by Maia Caron
His eyes focused on a large white skull that was embedded in the creek bank, not ten yards away. Years ago, a buffalo had come here to die. A bullet, either Middleton’s or Métis, had pierced the skull’s planed forehead. Gabriel looked away. To find such a thing seemed a bad omen. After a moment, it occurred to him that someone could use the bullet, and he crawled over on his elbows. He tried to work it free from the bone, but it was in too deep, and he gave up, his head pounding from the effort. From this angle, he could see up through the trees to the north coulee, and a multi-coloured image came to his addled brain—black, white, grey, piebald. He sat up quickly. His heart almost stopped when it came to him that he was looking at the dead and bloodied bodies of their horses.
He prayed that his own horse had not run up to find the others and been killed. She was a good mare that had been with him for years. If Middleton sent soldiers down in numbers, how would they escape? The sleet ended as quickly as it began and a thick fog rolled into the coulee, tracking the ground like a snake. He struggled to get himself together, but when he closed his eyes, Josette swam into his inner vision, how she had looked coming into the saloon yesterday, a shawl pulled around her thin shoulders, and carrying the medicine tea.
Count coup, like the ancestors.
It seemed like a lifetime ago. And Madeleine—jealous for no reason. His wife with her hoarse voice, always coughing, yelling at him to stay home. He shut his eyes tighter.
She is ill—ill with the lung disease. How did you not notice?
Another cannon had been drawn to the edge of the bluff, and Madame Tourond’s house was hit up on the plain behind them. Her rooster crowed once then fell silent. The Métis who’d taken refuge there ran out, some crawling away on all fours through the back field. Gabriel sprang up and found a cow trail, not caring if he was exposed. He went down on one knee and drew a bead on the gunner, dispatching him with a single shot, leaving the horses rearing in terror in the gun carriage harnesses.
“I will not be like you, Anglais,” he whispered as another gunner come up from the ranks to replace the one he had hit, “and kill a good horse when I can kill a man.”
James Short had come up the creek bed and thrown himself behind a large boulder. Taking off his hat, he placed it on top of the rock and pressed himself to the ground behind a screen of bush. As shots rained down on his hat, Short took aim at the cannon operators as coolly if he were sighting buffalo. Pierre Laverdure joined him and managed to nail one of them, blowing the top of his head off. Gabriel took heart when one after another of the soldiers were hit—he counted at least a dozen down.
“Don’t expose yourselves too much,” he shouted to Short and Laverdure, but they took no heed and kept firing.
An officer in a grand uniform had appeared on the bluff, riding his horse back and forth, his arm raised and shouting commands. With the realization that this was General Middleton himself, Gabriel took careful aim, but was too far away and missed. But it gave him pleasure to see the old general look upset to find so many of his men wounded or dead. Gabriel began to think of retreating toward Tourond’s house, when there was a sudden crack of a sniper’s rifle. He turned to see his nephew St. Pierre Parenteau fall straight back, blood pouring from a hole just under his eye. His arms had caught in the willow bushes and he was held fast, suspended like a bird in flight. Men in the pits made themselves smaller, afraid of exposing one inch of their bodies to this skilled a marksman. Gabriel ducked behind a boulder, the image of his nephew’s ruined face a nightmare vision in his head.
Maxime Lépine chose this moment to walk out of the bush near the creek as if he were in Batoche village, not visiting rifle pits to pray with the men. His old muzzleloader dangled from one hand, and in the other he held the Christ figure that Riel had given him.
“Stay down,” Gabriel shouted.
Maxime looked dazed, in a kind of rapture. “Say the rosary,” he said, turning his head to men in the pits on either side of him. “We have a religion that is losing us—let us ask for the grace of a perfect contrition so that we will be saved.”
Someone said, “Save yourself!”
Maxime began to head toward the trail. Gabriel yelled at him again to stay down, but he did not hear. A shell was launched from the ridge and exploded behind him. He disappeared in a spray of blown mud. Gabriel was sure that they’d lost one of the best men in the South Branch, but Lépine reappeared without a scratch.
The cannon was rolled away again and in the impending silence, Gabriel stared up at the ridge, avoiding the sight of his nephew’s bloody face. Sorrow. Perfect contrition. Madeleine often prayed for such a thing. And why? Out of fear of punishment from God. The Métis in this ravine would not be saved by repentance or shame.
Middleton had also pulled back his sniper from the ridge. Why didn’t he order a large company to charge and rout them out? It was either too muddy now or he was discouraged to see so many of his soldiers wounded or dead. The old man respected the fighters he was up against and would wait for the other half of his army to arrive.
Gabriel was cold, colder than he had ever been on the winter hunts. To count coup with honour, one must take the enemy by surprise, face death, deliver an insulting blow. And live to tell the tale. The Métis were trapped like buffalo in a pound and had very little time to escape unharmed. Riel was in Batoche, praying, making medicine as Sitting Bull had for his warriors at the Little Bighorn.
Did he not hear the guns?
and the people
stood beholding
On mission ridge at the bluff above the river, Josette stood with a scattered group of women and some of the men who had come back with Riel. It had just rained and they were soaked through, yet remained there, compelled by the distant booming of cannon fire twenty miles to the south. And by the spectacle of their leader, who knelt before them in the damp new grass.
“God, I beg You,” Riel prayed, “for the love of Jesus Christ, in the name of Your Immaculate Virgin, in the name of Your Saint Joseph, keep Middleton’s cannon broken in three. Separate the carriage and barrel—separate them forever.”
Josette watched him with a hollow feeling in her stomach. Riel’s arms were outstretched as Christ’s had been on the cross, hands turned upward in solicitation. She shifted her eyes to Madeleine standing behind him, who met her look with a pitiless gaze. The question seemed to be on her lips, too.
Why has he not gone back to the fight?
Last night Josette had watched from her porch as hundreds of Métis led by Gabriel and Riel had passed, riding south to ambush Middleton. Then, an hour later, Riel had ridden back in the opposite direction with fifty men. He told her that police had been spotted on the trail from Prince Albert and asked if she would come up with him to help encourage the people, who were losing faith in his leadership. She had agreed, only because Gabriel was out there, facing Middleton and his soldiers with less firepower than he’d planned. Shortly after they had arrived, the rumour that police were on their way had proved unfounded. Yet Riel thought himself more valuable here than at the fight.
Riel had opened his eyes to regard them. “As Moses watched the Israelites and Amalekites do battle,” he said, pausing for their murmurs of approval, “I will kneel on this bluff with the staff of God in my hand.”
The ground beneath them seemed to shake with another thump of the distant guns. Josette envisioned Gabriel hit and lying mortally wounded. She’d heard that after the Little Bighorn battle, the Sioux women had gone up the hill with clubs to dispatch the dying American soldiers, crushing their heads and meting out punishment for the deaths of their men. Her hands itched for such a club and the opportunity to use it. But fifty men had come back with Riel and did not seem to share the same impulse. Gabriel’s younger brother Édouard was there, looking agitated, and Pierre Parenteau, chairman of the council, who was too old to fight.
She caught Pierre’s eye. Send the men south, she said in one look, save Gabriel. He glanced away toward Madeleine, whose he
ad was bowed, her body in the black dress so rigid, she seemed as though she were witnessing a funeral rather than a hopeful entreaty to God. Josette struggled for composure. The wives of men who fought with Gabriel were grouped together, watching those around Riel too closely, almost waiting for someone to speak against this madness. But if she did, if Madeleine or Pierre said anything, the wives might lose faith in Riel and wait for their men to return from the battle, gather their possessions and be gone. Gabriel would be left with an army of stragglers.
She did not want to lose him. Not now.
Something had begun last summer in the birch forest, escalating over the past few months when she often awoke from dreams of him after he had rescued her from Norbert. How he had stood on the porch before Duck Lake, asking if she would open her heart again to Riel. And his face when he had turned from the pool table in his saloon to find her there. “Kiya,” You.
Remembering the look in his eyes when he had said it put her into a mute panic. You could mean so many things. A challenge or claim, even an appeal. Or simply a statement when nothing else could be said. Because it was impossible.
She stole a glance at Riel and saw that he had held his arms out for so long, his muscles had begun to shake. He looked meaningfully at Édouard and Pierre. “As Aaron and Hur held up Moses’ arms during the battle with the Amalekites, assist your leader’s arms and show your faith in his power.” He nodded as Édouard came tentatively to his side. “My hand grows heavy, God—hold it up as you hold the Métis’ hands steady on their rifles, their hearts steady on the field.”
There was movement up near the rectory, and Josette could see Marguerite Caron, the wife of Jean Caron senior and the sister of Michel Dumas, with her extended brood of children. The Carons had the first farm south of the church. Her husband and her three oldest boys were at the fight with Gabriel. She was one of the stalwart and pious Métis women who had been cooking for the men, despite being eight months pregnant with her ninth child. Marguerite had spied the crowd on the bluff and she headed that way, curious to see what was happening.
She approached as Riel began to relate another vision and stood with hands on her hips, regarding him with disapproval. “What are you doing here when our men are fighting?”
“Asking God to help Gabriel.”
There was an increase in rifle shots from the direction of Tourond’s Coulee. “Do you have news?” Marguerite demanded. “They aren’t all dead since we can hear them firing. Aren’t you going to see?”
A rider had appeared on the crest of the hill, and left the trail, running his horse straight toward them through the prairie grass. As he came closer, they saw it was Basile Primeau, who did not slow until he was almost upon them. He reined up his mount and gasped out to Riel, “Gabriel sent me for reinforcements.”
Josette drew a long breath. At least he was still alive.
“Send them men,” said Marguerite, “and ammunition.”
Riel looked at Josette for help, but she avoided his eyes and silently applauded Marguerite’s courage in going against Riel. If anyone could get away with confronting him without harming Gabriel’s efforts, it was one of the Batoche matriarchs.
He got up off his knees. “Gigitte,” he said, using her nickname, “pray the rosary—”
Marguerite shook her head. “This is no time for Paters and Aves. Why aren’t you going to see?” She stared meaningfully at Édouard and Pierre. “What are you all doing here? A gang who passes their time looking around.” She nudged Gabriel’s brother. “You would do better to go yelling on the other side—you would get strength.”
Riel jumped at a sudden pounding of cannon from the south. “Gigitte,” he said. “Don’t get angry without reason—come with me to my church and pray.”
“I am not angry without reason. And I don’t want to pray.” She glared at Édouard. “You were more ready to charge ahead and loot stores than going to help our people that are in risk there.” She regarded the assembled crowd. “If you don’t want to go, tell me, I will go to see if they are alive. Yes or no?”
Madeleine stepped forward, as did Josette and a dozen other women. “We will go in our wagons,” Madeleine said, “and take supplies.”
Exasperated, Pierre said, “Is the battle here or there? Go home, I will go see, me.”
we whipped them
Gabriel opened his eyes in a cloud of pain and delirium. A single candle burned at his bedside. He had a vague memory of Madeleine leaning over him to peel the bloodied cloth from his head, change the poultice, and dribble medicine tea down his throat. After hours spent cold and shivering in the creek bed, he was now consumed by fever. Every muscle in his body ached, but the pain in his head—it almost made him want to pray.
He heard Madeleine’s voice in the hall. “Men on the buffalo hunts have died of wounds less than this.” Disoriented, he was convinced that Isidore was there and Madeleine prevented him from entering. Her murmured voice again, low with disapproval. “You are rested, I see.”
And Isidore, answering. “I must get his report.”
“He’s asleep. It can wait until tomorrow.”
Isidore spoke louder now. “Non, it cannot.”
Gabriel lifted his head, sure that he’d glimpsed a figure at the door—a shadowy form that stood there, watching him.
“Brother,” he called out before falling back.
It was Riel who came into the room and looked down at him, the big Stetson hat on his head. “I have been told what happened, but I want to hear it from you.”
“We whipped them and got four rifles …” Gabriel broke off when an agonizing pain hit his head like a hammer.
“God was on our side.” Riel removed his hat and crossed himself before sitting on the bed. “How many dead, and wounded?”
“Didn’t you see the bodies that came in the wagons?” Gabriel dug a fist into his thigh to stop himself from groaning. “Michel Desjarlais shot in the head just before your men came—the blood poured out. He screamed all the way back.” Gabriel searched his confused mind for the names of the seven dead and twelve wounded, including St. Pierre and Joseph Vermette, more relations he had lost that day.
Had they whipped them? It was an ugly fight. The Anglais soldiers, desperate to take them, and the Métis saved only by the good ground. But other battles had been won by position. Gabriel had already begun to think of the land between Batoche and Tourond’s Coulee, deeper ravines and dense copses of trees, where he would plan other, better ambushes.
“I would like to know if anyone prayed the rosary,” Riel said, looking down at his hat.
Gabriel gazed at the ceiling. “Maxime Lépine went about with the Christ you gave him … asked for the grace of perfect contrition to be saved.” Riel bowed his head, muttering a prayer and Gabriel added, “While you are talking to God, ask Him to keep the men from deserting.”
“Exactly as it was during the last days in Red River,” Riel said in a monotone. “Men in my council lost their courage and disappeared one by one. First it is Charles Nolin and then Albert Monkman.”
“Monkman?”
“He was caught escaping south. I had him arrested.”
Gabriel looked at Riel from between half-closed lids. Monkman had commanded the men on the west side of the river. His desertion was a low blow. “Each man for himself,” he said, “as it was when we ran the buffalo, non?”
“We must keep men in Batoche where we can see them,” Riel said stubbornly. “Bring their families too. We’ll issue a proclamation that anyone who deserts will be shot.”
Gabriel lifted a hand in protest. “We must hit les Anglais—hit them in the bunch as they lick their wounds”
“They won’t march to Batoche tomorrow.”
The left side of Riel’s face was illuminated by the candle flame. Gabriel tried to read his expression, but the act of focusing his eyes shot pain through his head. Not only had he taken on the job of defending the Métis against Middleton, he also found himself struggling to conv
ince everyone to remain loyal to Riel. He had never worked this hard at anything in his life.
“What kind of war are you fighting?” he asked Riel.
“There will be no more ambushes.”
Gabriel could feel the medicine tea take effect; his heart beat slower now, pain easing away. He opened his mouth and said with effort. “We must ambush Middleton … before he comes …” But he drifted, dimly aware that Riel had taken his hand. The herbs Madeleine had given him sent his spirit out of the room and the house, over his lands and the river, in a haze of euphoria.
And Riel’s words floating after him, “There will be no more blood spilled on the sacred soil of the Métis.”
consumption
At dawn, two days after the battle, Josette stood on the porch of her house and watched Gabriel ride north to Batoche. He had been in bed for days with a fever, and she almost expected him to drop from the saddle. When he had been brought in from the fight, she had taken down more willow tea and birch bark that she had steamed and softened for making bandages. Madeleine had refused her offer to help, saying that she had just thrown out Riel and nobody else could see her husband.
Gabriel should not be exerting himself, but he was Riel’s war chief. Who else would organize the Métis and fortify Batoche against an invasion? Although he did not look up at her house, some part of her thrilled to see his stalwart figure ride away.
Métis scouts had reported that Middleton was still encamped near Tourond’s Coulee burying ten of his dead and operating a field hospital for over fifty wounded. Already, soldiers seeking revenge had looted and burned Métis houses in that area, and it was only a matter of time before the army regrouped and marched north on the Humboldt Trail. Riel had issued an order for all families within thirty miles of Batoche “to move in without distinction.”
Josette turned and went into the house. Norbert had been sent scouting, so it was left to her and the children to move anything they did not want to lose to les Anglais. All of them were helping except for young Wahsis, who stood in the doorway of the backroom, clutching the blanket he’d had since he was a bibi.
