Song of Batoche

by Maia Caron

  He fished under the blanket for his rosary and prayed. “God, save the priests and nuns. Save your innocent children,” he whispered. “If you must take anyone, let it be Louis Riel.”

  a child

  At dawn on the fourth day, Gabriel climbed out of a rifle pit near the church and rubbed his eyes. He had tried to stay awake last night to prevent more men from deserting, but had finally succumbed to sleep in the early hours of the morning. He ignored a blazing headache as he gave orders for more men to the pits down near the ridge, sure that the first attack would come from there. Yesterday, he had resisted Middleton’s attempts to overrun them, but only because the old man had retreated in fear of losing soldiers. Three days he had held him off. Three. And God had yet to deliver Poundmaker and his one thousand braves.

  Napoléon Nault came running through the trees. “Les Anglais are marching up to the Jolie Prairie again—with the two cannon, and the Rababou gun.”

  Gabriel took off his hat and ran a hand over his face. Yesterday, he had lost ground around the cemetery. He refused to be drawn away again and risk the church and rectory. But if not enough men were in the pits along the Jolie Prairie, Middleton would take the village with his big guns.

  As the sun came over the trees and far bank of the river, he could see soldiers moving down toward the cemetery in a neat line. From what direction did the worst threat lie? Men were stirring in their pits, and he made a rough count, only to find that at least a dozen more had slipped away while he’d been asleep. Together with the ones manning the Jolie Prairie pits and those across the river, there were only sixty Métis left to fight the Anglais army.

  Another problem was ammunition. He was down to his last twelve cartridges, and other men had been picking up nails or rocks, whatever would fit into their musket barrels. Gabriel decided he was needed where the cannon and the general had gone. He took some of his best men and returned with Nault in time to throw himself into a pit and watch Middleton ride at the head of his mounted scouts on the Jolie Prairie.

  “Come closer,” he whispered, but the general reined in his horse just out of range.

  The old man took a pair of field glasses from his satchel. Every pit along the treeline was manned by Métis and Sioux Indians. Gabriel gave two short whistles, telling them to keep their heads down. When Middleton waved le Rababou into position, his horse trotted forward, and into range. Gabriel set his rifle on the log in front of the pit.

  Kill him now and end the war.

  But shooting from bush to open prairie was difficult. A full-on wind had come up and was blowing the tail of the general’s horse sideways. Gabriel sighted in. The headache impaired his vision, but he squeezed the trigger and was surprised when Middleton’s horse jumped—the shot had come close enough. He adjusted his aim. This time the bullet whizzed past the general’s shoulder. When his horse charged back, the Sioux whooped. Gabriel drew a bead on one of the mounted soldiers closer in range, and the man fell instantly out of his saddle, dead before he hit the ground. The Métis cheered but quickly ducked their heads under the edge of their rifle pits as le Rababou and both cannon shelled their positions.

  At that instant, all fire ceased and Gabriel raised his head. Middleton’s officers appeared to be in conflict over where to move le Rababou. Finally, it was taken one hundred yards north, jostling on its gun carriage. Instead of following, the general immediately steered his horse south at an angry trot while an officer sounded retreat. One man dead and Middleton was running.

  Gabriel turned and was brought up short by the sight of a horse approaching at full gallop from the village. One of the prisoners, William Astley, was astride Riel’s buckskin mare, a white handkerchief flying from his jacket. The horse’s hindquarters bunched to jump the line of pits. Thinking that Astley had escaped, Gabriel lifted his rifle, but Riel approached at a run, his hands held high.

  “He’s taking a note to Middleton.”

  The Sioux had also raised their guns, and Gabriel whistled to hold fire. Riel came into his pit. Everyone watched Astley chase after Middleton and hand him the letter. The general read it and spoke at length with him as he waved his arms about, obviously telling him they were low on ammunition, and other damning information.

  Gabriel was incensed. “What is in this note?”

  Riel hunched in the pit beside him, his eyes not leaving Astley and the general. With his shabby clothes and overgrown beard, he looked more like a poor farmer than a rebel leader. “Le Rababou killed one of White Cap’s girls in the village,” he said. “A child. I told Middleton if he continues to fire on the houses, killing women and children, I will massacre the prisoners.”

  Gabriel glanced down the line of men in the rifle pits on either side of him. They were uneasy. “It does not help them to see you sending letters to the English—one you have not told me about.” He watched Astley turn and point in the direction of the village. The general’s officers patted their coat pockets and soon a pencil was produced. Middleton bent over Riel’s paper and jotted a brief note.

  Isidore Dumas was now sitting on the edge of his pit. “Is it peace?”

  “Riel is only trying to save the women and children,” Gabriel said. Other men had a look of relief on their faces, as if they thought the battle was over. Some began to gather their blankets and glanced over their shoulders toward the village. After they had witnessed this spectacle, he would never get them back. Middleton’s trumpeter again blew his retreat song, and the soldiers marched away south. The Métis were climbing out of their pits, the Sioux muttering amongst themselves.

  Astley returned in a cloud of dust and Gabriel caught the reins on his horse. “What were you telling Middleton?”

  “I might have mentioned that Big Bear and Poundmaker were on their way,” Astley said brazenly. “Just to scare him.”

  Riel took the letter and read the general’s reply aloud, “We do not wish harm to come to your women and children. Place them together in one spot, and let me know where they are, and I will take care that no shot be fired in that direction. I trust in your honour that no men will be placed with them.”

  Astley, now full of his own importance, said, “I asked Middleton how you could safely surrender.”

  Gabriel raged forward, almost unseating Astley from the horse. “Riel will never surrender.”

  god is not here

  The sun was at its zenith when Josette went up with her children and Alexandre Dumont to Champagne’s farm. She had brought a dress for Virginie Tourond to replace the one the girl had bled through after giving birth to her baby. Families of the fighting men had sought shelter in abandoned houses north of the trail. Blankets littered the floor of Champagne’s front room, and his wife’s kitchen was cluttered with the detritus of many people living in one space.

  Josette had just helped Virginie into the dress, when the sudden report of three spaced sniper shots came from the Jolie Prairie, followed by the rattle of the Rababou gun and cannon fire that seemed alarmingly close. The chickens in Champagne’s fenced yard squawked at every loud bang and sputtering line of fire.

  The door was open to Cleophile and Alexandre out front, watching the younger ones, when a woman passed by on her way north, five of her children carrying their belongings. She stopped with news that a Sioux girl had been killed in front of Boyer’s store, and Riel had just sent one of the prisoners with a note to Middleton, threatening retribution. Josette ran back to the village, picturing Gabriel in the pits, desperate to keep the men from deserting.

  When she arrived, White Cap’s women were tearing at their hair in grief over the bloodied body of a young girl lying in the dirt. Firing had ceased on the Jolie Prairie, and Riel was returning from that direction, his face red and in a fit of anxiety.

  “Everyone in one place,” he shouted. “Women and children to the houses north of the trail.” A dozen fighters had followed him, and he rounded on them. “Go back! Didn’t you hear? The general trusts in my honour not to put you with the women and chil
dren.”

  The men hesitated, but did not turn to go, despite his orders. Riel took off his hat and paced in front of Garnot’s saloon, holding a piece of paper that he took care not to crumple. His wife stood near him with their children and exchanged a look with Josette.

  Riel scanned the assembled women and finally found Pierre Parenteau standing with his wife, Marie. “Get the council papers,” he said, and with a side glance at Alexandre Dumont. “Help him bury them on the riverbank.”

  Pierre headed toward Letendre’s where the council had been meeting. Madeleine stood in the doorway, holding a handkerchief to her mouth in an attempt to control a coughing fit. She moved aside to let Pierre and her son into the house but would not meet Josette’s eye and blatantly ignored Riel.

  William Astley rode up on Riel’s horse and waited a little way off, watching them.

  Riel had stopped pacing and took a small notebook from his pocket, no longer caring that the deserters had gathered their families and were already moving toward the north trail. He tore a page from the notebook, took out a pencil and began to write.

  Josette drew closer, as if circling a trapped animal. Gabriel had asked her not to speak against him, yet she had to know what he meant to reply to Middleton. But when she asked what he was writing, he glanced at her and away, his eyes dark and plagued by doubt. He seemed to float above his body, witness to disaster, a scene where God had failed to bring His miracle.

  He stared down, pencil paused over the note. “Humanité,” he muttered, then hurriedly finished the sentence and handed it to her. While he fumbled in his pocket for an envelope, Josette glanced down to read.

  General—Your prompt answer to my note shows that I was right mentioning to you the cause of humanity. We will gather our families in one place and as soon as it is done we will let you know. Louis “David” Riel.

  He whirled at a barrage of fire from the direction of the church and rectory.

  Astley had brought up Riel’s horse. “Your men are under attack,” he said to him. “What’s your reply to Middleton?”

  Shouts rose over the trees from the direction of the cemetery. English voices and cheers. Alexandre and Pierre Parenteau came out of Letendre’s clutching armfuls of council papers. Riel watched them run off in the direction of the riverbank, his expression unreadable. He turned to look north, as if Poundmaker might appear on the trail. His hands were shaking as he slid the note into the envelope. Josette watched him write something on the back.

  I do not like war, and if you do not retreat, and refuse an interview, the question remains the same concerning the prisoners.

  Astley took the note and rode away. Watching him leave, Josette shook her head and said to Riel, “The general will not retreat. He is winning.”

  They watched Astley make a mad dash across the south meadow, zigzagging among the ruined tents. His horse stepped into a hole, almost throwing him. Farther south, rifle shots were building in intensity on both sides. Riel stole a glance at her, eyes stark in his face. “The Lord will vindicate His people and have compassion on his servants,” he said, “when he sees that their power is gone and there is none remaining, bond or free.”

  Josette felt her face flush with anger. “If you are so sure our power is gone—surrender.”

  “You know the men I have,” he said. “I cannot go among them and tell them to stop firing.”

  Madeleine had recovered from her coughing fit and charged toward Riel. “Gabriel will not be taken prisoner or die in those pits.”

  A shell burst on the south meadow, sending clods of earth and fragments of tent canvas flying through the air. Riel closed his eyes. “My God, stop those people,” he said. “Crush them.”

  “God is not here,” shouted Josette. “Save your men by ending this now.”

  running away

  like rabbits

  In a pit behind the church, Gabriel stared in desperation toward the river bluff. While two cannon pounded shells at Métis snipers on the west bank, a long line of both red- and black-coated soldiers advanced toward him from the cemetery, shoulder to shoulder, bayonets fixed to the ends of their rifles.

  Beside him in the pit, old Joseph Ouellette was stuffing nails into the barrel of his ancient shotgun. “Mort à les Anglais,” he yelled, shooting as the line came into range. He whooped when one went down. The line faltered. A stretcher was sent to retrieve their man, but a desperate Métis from another pit shot at them. One of the officers charged forward with his sabre, howling a foreign battle cry. The column soon followed and Gabriel took hold of Joseph’s coat, trying to drag him out.

  “You go,” the old man said, throwing him off. “I want to kill another Englishman.”

  Astley had reappeared on Riel’s horse from the direction of the village. Gabriel lunged to stop him, but the prisoner veered his mount and galloped past, breaking out of the trees and heading south to find Middleton. Métis were running up from the pits flanking the cemetery. They’d seen Astley, and presumed that Riel had made a truce.

  Isidore Boyer cried, “It’s peace—peace,” but a bullet caught him and he fell, grabbing his shoulder. Pierre Henry went back to drag him away to the west as the soldiers overwhelmed the pits along the treeline. Ambroise Jobin had been shot through the chest and fell without a cry. A soldier bayoneted him with a triumphant shout, then pressed on again with the others. Gabriel broke into a run north, weaving in and out of the trees where some of the Sioux were still making a stand.

  “Get out,” he yelled. “Save yourselves.” In the woods, he caught up to his brother Édouard, Jean Caron junior, Pierre Henry, and two Trot-tier brothers running for their lives. They burst out of the trees and onto the south meadow. Within minutes they were back in the village, finding Riel there in front of Letendre’s store with Josette and Madeleine.

  “What are you still doing here?” When Gabriel turned, he could see the first flash of black- and red-coated soldiers in the far trees.

  Madeleine clung to him. “Give yourself up.”

  He shrugged her off. “Take Josette and the children—I’ll come for you after dark.”

  Riel laid a hand on his arm. “Escape with me.”

  “I will not leave the men. You go.”

  Uncertainty flashed across Riel’s face. His wife made the decision for him, handing him their son and starting away with Angélique in her arms. He followed close after her. Gabriel looked over his shoulder. Joseph Vandal and Donald Ross had appeared from the direction of the riverbank. Seeing the first line of soldiers emerge from the trees, Vandal discharged his old muzzleloader and reloaded it with enviable speed. Ross had a Winchester and fired round after round. When they were joined by two Tourond brothers, the soldiers flung themselves into the craters that their own shells had made in the earth, others crawling in after them, seeking cover.

  Gabriel turned to see Madeleine and Josette fleeing with her children up the trail toward Champagne’s farm. Where was Alexandre? Riel and his family had disappeared. Gabriel and the men sprinted for a copse of willow in the gully behind Garnot’s saloon. They threw themselves down into the bushes and watched an officer wearing a buckskin jacket lead his men into Letendre’s house. In a few moments, the officer leaned out of the second-floor window, yelling something to his soldiers. Gabriel sighted him but was too far away to get a clean shot. Vandal and Ross had come up around the side of the house. Ross aimed straight up, hitting the officer in the chest. The body fell back out of sight and immediately his men advanced, screaming in anger. They cornered Ross, shooting him a dozen times. Vandal tried to escape across the south meadow and took a bullet to the shoulder that spun him around.

  The men in the gully were loading their shotguns with rocks then frantically working with their powder horns and ramrods. Gabriel’s hand went in his pocket to check his own supply. Nine rounds.

  Make them count.

  Hundreds of soldiers came out of the trees and charged headlong through the south meadow, the Rababou gun bumping along
behind them on its horse carriage. By the time Gabriel had pressed his remaining bullets into the magazine, the gun operator positioned le Rababou and had the crank going, cutting down the Tourond brothers in his first pass. Three soldiers ran toward Champagne’s barn. Gabriel raised his gun and dispatched one of them and Édouard wounded another. The third ran back as fast as he’d come.

  Gabriel jumped out of the gully and crashed through the bush east of the Carlton Trail, where it intersected the old road to St. Laurent. He was acting on a hunch that Riel had not taken his family with Madeleine and Josette. Or had he run to the ferry, meaning to get across the river? Gabriel hesitated. Another volley of shots and battle cries came from the village. Turning to run back, he looked again and spotted Riel carrying his young son out of the bush beside the road about three hundred yards north. He still wore the Stetson he’d taken as booty at Walter & Baker’s store a month ago—the distinctive grey hat with the curved brim. Gabriel wouldn’t call Riel’s name, for fear that an enemy sniper might be near enough to take out the great rebel leader and his lieutenant.

  He ran as hard as he could, finally gaining on them. “Where are you going?”

  Riel stared around at Gabriel, then to the north, as though he were expecting someone. His face was pale, in a kind of languid shock. The top of one of his moccasins had been torn away, exposing his bare toes. “Who is guarding the road?”

  Gabriel was momentarily taken aback. “François Tourond.”

  Riel’s expression changed at the mention of this name. “The Tourond boys—are they …?”

  “I saw two of them fall to le Rababou.”

  Jean began to cry noiselessly in his father’s arms. Riel closed his eyes. “I will tell François to run for it.”