“Sounds like a smart soldier,” was Sundance’s only comment.
Later, after Riel had wrapped himself in a buffalo robe and was sleeping close to the fire, Sundance and Dumont talked.
“He is marching on Batoche. Of that I am sure,” Dumont said. “That is what I would do. I cannot let him take it. We could retreat to the north and draw his force in after us, then strike him in a number of surprise attacks.” Dumont shook his head. “That would be the military way to do it, but I can’t. Batoche must not fall.”
“Then maybe now is the time to try to come to terms. It looks like this general, Middleton, isn’t that eager to fight.”
“I don’t think he will come to terms, not yet. We must show him what it’s going to mean to Canada if the fighting goes on. Anyway, Middleton has no authority to make a bargain with us. That will be up to Macdonald. It would be easier if some other man ruled in Ottawa.”
“Why? Does Macdonald hate the métis?”
Dumont lowered his voice. “Not the métis. Louis Riel. He could have hanged Louis after the first rebellion, but he let him go to Montana instead. Maybe some of it was mercy. Most of it, I think, was politics. To have hanged Louis would have turned the French-Canadians against Macdonald’s government. But no matter, Macdonald let Louis go free and suffered much abuse because of it. Ontario turned against him, wanted to kick him out. There was an unspoken agreement between Macdonald and Louis: his life in exchange for permanent exile in the United States. From where Macdonald sits, Louis broke his word. I suppose he did.”
Sundance said, “Then it won’t be easy no matter what happens.”
“That’s right. Macdonald can’t back down again, even if he wants to. It would make him look like a fool, and no man wants to look like a fool. But Louis is our leader. He has kept our cause alive all these years, and we must follow him wherever it takes us. Now I think we’d better get some sleep. Dawn comes quickly, and there is much to be done. Soon we will discover what it is like to fight a real English general.”
“You don’t like the English, do you?”
“Not much “
“My father was an Englishman.”
“I think he was a different kind of Englishman.” They both laughed.
Sixteen
Every step of Middleton’s advance was being watched by métis scouts. There was even a métis spy working as a freight handler in Middleton’s wagon train. The column moved as ponderously as the mind of its commander. To the rear, the cavalry officers cursed the inactivity, the slow pace, the futility of not being able to take action. It began to snow again, though it wasn’t as cold as it had been. Under a slate-colored sky, the combined force plodded on.
General Middleton, it seemed, was in no hurry to engage the enemy. His tent was elaborate and had a wooden floor made in sections, a folding bed piled with blankets, and buffalo robes. He had even brought along books and a chess set. At night, a small brazier of charcoal heated his quilted tent. He ate well, drank well, and slept well. There were many meetings with the staff of English officers. When it became necessary to have some of the Canadian militia officers present, he invariably disregarded their suggestions with a grunt or a growl.
The General liked to look at maps. The more maps the better. He used his ruler to measure distances, not knowing that, often, the shortest distance between two points was right through the middle of a swamp Captain Winfield, the ambitious young career officer, was still his favorite audience. Middleton’s meals were as elaborate as the rest of his equipment. Winfield was always glad to dine with the General because the food was so good: steak, glazed ham, fresh bread, baked potatoes. And always brandy and fine cigars.
General Middleton would say, “War is a science if nothing else. Strategy is what counts. Consider the situation carefully, then act on it. But always be sure of what you’re doing. I have been a soldier more years than you are old, my boy, and I always know exactly how to proceed. Only fools rush in. Always remember that. I don’t want to sound boastful, but I didn’t get to be a major general in the best army in the world for nothing.”
The General paused and Winfield came in quickly with, “You’ve had a most distinguished career, sir. Would you like to continue dictating your memoirs tonight?”
While the métis scouts watched silent and unseen, General Middleton, mellow with good food and aged brandy, would lie on his comfortable bed, with the charcoal brazier throwing off steady heat, and talk on and on about the campaigns of thirty years before.
“During the Indian Mutiny, a regrettable episode in our history, we were forced to take stern measures against the ringleaders. One particularly severe form of execution was to tie a man across the mouth of a cannon.”
Middleton’s scouts reported back that there was no sign of the enemy. But the moment the scouts had ridden past, the métis would emerge from their hiding places. The snow stopped and the weather was bright and clear for a while. The column, slow as it was, was getting closer to Batoche. Soon it was only twenty-two miles away.
~*~
“If he doesn’t drink too much, then it must be old age,” Gabriel Dumont remarked to Sundance. Our man in the column reports that he sits up half the night in his tent, reading and playing chess. His breakfast takes an hour. There have been times when my scouts were close enough to shoot him through the head. When I heard that one of them almost did, I sent word that not a hair on his thick head must be touched.”
Dumont began to laugh and Sundance had to grin. “Middleton is our friend. I love him like a brother,” Dumont said. “Oh, please God, let him continue the way he is going. I know! I know! Sometimes wars are won by fools. It is time to stop him now!”
Middleton’s right column of about five-hundred men was in camp about twenty miles south of Batoche. His left column, with the same number of men, was on the other side of the river.
Seventeen miles south of Batoche, on the east side of the South Saskatchewan River, Fish Creek emptied into the broad river and cut a forty-foot deep ravine across the prairie. It was on all the maps, but General Middleton didn’t seem to have given it any thought.
“This is where we will surprise then,” Gabriel Dumont decided. There, part way down the slope nearest the Canadian advance, he posted one-hundred and fifty of his men. He led another fifty mounted métis further south to hide them in a coulee so that they could swoop down on the Canadian rear and herd them into the trap.
“It should work,” Sundance agreed.
Early on April 24th, Middleton broke camp and moved forward, his scouts out in front. Then, for the first time, the scouts earned their keep. Riding back fast, they reported finding horse tracks on the road. The alarm was sounded, and Dumont’s fifty horseman had to make a hasty retreat to the deep ravine. For once, Dumont’s cunning had failed—and the fight was on.
In the ravine, the métis had dug rifle pits. If Middleton were a more intelligent commander, he would not have sent his force directly against the ravine. But that was what he did. On and on the Canadians came. When they reached the edge of the ravine, the métis opened fire, driving them back with heavy losses.
Middleton ordered his two cannons to open fire, but no damage was done to the concealed métis. Desperate now, he sent a message to his column on the other side of the river for them to cross as soon as possible. But the river was deep at that point. The water was filled with melting ice and cold enough to kill a man in five minutes. All the second column could use to cross was one leaky scow; on top of that, it began to rain.
Around noon, Middleton’s forces failed in another attack, which even the support of the two Gatling guns didn’t help. The cold April rain beat down harder than ever. For a while, the fight settled down to an exchange of rifle fire, broken here and there by futile charges by the Canadians. The militia fought well, but they were facing an enemy they couldn’t see. They died in waves in the freezing mud. One of the Gatling guns went out of action and couldn’t be fixed.
During the
afternoon, the rain stopped and a watery sun appeared, giving no warmth. By now, some of the other column had managed to cross the river, but their crossing was slow and dangerous. Hardest of all was getting the horses across; and all the while, it was getting dark, with rain coming down again in great gray sheets.
By the time most of the second column had crossed the river, there was still enough light for a determined attack. Some of the Canadian officers argued, but Middleton refused to listen. He also refused to admit that he had been beaten. They were going to make a tactical retreat, he said. He became even more adamant when he saw a large column of mounted métis coming from Batoche to join the men in the ravine.
“We are going to pull back to Fish Creek,” Middleton told his aide. “That is the order to be relayed to my Canadian subordinates. There will be no further discussion of the matter. We have a lot of wounded men, and they cannot be treated here, thanks to the wretched medical services provided by the Canadians. We had the men to take that ravine, but they didn’t know how to do it. I doubt that the reinforcements coming from the east will do any better.”
The British general laughed bitterly. “Ah, Winfield, if I only had some regulars—or a few métis. Say what you like about the half-castes, they know how to fight.” His bitterness turned to sarcasm. “And do any of our Canadian friends know what has happened to the Northcote? We could turn that paddlewheeler into a gunboat—that is, if it ever arrives.”
To convert the riverboat into a gunboat had been one of Middleton’s first ideas when the campaign began. Built in 1874, the shallow-draught paddlewheeler had plied the South Saskatchewan in times of peace. It had two decks, with an exposed engine and boiler on the lower one, and a cabin and pilothouse above. On it, Middleton had placed thirty-five militiamen, a cannon, and a Gatling gun. The lower deck was fortified with a double wall of two-inch planks; the upper was protected by piled-up sacks of sand and grain.
Middleton’s plan was to attack Batoche by land and by water. It was still a workable plan. But where was the Northcote? “I ask you, where is it?” Middleton grumbled. “What in blazes is causing the delay?”
Winfield did his best to explain. “The river is full of floating trees and sand bars. Even at full steam, the Northcote is slow. It’s coming, sir.”
“When? Next spring? Winfield, I want you to draft an order above my signature, using the strongest possible terms. I order the captain of the Northcote to proceed here with all dispatch. Never mind the snags and sand bars. I don’t give a damn if he blows up the boilers. I want that infernal craft here! Send a rider downriver at once. Now we will pull back to Fish Creek and wait.”
~*~
“Looks like they’re pulling out,” Sundance reported to Dumont, handing him the telescope. Both men were concealed by heavy brush at the edge of the deep ravine. All along the ravine, the métis were spread out, waiting for the order to counterattack. Those closest to Dumont kept their eyes on their commander. It was raining again, a cold April rain. All day there had been nothing to eat but stringy jerked beef, with canteens of cold tea to wash it down. The métis fighters were cold and hungry. But the killing mood was still on them. A word from Dumont would send them swarming out after the retreating Canadians.
“If you go after them now,” Sundance said, “You’ll be fighting on the same ground they are.”
“I know,” Dumont agreed. “We could lose what we have gained. We will fall back and make ready to defend Batoche. They will not take Batoche, not even with that stupid steamboat they are bringing up the river. We will stop them at Batoche. It is then that I will ask Louis to offer his terms. It began at Duck Lake, but Batoche will be the place of decision. Our friend Hardesty will at last see some fighting.”
After a forward party had been left behind in the ravine, the orderly retreat to Batoche began. The dead and wounded were brought home on sleighs. Compared to the Canadian losses, the métis losses were light; even so, many brave men had died defending the raw slash of earth that ran down to the river and continued on the other side. It was a somber procession that made its way back to Batoche.
Sundance and Dumont were among the last to leave the ravine. Looking back at it, Dumont remarked quietly, “This is called Fish Creek, but it is just a ravine. Yet so many men on both sides died here.”
Some of the métis began to sing. “Listen to them,” Dumont said wearily. “Most of them have lived along this river all their lives. They have stopped the great British general, and so they are happy and proud. They have reason to be. None has ever served in an army, none know of tactics. Farmers, trappers, fishermen, hunters—never soldiers—they have done what people said could not be done. Middleton’s stupidity or caution helped, of course, but that is only part of it. They would have fought as well against a better general. But Middleton will come and continue to come, to advance like a great dead weight, a glacier. I hope my people will be able to go on singing. I do not sing myself, but I like to hear others.”
That night, after Sundance and Dumont ate fried deer meat and oaten bread in the cabin, they went to the new meeting house to listen to Riel and the others. Hardesty and his Fenian subordinates were there, trim and warlike in contrast to the bearded, careless dressed métis commanders. The inside of the meeting house smelled strongly of raw pine and turpentine and tobacco smoke. Hardesty was holding forth when they came in. Hardesty nodded stiffly at Dumont and went on speaking, directing his arguments at Riel, who sat by the red-hot stove with a mug of steaming tea in front of him.
Hardesty was saying, “Louis, my friend, when I came here I thought it was to fight an all-out war. Instead, my men and I have forced to stand aside and listen to news of a lot of skirmishes, half-won battles. You beat them at Duck Lake, but instead of finishing them off, you chose to let them go. In the name of God, why? Where was the sense? Do you think they would have been as merciful? I think not. They would have hunted you down in the snow and killed every last man. You had them at Fort Carlton and Battleford. Once again, they were allowed to march away. Today, especially today, my men were held back again. For what reason? To defend Batoche was the reason given.”
Hardesty paused to make his point. “I am ready to call it quits. I have had enough. With your permission, we will leave here as soon as we are ready. I have no more to say.”
Riel answered him without standing up. “Don’t be so hasty, my friend. Middleton and his forces are facing Batoche. Now is your time to fight.”
“But why is Middleton facing Batoche, Louis? You said yourself he was defeated today. Why was your victory not followed up? Why are Middleton’s forces still intact? Why aren’t they scattered and broken, his men dead? If my men had been allowed to fight, there would not be a Canadian left alive. Instead, you are now forced to defend your most important town.”
Riel looked at Dumont. “Do you want to answer him, Gabriel?”
Dumont nodded. “I know that some of my own people are turning against me because of the way I have been fighting this war.”
From a number of métis commanders there was an angry murmur, and some of the faces that looked at Dumont were set in anger.
“Maybe they are right,” Dumont continued. “For right or wrong, I was chosen as your general. From the beginning I never believed that we could win an all-out war against the Canadians. I still don’t think it is possible.”
A métis commander, named Thibault, a tall man with an eyepatch and a scarred face, shouted, “Then make way for a man with more courage. I have followed you faithfully, and so have my men, because we thought you knew how to command. But always, when victory was ours, you hung back at the last moment. What the Irishman says is true.”
“Let him finish,” Riel ordered without raising his voice.
Dumont said, “True. Everything Hardesty says is true. We could have slaughtered the Canadians at Duck Lake and Fort Carlton. WE could have killed every last man, cut the throats of the wounded. At Battleford we could have let the Indians scalp and tort
ure and massacre the entire garrison—women and children, too.”
“Mercy has no place in war,” Hardesty said deliberately.
“Mercy didn’t have much to do with it,” Dumont went on. “If I thought a slaughter would guarantee freedom for our people, then I would soak this land in blood. I would spare no one, God forgive me, not the smallest Canadian child. I could go to my grave with that on my conscience if I had to. I didn’t do it because I didn’t think it would work. It has always been my plan to leave some opening, some middle ground where a bargain can be made.”
Thibault’s voice was heavy with sarcasm. “This is a fine time you have picked, with the British general only a day’s march away. Is it part of your plan to let him take Batoche?”
Dumont said quietly, “My plan is to fight him at Batoche as we have never fought him before. Batoche has always been his objective. Batoche and nowhere else. If he fails to take Batoche, then he will know that his campaign has failed. That is why, if I am to remain your leader, we will stop him here. Stop him completely, fight him to a standstill. And when that is done, when he can fight no more, we will offer our terms to the Canadian government.”
Hardesty stood up looking startled. He spoke to Riel. “I protest against this. Nothing was said to me about coming to terms. All along you talked of nothing short of complete independence. That was our understanding, and you gave your word on it. Do you think I have brought my men, some of them thousands of miles, to fight for half a cause? If all you wanted to do was discuss limited freedom, why didn’t you get some, of your French-Canadian friends to do it in Parliament?”
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