There was a long pause while they sized one another up. Then the Irishman came at Sundance, taking his time, fists weaving, shoulders hunched. Well now, thought Sundance, Hardesty fancies himself a boxer as well as a gentleman. A fist came straight at Sundance’s face and he turned it aside. While he was doing it, a left thumped him hard in the ribs. Sundance punched back with his left and missed. He followed with the left again, and this time it landed—not a hard, telling blow, but one that got inside the Irishman’s defense. Hardesty moved in, throwing rights and lefts but keeping the punches short so he would not be caught off balance. Sundance had one big advantage. His thick-soled but flexible north country moccasins gripped the frozen ground, while Hardesty’s heavy boots skidded.
A punch that seemed to come from nowhere rocked Sundance’s head. If he hadn’t jerked it aside, another would have landed in the same place. The Irishman bored in again and grunted with pain when he was stopped by a blow to the heart. Suddenly, Hardesty lowered his left and jabbed at Sundance’s belly. Even though he sidestepped some of the force, the Irishman’s hard fist made the halfbreed’s stomach muscles tense with pain.
Both men backed off and circled one another. The sweat on their shirts was beginning to freeze. So far, there had been no kicking. The Irishman would have to start it first. Sundance knew he would.
The first kick came after Sundance nearly toppled Hardesty with a right to the jaw. He braced his feet against the force of the punch and his arms waved as he tried to regain his balance. Sundance was moving in to deliver another right when Hardesty kicked at his knee. Had the kick landed, the kneecap would have been shattered by a heavy boot powered by a muscular leg.
After dodging around the Irishman kicked again. This time it dug into Sundance’s thigh. The whole leg felt as if it had been whacked with an ax handle. Hardesty followed the kick with a mad rush. Down and down he dived at Sundance’s belly, trying to knock him down in the snow. Sundance let himself go with the force of the rush, then he reached up and grabbed Hardesty by both arms, and threw himself flat on his back so that his feet came up at the same time. There was a wild shout as the Irishman was thrown ten feet over Sundance’s head. He landed with a crash with the wind knocked out of him and was still gasping when Sundance turned, jumped in the air, and landed with all his weight on the small of Hardesty’s back. Then, jumping to one side, the halfbreed kicked the Irishman in the side, and then did it again.
Hardesty screamed and tried to get a hold on Sundance’s kicking foot. He got a grip but lost it, and then he was kicked again with the other foot. The Irishman tried to roll away, but Sundance followed him with kicks. Finally, he lay on his back, holding up his hands, quivering with pain and anger.
It would have been easy for Sundance to kill him with a right kick to the temple, the weakest part of the skull. The Irishman’s hands were still grabbing at nothing when Sundance drew back for that last kick.
“You want more?” Sundance yelled, still thinking of the ambush at the cabin and the old man’s knife wound in his throat. “You want more? I’ll give you more. But you have to say what you want.”
“I’ve had enough,” Hardesty groaned. “No more.” He rolled away, and Sundance let him go, though he knew it wasn’t finished. No matter what happened, from now on Hardesty would never let it drop.
Hardesty stood up, holding his ribs and trying to smile. He had a smile like a rabid wolf. Dumont watched silently. Also smiling, Riel came forward. “Enough of this stupid brawling,” he said. “I want you two men to shake hands and say there is no hard feeling between you. Come on now, that is an order.”
Holding out his hand, Sundance said, “I have no hard feelings.” He was lying.
They shook hands.
“None here,” Hardesty said. He too was lying.
“Good! Good!” Louis Riel declared. “We will attack the day after tomorrow.”
Twelve
That same night, in the Parliament Buildings in Ottawa, lights were burning late. All day long, messengers from the telegraph office on the fourth floor had been running up and down the private stairs to the Prime Minister’s office. The guards outside the building had been doubled, and no one was allowed to enter or leave without a pass or in some instances, a complete search.
John A. Macdonald, Prime Minister of Canada, sat behind his desk. Passing his hand through a shock of graying hair, his deep-set eyes were pools of worry and fatigue. For days now, he had remained at his massive oak desk, reading reports from the North West, trying to sift the different advice given to him. Some advisors sneered at the Riel threat as being nothing more than the usual métis bragging. Others urged him to crush the métis without mercy.
Macdonald and his military aide, Colonel Carson, were smoking silently when another telegraph messenger knocked.
Macdonald took the message and said to Carson, “When will they stop coming? I wonder what this one says.”
50 MEN BELIEVED FENIANS CROSSED WYOMING BORDER FAR WEST REGINA THIS WEEK
DIRECTION NORTH.
CROWDER
Colonel Carson, a lean-faced man in civilian clothes that did little to hide the fact he was a soldier, picked up a cup of cold coffee and drank it. He had been pacing, but now he sat down beside the P.M.’s desk.
“I don’t think there’s any doubt of the Fenians’ coming in,” he said. “Fifty isn’t a large number, but there will be others. And they have what the métis don’t have: money. Some of it is their own money, collected from the poor Irish in the back streets of New York and Boston and Chicago. The biggest part of it comes from American politicians, who are determined to annex this country. You have to act now, Prime Minister. There’s no other way.”
The Prime Minister nodded, still staring at the large wall map behind his desk. “We’re a big country, Carson. That’s one of our problems.” He picked up a pointer and traced a line between Ottawa and Regina. He gave Regina a rap to express his annoyance.
“How,” he said, “are we going to get troops from here to here without a lot of delays? Look at the distance involved. It frightens me.”
“It doesn’t have to, Prime Minister,” Carson said calmly. “The troops can move west on the Canadian Pacific.”
“But it isn’t finished. You know that. They may never get it finished north of Lake Superior. Everything—track, locomotives—sinks in the muskeg. It’s like trying to lay tract in quicksand. Van Horne has tried everything to beat that stretch and he still hasn’t succeeded. That muskeg must be a thousand feet deep. Anyway, there are other unfinished stretches, too.”
Carson said, “I took the liberty of asking Mr. Van Horne to come here tonight, sir.”
“Why tonight?”
Carson smiled. “You have a way of making decisions on the third night, Prime Minister.”
“Don’t think you ever know me too well,” John A. Macdonald cautioned. “But you’re right. I had just about made up my mind to telegraph Middleton when Crowder’s message came. The Fenians! If they want to fight England, they why the hell don’t they go to England? You say Van Horne is coming?”
Carson looked at his watch. “He’s been in the building for fifteen minutes. I was about to tell you.”
“Then fetch him here, man. At once. Still, I have my doubts about sending a whole army by train. I don’t think even the Americans have done that. By God, it would be something if we could do it!”
Colonel Carson went downstairs and came back in a few minutes with a barrel-shaped man in a hopsack suit and the look of one who hates to sit still for long. The Prime Minister came from behind his desk to greet him, for here was the greatest railroad builder in Canada, the United States, or anywhere else. Son of an old New York Dutch family, Van Horne believed there was nothing that couldn’t be done if you tried hard enough. Van Horne was Canada’s favorite American.
“Cigar?”
“Indeed, yes,” Van Horne said, settling back in his chair.
“Whiskey?”
“N
othing goes better with a cigar.”
They all had Scotch whisky.
“You are aware of what’s happening in the North West, Mr. Van Home?” the Prime Minister said. “Of course, you know some of it”
“Carson here has been filling me in,” Van Home said.
“And I get information from my own people in Saskatchewan. It has occurred to me that they may try to dynamite the tracks and cut the telegraph lines. I have had men patrolling the track for two weeks.”
Macdonald said, “Then you do know how serious it is?”
“Not entirely, Prime Minister. But I know that any internal war, any civil war, must have terrible consequences. Look what happened to my own country. The effects will last for a long time. I would hate to see the same thing to take place here.”
Macdonald said, “I’m told your motto is: ‘If you want something done, name the day when it must be finished’.”
“Yes, I believe that.” Van Horne smiled. “Give or take a day or two.”
“Can you move five thousand soldiers to Saskatchewan in a week? A week and a half at the latest?”
Van Horne regarded his smoldering cigar. “Yes, Prime Minister, I think a week to ten days would be all right. If we had a clear track, I could have them there in three days. But I’m not making excuses for the track. It will be finished before long.”
“Are you sure, Mr. Van Horne?”
“As sure as I can be, Prime Minister. This isn’t a snap judgment. I’ve been going over it since Colonel Carson first talked to me, and I have decided what can be done about the unfinished stretches of track. ‘What’s the final destination?”
“Fort Qu’Appelle.”
Van Horne said, “It can be done, but it’s going to be hell for the men. The worst part is the one-hundred and five miles of scattered gaps north of Lake Superior. You know that. Where I can, I will lay track on ice or snow and trust it to hold. There will be many places where that isn’t possible. Some of the men will then travel by sleigh, but most will have to walk. We will have to leave trains behind when the tracks end. It will be easy for the men until we reach Lake Superior. Until that point, they can ride in regular passenger cars. On the far side of the lake, past the one-hundred and five miles of gaps, there are no passenger cars, just construction flatcards, with no sides, no roof, and no heat. But I can have my men working on those flatcars by morning, nailing up thick walls and looking for all the stoves they can find. Some of the men will travel comfortably enough; the others will be mighty cold. Some may die of it.”
“It can’t be helped.”
Colonel Carson asked, “What about the artillery?”
“That’s going to be the worst problem of all. If you didn’t need it, I would say leave it behind. Yes, I know it has to go. But it’s going to have to be loaded and unloaded a dozen times. There is nothing like trying to get a field piece on or off a flatcar when the temperature is fifty below. It gets that cold on the lake this time of year.”
Macdonald didn’t want to hear any more about hardship. “Do what has to be done, Mr. Van Home. I will write you a letter of authorization right now. Colonel Carson will be your liaison between my office and the military. If anyone, and I don’t care who he is or of what rank, refuses to cooperate or otherwise shows a disinclination to help, I will deal with him immediately.”
Macdonald wrote as he talked, making broad angry strokes of the pen. He signed with a flourish and pressed a rubber stamp to the lower right hand corner of the letter. “There,” he said, passing the document across the desk.
Van Home read it and said, “This makes me dictator of Canada for ten days!” He put the letter in his pocket and stood up. “I just want to ask you one thing more, Prime Minister. I anticipate trouble along the line when we get to Saskatchewan and have already taken precautions. But what about here?”
Macdonald said, “Most of our French-Canadian citizens are loyal. There is talk of support for Riel and the métis, but,” said Macdonald, smiling without much humor, “if you can deliver the troops to Fort Qu’Appelle on time, the talk around here will remain just talk.”
Thirteen
The cold northern dawn was breaking when Sundance, Dumont, and fifty mounted métis, all seasoned frontiersman, saw Duck Lake up ahead through the whirling snow. The wind whipped through the pines, penetrating their thick wool clothing and fur-lined boots. Men and horses were blinded by snow as they plowed through the deepening drifts. Halfway between Batoche and Fort Carlton, the lake shone like silver in the weak half-light of the morning sun. Willows and poplars fringed the lake on all sides. On the far side of the lake were the log houses that contained the food, rifles, ammunition, and other supplies stored for use by the Mounties and the militia.
Wiping snow from his eyes, Dumont said, “It looks like we got here first, but we’d better make sure. One of my men in Fort Carlton said Superintendent Crazier was getting ready to seize the stores some time today.”
“Makes sense,” Sundance said. Dumont had just sent two men ahead to check for an ambush, and Sundance watched while their outlines became lost in the falling snow. Once they raided the supply camp, the métis would be in open rebellion against the government of Canada, as he would himself, Sundance knew. Before it was over, he might hang for it. So far, he hadn’t come up with a plan that seemed to have any chance of working.
The two scouts rode back and reported that the camp was deserted. Dumont nodded. “So we win the first fight of this war. This is where it begins.” The big métis shrugged. “Or where it ends.”
They rode around the edge of the lake that was now beginning to thaw in the center. There were two log houses there, shuttered against the ice and wind. Both doors were secured with heavy padlocks. Dumont broke both locks with a hatchet, and they went in out of the cold. Rifles and boxes of ammunition took up most of the space in the first house; in the other, canned goods were stacked on shelves from floor to ceiling, with smoke-cured ham and frozen sides of beef hung from hooks. A rough table was piled high with blankets.
“We won’t go hungry or cold, not for a while,” Dumont said. “Those Lee-Metford bolt actions will make the Canadians wish they had let us go in peace.”
Sundance picked up one of the fast-firing British made military rifles. He tested the action; the short-pull bolt slid back and forth smoothly. “A fine gun,” he agreed.
Dumont told his men to start loading the sleighs. “Don’t overload. Take what you can, then throw the rest in the lake. We’ll burn the houses before we move out.”
The sleighs were about half loaded when a young métis on a winded horse came galloping from the other side of the lake. He jumped down, yelling, “Crozier and a big party of Mounties and militia are coming up fast. They have a seven pound gun.”
“How fast?” Dumont asked.
“Not much more than an hour, Gabriel. What are you going to do?”
“Ambush them,” Dumont said calmly. “Have they spare horses?”
“All they need to catch up to us.”
Dumont said, “Then we can’t run, even if we wanted to. We can’t trap them here, because Crozier might guess that’s what we’ll do. Let’s ride out to greet the Canadians.”
About a mile and a half from Duck Lake, Dumont found the position he wanted: a low hill intersecting the road, with ravines running forward on either side toward the police and militia and clumps of brush and willows to provide natural cover. He posted most of his men here while a smaller party occupied an abandoned cabin to the right of Superintendent Crozier’s advance.
It was a perfect place for an ambush. Unaware of what lay in store for them, the police and militiamen trudged on through the falling snow. As the snow grew heavier, everything melded into the enveloping grayness. Crozier’s men crossed the first ridge and started down into the valley. Then, half frozen, they climbed the next hill. Nothing moved yet in the snow-blotted distance. They were still climbing the icy slope when Crozier saw a line of métis riflemen in motio
n, snaking around his left flank.
As Crozier ordered his bewildered men to open fire, a deadly hail of bullets crackled from the métis line, ripping through the Canadian force with terrible effect. The métis were in deep cover while Crozier’s men were out in the open, with not a rock or tree in sight. When the militia tried to expand their line, they came under intense fire from the abandoned cabin. Crozier ordered up the seven pounder, but by then the militia had advanced too far and were in the line of fire.
Yelling like a madman, Crozier ordered the militia to fall back. The seven pounder opened fire. After only three shots, an inexperienced gunner rammed in a shell before the powder, and the gun was put out of action. Rallied by Crozier, the militia made a direct assault on the cabin; however, they were driven back with heavy losses.
Mounting his horse, Gabriel Dumont ordered the métis to counterattack. An instant later, his horse was shot out from under him and he fell heavily in the snow. The wound in his head opened again and he began to bleed. Sundance rushed to him and dragged him to his feet.
“Enough, Gabriel,” he yelled above the crackle of rifle fire. “You’ve beaten them. Don’t make it a slaughter. Let them retreat.”
For a moment, Dumont fought to break Sundance’s hold on him. Blood dripped from his head, staining his dark blue coat. The fury died in his eyes and he started to sag. Down the slope, the métis were driving the Canadians force back into the blinding show. Dead Mounties and militiamen lay everywhere. Then, after a few more outbursts of firing, the fight was over. It had been a decisive victory for the métis; they had even captured the seven pound cannon.
“The funny thing is, I don’t hate them,” Dumont said, watching while the métis collected weapons from the dead Mounties. “They are hard men, but they have always been fair according to their rules, their law. They are nothing like your United States cavalry. But the militia are volunteers, and they would like to destroy us, drive us from our land and far into the icy regions. Before they do that, we will give them a fight to remember “
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