Sundance 19

by Peter McCurtin

  Sundance said, “Then you don’t think you’re going to win?”

  Dumont rubbed his snow-crusted beard and looked very tired. He raised his rifle when he saw one of his men going through a dead policeman’s pocket. He fired one shot and the looter jumped back in terror.

  “Only the guns, Henri,” he roared. “Take anything else, and I’ll shoot your eyes out.”

  Turning back to Sundance, he said quietly, “You ask are we going to win. You have served with the Americans, and you know that the white men are like locusts. Kill a hundred, and soon you are faced with a thousand more. Do you think we’re going to win?”

  Sundance liked the big, life-hardened buffalo hunter. He spoke the truth. “No, my friend, but maybe you can make it so costly for them that they’ll come to some kind of terms. I think that’s the best you can hope for. You can’t win big battles against them. Let them see what you can do, then give them a chance to think about it. My advice is: Don’t push them to the point where they can’t back off.”

  “I think that is good advice,” Dumont agreed, looking at Sundance with narrowed eyes. “We will strike at the other towns and forts along the Saskatchewan and we will take them. Then, when we are in a position of strength, a good place to bargain from, we will send them our terms. If they refuse to bargain, we will fight on until we are all dead. But killing us all will not be easy. Before they have done it, we will make the name of Canada stink in the nostrils of the world.”

  Dumont waved his hand toward the bleak landscape, made even more bleak by the corpses dotting the slope. “This is our land, this wilderness that nobody wanted until they smelled the money to be made here. Our ancestors are buried here in the frozen earth. We were here before there were maps, and we will die here if we have to.”

  There was nothing to be said, Sundance knew, because in his bones he felt the love these brave people had for their windswept land. He knew {he bitterness they felt at being cornered, fenced off by laws that meant nothing to them. The law—white man’s law—had no meaning for the halfbreed or the Indian. The land itself was all that mattered. In their way, the whites loved the land, too, but to them it was always property, something to be coveted and fought over, not something to be felt in the blood and bones.

  Turning his horse away from the battlefield, Dumont said, “I owe you my life, Sundance, so I will say this now—it is not too late for you to get out.”

  “No,” Sundance answered. “I’m here, and here I stay.”

  Fourteen

  On the night of March 28, 1885, Sundance, Dumont, and Riel, accompanied by a large force of well-armed métis, watched the evacuation of Fort Carlton by the Mounties and militia. From a long, sloping ridge they listened to the shouts of command as the Canadians moved out, led by Commissioner Irvine.

  The day before, after learning of the defeat at Duck Lake, Irvine had decided there was no choice but to abandon the fort. The old fur trader’s post had not been built for defense. It was on the river’s edge, and the three hundred foot hill behind it commanded the fort square from all sides. In addition, the militiamen, all drawn from Fort Albert, wanted to get back to their families, now undefended.

  “We could strike now,” Dumont said. “They are already in a rout.”

  Riel said, “No. We will save our strength for the bigger battles ahead. The Indians will soon be joining us. Already I have sent news of Duck Lake. All they need is a little more persuasion. Soon, all the towns on the Saskatchewan will be in our hands. But listen to me, Gabriel. The Irishman is growing impatient. He wanted to be with us tonight. Hardesty and his Irishmen have come a long way to fight on our side.”

  Dumont said, “Let him stay in Batoche and wait for the rest of his men to come from the States. We will use them when the time comes. There will be plenty of fighting for Hardesty before this war is over.”

  Riel said, “I think you would like to win this war without his help. Speak plainly, old friend. Is that what you’re thinking?”

  “It would be better if we could. If we can’t, well, so be it.”

  Turning to Sundance, Riel said, “You have become Gabriel’s friend. He trusts your judgment. What is your opinion?”

  Sundance said, “So far, the fight has been between you and the Canadians. Turning foreigners, paid mercenaries, against them will make them angrier than they are now. No country likes to be invaded by foreigners. Even the French-Canadians in the east may turn against you. I would say keep the Irish out of the fighting if you don’t need them.”

  Riel sighed. “You are probably right, but it’s so hard to decide. Everything keeps changing from day to day. What I don’t understand, Gabriel, is why you have changed your mind. Two weeks ago you were ready to welcome the Irishman.”

  “Two weeks ago I hadn’t met Hardesty. There is something about the man I don’t like and don’t trust I have been thinking that, if we win this war, Hardesty and his band of trained soldiers won’t be so easy to get rid of. Hardesty talks of bringing in a thousand men, maybe more. Most of these men have no families to care about, and I think many are criminals and killers.”

  Riel said, “Say what you have to say, Gabriel. There is more.”

  “Already there is bad feeling between these Irishmen and our men. Our women. Dumont spat in the snow. “Hardesty is too eager to set the Indians against the whites. He would bathe the country in blood from here to the Rockies. Who can say what mad plan he has? To seize the whole North West and hold it with American support.”

  “This is incredible,” Riel said. “Hardesty has accepted my leadership without question.”

  Sundance said, “Not so incredible. Other bold men have tried to build their own empires. Walker tried it in Nicaragua and nearly succeeded. He ended up in front of a firing squad, but he gave it a fair try.”

  Riel’s voice faltered a little. “I would not permit such a thing. I have given my word to my people.”

  Dumont spat again. Sundance didn’t say anything. “They’re moving out,” Dumont said. “The fort is on fire.”

  Flames streaked the night sky as the last of the garrison disappeared into the darkness, taking the road along the edge of the river. Horsemen led the way, followed by sleighs, while more mounted men brought up the rear. Then the last sounds died away and there was nothing but the fretting of the horses and the ever present wind blowing from the north.

  “I wish they’d all go as quietly as that,” Riel said, clapping his mittened hands together. The métis leader was a man of constantly changing moods. Now he was cheerful again, all talk of Hardesty forgotten. “Maybe they will, my friends. They are just men, like us, and do not wish to die. We can live in peace with the Canadians, the English Canadians. If only they could realize that we are not a subject people. Come on now. Let us look at what is left of Fort Carlton.”

  There wasn’t much left by the time they reached the burning buildings. The Canadians had left nothing that could be salvaged. The flag had been lowered and taken away; the flagpole stood gaunt against the glare of the flames.

  “Chop it down,” Dumont ordered. “Chop it down and burn it.”

  The métis cheered as the flagpole toppled to the ground. Scouts were sent out to watch for a counterattack by Irvine’s forces, while cook fires were started and the pungent smell of thick pea soup with chunks of ham rose into the frosty night air. It stopped snowing and the wind died down. Around the fire, they ate with the appetites of men who had been long on the trail. The buildings of the fort were all but gone.

  Hunkered down beside the fire, Dumont sniffed the air. “The spring will be here earlier than we thought. I can smell the thaw coming. We must move on Fort Battleford without delay. Winter is our friend and we must make use of it while we can. Already the people from the town have moved into the fort. It is well fortified, and taking it will not be like Duck Lake or this place here. They know we are coming and will be waiting. Our men will die in the taking of the fort, but there isn’t time to starve them out.”
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  “What about Fort Pitt?” Riel asked. “There is a garrison there.”

  “It is not so important as Battleford, Louis. After taking Battleford, we can pass it by, then attack Fort Albert. Pitt will be caught in the middle, with our forces to the north and south of it. Are you sure the Indians will be at war by the time we reach Battleford?”

  “I am sure, Gabriel. Dumas has gone ahead to the reservation. If any man can rouse the Indians, Dumas can. He says Little Bear and Poundmaker can throw nine hundred braves against the Canadians, more than that if other tribes join the war. For years, Poundmaker’s people have starved on the Battleford reservation—bad food, what there is of it, not enough blankets to keep the women and children from freezing. Yes, Gabriel, Poundmaker and his people have had enough of Canadian promises. They will fight.”

  Sundance asked, “But can they be stopped once the killing starts?”

  Riel’s deep voice was still full of confidence. “Any man is only as good as he is treated. Give the Crees and the Stoneys food and blankets, give them back their pride as men, and they will see us only as friends. They will stop because I tell them to stop.”

  Dumont had no comment to make, and it wasn’t because of the chunk of steaming ham he had just put in his mouth. He looked from Riel to Sundance, then began to scrape out his plate. He stood up and wiped snow from the barrel of his Lee-Metford repeater.

  “It is time to go,” he said, “if we want to get there by first light.”

  It snowed lightly during the night, but the sun was trying to break through by the time they reached the outskirts of Battleford. Long before they got there they heard the sound of rifle fire. At first it was uneven, but it grew more concentrated as the sun broke through the watery sky. They topped a ridge, and from the summit they could see down into the valley containing the town and the fort.

  Dumont took a short brass telescope from his pocket and opened it and grunted with satisfaction at what he saw. Riel took the telescope and scanned the valley.

  “It looks like Dumas did his work all right,” Dumont said. “The town is deserted except for Dumas and the Indians. Everybody else is in the fort.”

  Riel handed the telescope to Sundance. He moved it from the town to the fort, some distance away, and back again. Most of the firing was being done by the Indians, now under cover of the houses closest to the stockade. The Indians were all in war paint While Sundance watched, a group of them tried to rush the main gate, only to be driven back with the loss of half their number.

  Dumont cursed. “What does Dumas think he’s doing? His orders were to pin them down in the fort, not to get half the Indians killed.”

  “You should have taken the Gatling gun from Batoche,” Riel said. “It would make all the difference now.”

  “No, Louis, Batoche is the center of our country, our capital. It must be defended by every means. If Batoche fell, it would take the heart out of our people.”

  The fort was on a hillside some distance from the town. The Indians had already ridden up to parley. By that time, they had plundered the stores and buildings of the town. Inside the fort there were six hundred settlers and townspeople, three-hundred of them women and children. They watched fearfully through rifle slits while the Indians dressed themselves in silk party gowns and bonnets, screaming like maniacs while they guzzled whiskey and hacked pianos to bits with their tomahawks.

  When the attempt at holding a parlay failed, the Indians fell back before they attacked. Driven back by rifle fire from the stockade, they waved a flag of truce before encircling the fort, waiting for it to surrender. Now they were attacking again.

  Followed by Sundance and Riel, Dumont galloped down the slope toward the town, yelling at the Indians to fall back. He jumped off his horse and grabbed one of the métis who was with the Indians.

  “Where is Dumas?” he roared, trying to make himself heard above the war cries of the Indians.

  “Dead! Shot!” the man yelled back. “The Indians will no longer obey their leaders.”

  “They will obey me,” Dumont roared. Taking no heed of the bullets from the fort, he rode his horse straight into a bunch of Indians who were fighting over a bottle of whiskey. One Indian swung a tomahawk at Dumont.

  Dumont upended his rifle and struck the brave between the eyes with the brass-shod butt. The Indian grunted and went down. Another whiskey-crazed brave jumped at Dumont with a knife. Dumont jerked his foot from the stirrup and kicked him squarely in the face. Then Dumont rounded his horse and knocked the others sprawling in the snow.

  “Get back!” Dumont yelled. “Get back under cover.”

  “What do you think?” Sundance asked Dumont when they were crouched down inside the broken window of a thick-walled cabin. Now that the Indians had pulled back, the fire from the fort had slackened. Riel had gone to talk to the Indian chiefs, followed by the métis Dumont had appointed in Dumas’s place.

  “Do you think that seven inch cannon can be put in working order?” Dumont asked. “If it can’t, I have been thinking about fire arrows.”

  “There are hundreds of women and children in there. You want to burn them out?”

  “I want to capture that fort. We can’t leave a garrison behind us. What about the cannon?”

  “The shell can be pried out,” Sundance answered. “It will take time, but it can be done. We only have two shells and just enough powder to fire them. The militia managed to save the rest when they retreated at Duck Lake. But for all they know in the fort, we could have all the shot and powder we need.”

  Dumont asked, “Can you do it, get the gun back in working order?”

  “I’ve seen it done. You heat the barrel very fast over a fire. The shell isn’t explosive, it’s just a ball propelled by powder. If there is no powder in the barrel, there’s no danger of an explosion. The barrel heats faster than the ball and expands faster. Then you hoist the gun with ropes, muzzle pointing straight down, and hit the breech hard with a sledgehammer or something else. With luck, and if it isn’t too badly jammed, the ball will fall out. Then you let the barrel cool slowly so there won’t be any distortion.”

  Dumont ordered his men to bring the cannon up from the rear of his column. Sundance found the town’s one blacksmith shop and ordered the seven pounder brought there. He pumped the bellows and got the fire in the forge white hot again. “Get the chains on the gun,” he ordered. “Don’t bring it down too close to the fire. I’ll tell you how close. Once it starts to get hot, keep the barrel turning. Do it at a steady pace. It has to heat evenly. Once it’s hot, don’t let it drop or bang into something. If the barrel gets bent, there is no way we can straighten it. All right now, start lowering it toward the fire. Easy, not so fast. I’ll tell you when it’s hot enough, then point the muzzle toward the ground and make sure it doesn’t swing when I start hitting it with the sledge.”

  Dumont and Sundance watched closely while the barrel of the cannon was rotated above the flame. Soon it began to glow a dull red; before long the red turned to white.

  “Quickly now,” Sundance said. “Point the muzzle downward and hold it firm. Move before the ball expands as much as the barrel.”

  Sundance had pulled a keg close to the forge. Now he climbed up on it, measuring for the first swing of the sledge. If it took more than two or three blows, it wouldn’t work. He wanted it to work; he wanted the garrison in the fort to surrender.

  Lifting the heavy sledge hammer and sweating in the fierce glow of the fire, he struck the back of the cannon. The three métis held it firmly under the impact of the blow. Sundance raised the sledge hammer again and struck the gun in the same place. Inside the gun there seemed to be a small shifting movement. Without waiting, Sundance put all his weight behind the third blow. With it, the métis yelled as the ball rattled out of the barrel and fell on the floor.

  “Let the cannon hang the way it is, muzzle straight down,” Sundance said. “And keep that door closed so it won’t cool too fast.”

  They waited
for the barrel of the seven pounder to cool. Doing it carefully took more than half an hour. Sundance ordered the métis to put the gun back on its carriage and he ran his hand over the still-warm barrel. “It looks all right. We’ll know for sure as soon as I fire it.”

  Dumont grinned. “You mean it will blow up if it isn’t all right?”

  “I’d say so.”

  “Then I’ll fire it.”

  “No, I fixed it—at least, I hope I did—so I’ll touch it off. But first I’d like you to get Louis and have him talk to the commander of the garrison. They may be willing to surrender to you but not to the Indians. If they’re afraid enough of the Indians, especially the Crees, they would rather die fighting than be scalped and tortured. Louis has to give his word that the Indians won’t harm them, that they are free to march into Alberta with a safe conduct all the way. If Louis allows the Indians to massacre them, it could well be the end of your cause. There would be no bargaining with the Canadians if that happened.”

  Dumont nodded. “I will go and find him. Where will you be when I am doing that?”

  “Pointing the seven pounder straight at the gate of the fort. It may take one shell to get them to parlay. But in the end, it’s up to Louis and how convincing he can be. I’d hate to see them make a real fight of it”

  Sundance positioned the cannon between two log houses after pushing a wagon out in front of the gun. Under cover of the wagon, he primed the gun, then rammed in the ball. He lined up the muzzle with the gate, then adjusted it for the drop of the shell If he hadn’t misjudged, the shell would strike the log gate about halfway to the top, just where the crossbar would be on the inside. One shell might not smash open the gate; maybe even two wouldn’t be enough. What was going to happen next depended on so many things.

  Dumont came back with Riel, who was carrying a flag of truce, a white tablecloth tied to a broomstick. Poundmaker, chief of the Crees, was with them. At first, Riel wanted to walk right out in the open waving his peace flag. Dumont and Sundance had to hold him back.