bedroom, tucking in his shirt. She explained how Honoré had been on the front steps, but Norbert walked slowly toward her, his eyes dark, a sign that one of his headaches was coming.
“I thought you went up to St. Laurent for Riel, but now I see it was for this worthless hound.” He raised his hand to her, but winced in pain and grabbed at his head.
She rushed to stoke the fire to make more of the medicine tea. There was only a dipperful of water left in the pail by the door, but she poured it into the pot and quickly added a handful of herbs. Norbert doubled over, crying out, and she led him to a chair at the table. His headaches varied in intensity. Some would linger at a low ebb for days. Others came like the first crack of thunder in a storm.
When the decoction had boiled, she poured it into a cup and set it in front of him. He sipped at it, eager for relief. Wahsis broke into a high-pitched cry, and she went back to see that her two youngest were fighting among the blankets. Cleophile had just pulled a dress over her nightshift.
“Look after your brothers,” Josette said.
Cleophile stared past her, sullen. “Who is in the kitchen?”
“A friend,” Josette said, “Honoré Jaxon.”
The girl’s face was closed as she reached for her apron. “The one who makes you come alive.”
Josette’s temper flared. “He is a friend who brings books and speaks to me like an equal—yes, that makes me come alive.” Cleophile would not look at her and Josette went on, relentless. “You are becoming an Old Crow.”
Cleophile had been tying her apron and stopped for a long moment before continuing with a resolute defiance that made Josette’s throat burn with shame. What kind of mother was only brought alive by books and the company of learned men? She went back to the kitchen and found Norbert drooling, eyes turned in his head. The empty cup had fallen to the floor. She ran to the stove. Leaves were stuck to the bottom of the pot. In her haste, she had added the same amount of herbs that she would have if she were making a full pot of the tea.
When she reached a hand toward him, he drew back, clawing at his hair. “It isn’t working.” He stood, sending his chair crashing against the wall and fell against the table, saliva bubbling at the corners of his mouth. The table skidded along the floor until it slammed against the stove and sent the pot clattering. She looked up to find all four of her children in the bedroom doorway.
“Go to the river and get water. He’s drunk too much of the medicine tea.”
Cleophile glanced at him, still bent over the table. She pulled a blanket close around her and went to the door. Lifting the bucket, she disappeared into the dark. Josette felt as if she were in a nightmare. Was everyone going mad? She enlisted Eulalie’s help in restraining Norbert to keep him from harming himself. When Cleophile did not return, Josette went down the trail, a shawl around her shoulders against the cold. The moon hung above the trees in the west, a mass of cloud scudding across its white face. Twenty feet out on the ice, Cleophile stood with the pail in her hand near the hole that her father had cut to draw their water.
Josette ventured out, the cold striking upward through her thin moccasins and into the bones of her feet. “What’s wrong,” she cried. “What is it?”
Cleophile’s eyes were fixed on the dim profile of the west bank. A far-off storm sent vivid lightning strikes across the sky, revealing her face. “Is he going to die?”
“Not if we get enough water into him.”
Cleophile handed her the empty pail, and Josette was astounded to see angry tears on her daughter’s face. “You are going to save him?” Cleophile’s voice went up at the end of the sentence, like an accusation. She rushed past her and climbed the bank, stumbling in the crusted mud and snow. A gust of wind blew her hair straight out behind her. She screamed something over her shoulder that sounded like, “Why don’t you just let him die?”
Josette’s shawl flew off and she snatched it back. Why didn’t she let him die? Give him more tea and it would all be over within minutes. She was stunned. Not because she hadn’t thought of this, but that her own daughter had.
the law of love
An hour before dawn broke in the east, Riel sat astride his buckskin mare and sipped at a can of milk that had been taken from the Duck Lake stores. A fire burned in front of Hillyard Mitchell’s establishment. Both Gabriel’s men and Indians from the area reserves milled about in the clearing. Lean Crow and his warriors were there, and the Crees from Muskeg Lake and One Arrow Reserve near Batoche. Little Ghost was painted up and bending over his gun to load it from a fresh box of cartridges. Various provisions were being examined and handed around—cans of beef and pork and other exotic items that only white settlers bought or traded.
Charles Nolin stood on Mitchell’s porch, hands in his coat pockets, watching all of this with disapproval. When he noticed Riel, he made a mock bow, “Here is our King David.” He gestured to a Métis, who had emerged with an armload of furs. “Your war booty, my liege.”
Conscious of men looking their way, Riel lifted his hand in benediction. “And the light shineth in the darkness; and the darkness comprehended it not.” He could not see Nolin’s expression, but imagined he had turned red with humiliation. “Keep a list of all items taken,” Riel added, giving him a job. “We are not thieves.” Nolin turned and went into the store, and Riel let himself feel some brief satisfaction. Nolin had initially resisted the cause, but after he’d signed an oath to support the council, he was elected its commissioner by unanimous vote. His Exovedes trusted Nolin’s history as leader in their community. Riel did not, yet even Judas had his role.
Riel made an attempt to count the men but soon gave up. He had sent Gabriel to Duck Lake with thirty Métis. Somehow that number had grown to over one hundred, and more were arriving. He had not slept all night, and a gnawing pain in his stomach had progressed to a burn that surged upward to his chest. He was unable to eat, yet hunger made it worse. It occurred to him that this was punishment from God for language he’d used in a letter sent to Superintendent Crozier, claiming the Métis were ready to wage a war of extermination if Fort Carlton was not handed over. Extermination. It was not a word he liked, but one that would get Macdonald’s attention.
To offset this warning, Riel had insisted on diplomacy. The council was to be guided by God’s commandments, and he had directed Nolin and Maxime Lépine to take the letter to Crozier, and in his presence, invoke the Law of Love.
Because I love my neighbour as myself, to prevent bloodshed and the war of extermination wh
ich threaten the country.
Riel pulled up his collar against the cold and silently prayed. Although he had made the threat, he was loath to carry it through. King David had sinned by waging war to subdue his enemies. David had gone to God for forgiveness with blood on his hands. But the sins of pride and lust for victory were punishable by death and the suffering of future generations. Only with sincere regret and fasting had David managed to repent. Riel would not make the same mistakes. He had laid his sins out before him.
Deliver me from bloodguiltiness, O God, thou God of my salvation.
At last night’s council meeting, Gabriel had been outlining his plan to take Fort Carlton with the help of the English half-breeds, when Thomas McKay, an emissary from them, appeared at the door.
“Those of us in Prince Albert will not take up arms against the government,” McKay had said in a voice so low and composed, it seemed a challenge. “We will remain neutral.”
Neutral. The word had struck Riel’s heart like an arrow and he rounded on McKay, accused the Anglais half-breeds of taking a bribe from Ottawa in the eleventh hour to keep them loyal. McKay had the temerity to laugh in his face, and Riel had lost all restraint.
“You don’t know what we’re after! It is blood, we want blood,” he had shouted. “Yet a traitor has no blood.” Riel picked up a spoon that was on the table and held it up. “There is not enough blood in your body to fill this spoon.”
It was Gabriel who finally threw McKay out and requested permission to ride for Duck Lake with thirty men. “We’ll take Mitchell’s store,” he said, “guard the trail if police come down from Carlton.”
Riel had acquiesced, but only if Gabriel did nothing rash. Still shaking with rage, Riel had gone to his chapel with Honoré, praying for guidance. The Spirit of God spoke to him, promised that word would come from Macdonald with a message: your claims will be settled, stand down.
