by Ken Busato
This winter at has been much worse than the first. The snow has been deep, and this has made Buffalo hunting extremely difficult. The Metis and natives use snowshoes so easily, yet settlers have not taken to them with the same amount of success.
The Buffalo are not as plentiful as they were last winter. Last year, they came so close to our shelter, scratching and sunning themselves at the back of the storehouse, but this year they are hardly found anywhere. They would normally move in large herds close to the river near spots that provided shelter from the wind and snow, but the amount of snow which has fallen this season has made this impossible.
This has caused many problems. Pemmican, our main food source, is in short supply these days. Often, we have to live off of only one meal each day.
Depression and hunger has started to turn into something more sinister, more suspicious. We ration food carefully, and this has led to wild accusations that some people are eating too much while others suffer. Mama’s words about the two separate groups of settlers have started to come true. At the time, I listened to her advice only to a point, but now I see we are almost in a competition for survival. I always thought we would have to fight the elements, but often we fight each other.
Even worse than this fighting are the accusations Mr. Docherty has levelled against the Metis. Mr. Docherty is our unelected leader, and whispers suggest there is a plot to murder him. News travels fast in our camp, and it was only a matter of time when the Docherty murder plot was on everyone’s mind.
“Willie,” I enquired one cold January evening as we sat close to the fire and each other for warmth, “I know we are not well liked here, but to kill a man for this makes no sense at all?”
“There is a lot of anger. I know because I feel it as much as any man, if not more. We want to live a certain way, and this is an insult to the traders who have been here for years. Well, we’re here, so they can all go to hell as far as I am concerned.”
“That still doesn’t explain why Mr. Docherty fears for his life?”
“It’s just rumours Molly, that’s all,” Papa responded. “Everyone is on edge. Everyone is tired, and sometimes what is a dream and what is real become the exact same thing. Robert Docherty has a reason to be concerned, but we all have a reason to be concerned. We’re hated here, and I don’t think things are going to get better any time soon. In fact, I think things might even get a touch worse.”
“How is that even possible?” I said anxiously.
“The Governor is about to take over the food supply by force. He is going to proclaim to everyone that no pemmican be allowed to leave the area.”
“Will there be enough for us to last until the spring? I asked.
“I don’t know Molly,” Papa replied. “All I know is we are starving, and it’s about bloody time our Governor did something.”
“More settlers are coming in the spring,” Willie added. “He’s going to need food to welcome a new batch of poor Scottish and Irish to this western hell.”
Suddenly, the door flew open and a cold gust of air blew over all of us. Everyone inside let out a shivering moan as Mr. Docherty entered with his wife and child. “Robert,” Papa started, “Any more word on the plot to have you leave this earth?”
“I know you think me a mad fool John, but I have seen the way these Metis stare at me as I pass by. I hear whispers, low whispers and laughter too.”
“Should we not all be careful?” I asked Mr. Docherty as he made his way to the fire.
“That’s no doubt true Molly, but you are just a young girl. These Metis and fur traders don’t see much harm in you. They are worried about those who try to lead.”
“It’s about time we arm ourselves, isn’t it?” Willie asked.
“If what MacDonell is about to do actually happens, then we better prepare for war.”
I know how much Mr. Docherty exaggerates, but he was dead serious. He expects a war, an actual battle where people might get killed, all because MacDonell wants to protect the food supply. “Is there not enough pemmican for everyone?” I asked. “I know we are rationing it now, but is that not the point: to ration the food until the spring when we can try to live off the land again?”
“Molly,” Mr. Docherty replied, “It’s more complicated. MacDonell is taking something away from the Nor’ westers, something they need for their trade. If the pemmican stays here, then the North West Company cannot supply its trading posts. We can be fed, but others might starve.”
“Then let them starve,” Willie added, clearly agitated. “We need the food and this land belongs to us. If the Nor’ westers are looking for a fight, I’ll certainly give them one.”
“No doubt you will,” Papa responded. “Molly, this proclamation will make things more tense around here. You have to be more careful than you normally would, especially since your little brothers are not doing as well as they did last winter. Desperate men can easily choose to do desperate things.”
Papa’s dark words hung over all of us. We are desperate too, so can we not do unimaginable things as well?