Louis Riel and Gabriel Dumont

by Joseph Boyden

  Gabriel watches as the cable is lowered just in time, grazing the pilothouse and ripping off the smokestacks, sparks and ash pouring out, which in turn starts a fire on deck. But the steamer, no longer under power, spins around a sandbar and drifts off uselessly for two more miles downstream before it catches and holds on a spit, too far for Gabriel to plunder it, but also too far away to be any use to General Middleton.

  When Middleton finally comes within eyesight of Batoche, word of the Northcote’s fate reaches him. His surprise two-pronged attack has been nullified. He takes the high ground of the rise, placing cannon and the Gatling gun upon it, and begins firing at the houses in town, civilians be damned.

  In his desire to take the Northcote, Gabriel is too late in using a time-honoured plains warfare tactic of setting the prairie grasses on fire in the path of the invaders. The long stretch of la belle prairie on the outskirts of Batoche is left unscathed but for the trampling of humans and of horses and wagons. Gabriel doesn’t worry about this too much. It would prove only a minor setback for the approaching Canadians anyway, despite its being a fine chance for Métis marksmen to take down some of the weepy-eyed soldiers. He awaits the miracle of which his friend and prophet speaks.

  Early on in this first day of battle, a group of Métis sees the chance to take a Canadian field gun and rush the position. The inexperienced Canadian troops almost flee, but their officer rallies them and turns the Métis back with fire from the Gatling gun. The Métis slip back into their wellcamouflaged rifle pits, so carefully constructed that many of Middleton’s troops have no idea where they are positioned. The day plays out into a stalemate of wasted gunfire, the Métis firing lightly, the Canadians in useless barrages. Cannons set a number of houses on fire, and the dreaded Gatling gun’s rat-tat-tat keeps the heads of the Métis low.

  Beyond the crippling of the steamer Northcote, the most stunning event of the day occurs when a white flag appears at the church door; the Métis watch one of the priests, Father Moulin, emerge when the firing stops and march directly to the Canadian troops to confer with Middleton. Whispers travel that the priest has surrendered. But more than this, he has taken the side of the Canadians. He has become a traitor, giving away the positions of Métis rifle pits, field strength and weaknesses, and especially their lack of ammunition and food. To add to the insult, Father Végréville also abandons his people and shares vital and damning information with the general. For the Métis who fight for their land and way of life, the priests have most certainly betrayed them. This day and this action inflict a wound that never heals.

  Well before nightfall, General Middleton orders his troops to withdraw to a hastily constructed stockade at a nearby farm. Although the day’s casualties are light, Middleton knows how the approaching darkness will certainly work against his troops, offering the sneaky Métis opportunity to pick them off in large numbers. While Middleton is willing to burn down homesteads, loot property for personal gain, and fire cannon and small arms onto homes where frightened women and children cower, he subscribes to the strange nineteenth-century notion that gentleman soldiers do not fight after dark.

  But it’s this type of guerrilla warfare that Gabriel excels at. All night his men fire into Middleton’s camp, their war whoops and animal screams keeping the soldiers awake and afraid. The Métis try to scare the hobbled horses into a panic, and the constant fearful whinnying adds to the terror. Few of the Canadian redcoats are able to doze, never mind sleep, and when reveille is called the next morning at 5 A.M., the men are exhausted and nervous. To worsen their misery, the night has been cold, falling below freezing, and the sun’s full but weak May heat is still hours away.

  Just before noon on the second day of battle, with the Canadians trying to push back to the position near the church they’d reached the day before, Gabriel sets the prairie grasses on each side of them on fire. The Canadians, nervous in the acrid smoke, watch with stinging eyes as a few of their men are picked off by Métis marksmen. Captain A.L. Howard, the American with the Gatling gun, finds that his weapon is near useless when he can’t see the well-hidden Métis, some of whom are not more than thirty yards away. Instead, he settles on ripping apart the cabins in town as Canadian cannons focus on trying to destroy the rest. They are mostly successful, and few structures are left standing by the end of the second day.

  Why Howard, this American from Connecticut, a career military man with no quarrel with the half-breeds, is trying to kill them in large numbers confuses and angers Gabriel and the others.

  It turns out that Howard is not acting as a representative of the American military, nor, supposedly, of the Gatling company. Both organizations deny sending him. He’s volunteered himself and this new weapon to the Canadians. As Joseph Howard (no relation) explains in his wonderful depiction of the Métis in Strange Empire, the Gatling gunner is here because he regards himself as a scientist, a scientist who’s had no real chance to test and analyze this new deadly weapon that he’s fallen in love with. Sure, he’s tried it against bands of hit-and-run Indians, but not in a battle scenario such as this with two opposing sides in set defences against one another. The Battle of Batoche is proving the first real testing ground for the Yankee from Connecticut and his murderous weapon. The drumbeat sound of Howard’s machine gun as he cranks the handle deftly, spraying hundreds of rounds in mere minutes and ripping apart cabins, is as much a psychological weapon as a physical one. The Métis realize that they are up against a force that is far superior in equipment and numbers and especially in technology. In fact, a number of Métis are armed with old shotguns or single-shot muskets that are unwieldy to reload, and that’s if they have any ammunition left. Many of the men are already out of real bullets and now, on just the second day of battle, are forced to load their ancient guns with nails, old buttons from their jackets, even stones. Please, Louis, Gabriel prays, show us the miracle you’d promised would come. If any miracle happens on this Sunday, it’s that for a second full day the Métis in their shallow rifle pits are able not just to hold off but to absolutely confuse and stymie a force nearly five times its size, actually pushing them back a good distance from the church they’d so handily taken the day before. General Middleton is confused and angry. He at once fears the loss of his men to wily Métis hunters and is driven near mad that such a small force of desperate half-breeds continues to prove so difficult to crush.

  Once again, well before sunset on this second day, Howard’s Gatling protects the Canadian troops as they try to retreat to the relative safety of their stockade, but many of the soldiers are caught out in the open field near the church and two are killed by Métis marksmen. While the numbers of dead and wounded remain low on the Canadian side, the Métis continue to inflict their own psychological damage on the redcoats. Their hit-and-run tactics are working.

  On this second night, the Canadians sleep a little better. All day they’d laboured on strengthening their compound with earthworks, and the arrival of even more wagons and supplies makes them begin to feel invincible. Gabriel decides that his ammunition supply is too low to engage in another overnight campaign of terror, and so the Canadians are able to light fires and eat their first hot meal in two days before retiring.

  Monday drags out much the same as Sunday had. Gabriel expertly moves his men, undetected, throughout the fields and gullies from rifle pit to rifle pit; to save ammunition the Métis fire lightly, but in such a way that Middleton is convinced the priests were wrong about how many men are really hiding like wild animals in their shallow dens.

  Gabriel sends out one more desperate plea to Poundmaker and his warriors, begging them to join the Métis. If he could speak face-to-face with Poundmaker right now, he’d say, Look! We have held off their force all weekend. If you join us now, it will not be too late. Together we can send the Canadians back east with their tails between their legs. We can reclaim our freedoms and you will never be told again to live on a reserve and to dig in the earth for subsistence. A new day approaches. Join us
.

  Poundmaker, nervous about entering into such direct conflict but impressed by the Métis’ ability to defend, finally breaks camp and begins to move toward Batoche. His men hold many different opinions of this action, from belief in its destructive folly to exaltation at the prospect of old freedoms returning. Poundmaker moves across the prairie with a slow determination. He will not be rushed to foolhardy action. Gabriel worries that the Cree chief travels too slowly. He also knows that something is very close to breaking, and most certainly that break will come tomorrow.

  Gabriel hears word on Tuesday morning that Louis, holding the same cross he carried at Duck Lake, announced something odd to the congregation gathered in a grove by the river just as dawn broke: that if the skies today are clear, the Métis will be successful and will be saved. But Louis’s vision also revealed that if clouds cover the sun, the Métis will be doomed. Gabriel peers up from his foxhole and sunlight blinds him, falling warmly on his shoulders. Louis, you are an odd man, but a holy one. What other choice do I now have but to believe your strange words?

  General Middleton’s officers have finally convinced him that the last days’ lack of success means a new strategy needs to be tried. Middleton’s fear of an all-out attack is that his men will be slaughtered and he will in turn lose all credibility as a commander. He thinks he’s found a middle ground that will ensure success. Again, it is a two-pronged attack, this time strictly by land. One of his officers, Lieutenant-Colonel Van Straubenzie, will command a central force, the majority of the nine hundred soldiers now gathered at Batoche. Middleton will take a hundred and fifty men, a cannon, and the Gatling gun and ride in a wide sweep around Gabriel’s northeast flank. The hope is that Middleton’s ride will serve as a diversion and Gabriel will send most of his forces to protect against it. That is when Middleton will fire a large volley as a signal to Van Straubenzie, who will then charge in with his much greater force and rout the Métis once and for all.

  To what appears to be Middleton’s great surprise, everything goes as planned. He sees Gabriel rushing his men to Middleton’s flank. Gabriel has been waiting for this action for days, it turns out. Knowing that Middleton’s numbers were so much greater than his own, Gabriel’s been confused as to why a sweeping action such as this didn’t happen earlier. His northeast side has been the weakest all along. Gabriel’s been fooled by Middleton for the first time, believing the general to be in control of the majority of his forces, and now Gabriel leaves his midsection perilously unguarded. Middleton excitedly commands his soldiers to fire their signal shots to Van Straubenzie, but the wind has picked up so strongly that Van Straubenzie doesn’t hear the volley. Believing that Middleton has failed, Van Straubenzie sits patiently with his force, leaving Middleton confused and, eventually, in a great rage. Disgusted at his main force’s lack of a response, Middleton rides off dejectedly to lunch. He feels a fool, and for good reason. A perfect opportunity has been lost.

  While Middleton grumpily eats his lunch in the protection of the stockade, one of his officers, Lieutenant-Colonel Williams of the Midland Battalion of Port Hope, Ontario, sickened with frustration at the lack of proper generalship and recognizing the Métis’ weakened position, commands his battalion to charge straight down the middle. His men rise up as one, and with a great shout, charge the Métis rifle pits, many of them empty or manned by old men firing nails from shotguns. Within a half hour Williams has the Métis in full retreat, the sunshine of the day gone now and a light rain falling, the darkness Louis had spoken of this morning that signals the destruction of his people.

  Gabriel falls back to the river, and with the water at his back and a small group of maybe eight men, he holds off a force of dozens of Canadians for nearly a half hour. But eventually he, too, must flee. There’s no soldier alive who can find him once he decides to go into hiding in the surrounding countryside. Gabriel knows this much is true. But it gives him little comfort now that he sees defeat, and Louis’s miracle, so far, hasn’t arrived. Gabriel knows, deep inside, that it never will. Some of his braver men retreat to the town and hide in what buildings remain, fighting off the Canadians as long as they can before they are either killed, flee, or are roughly captured.

  And so this is how the Battle of Batoche, the last stand of the Métis, ends—not with a bang but a whimper. Old man Joseph Oullette, aged ninety-three years, is one of the last Métis to die, bayoneted to death by an overzealous young Canadian soldier as he lies defenceless in his rifle pit. Another Métis, this one a ten-year-old girl named Marcile Gratton, is killed by a stray Canadian bullet while trying to find her mother. The Métis that Gabriel had ordered to protect the northeast flank disappear into the woods, and few prisoners are taken this last afternoon. The women and children cowering in caves in the riverbank hear word of the collapse of Métis resistance, but it will take another day or two of near starvation and near freezing to death at night before they begin to trickle out and surrender to the Canadians. They throw themselves upon the mercy of Middleton and the others.

  With little organization, the Métis defenders melt into the surrounding plains and woods by the river, confused now as to what they should do. They, too, begin to surrender in dribs and drabs, unsure whether they will be executed on sight. But Gabriel knows this much: he will never surrender to Middleton, and he will never be captured, either. He spends the next three days brazenly riding and sneaking through the adjacent prairies, ravines, and coulees, searching for his dear friend Louis. Gabriel knows he has fled as well and hides somewhere nearby, praying and asking God’s mercy for his people at the hands of the victorious Canadians.

  Gabriel never finds Louis, but he does find Louis’s wife, Marguerite, and their two children. Like the other women and children, they are starving and cold, and so Gabriel spirits them to his father’s house. There, his father instructs Gabriel that he must leave: the angry Canadians will surely kill him if they find him. At first Gabriel refuses to listen to this talk; he can still serve a purpose by helping to feed and hide the Métis who won’t surrender. But even Gabriel’s beloved Madeleine urges him to flee, and he begins to realize he has no other option. Finally he agrees, and begins the long journey to the only safe place he can think of: the wild country of Montana in the United States. Gabriel lights out with his old friend, Michel Dumas, but even as they leave Batoche he is planning to raise a small force of Métis to perform a daring rescue of Louis, who surely must soon surrender.

  In all, about twenty-five souls lose their lives in the Battle of Batoche—not many at all by the horrific standards that would be set in the First World War a few decades hence, but plenty for a battle that should not have happened. The Métis resistance has been crushed. Homes are wrecked or burned down, the people hide in the woods like animals or give themselves up to the Canadian army, and Gabriel’s dream of a secure and prosperous homeland vanishes with him into the wilderness. What of Louis? Gabriel wonders as he rides away. What has happened to the prophet of the New World?

  CHAPTER TEN

  Wilderness

  On the afternoon that Batoche falls and the Métis are scattered, Louis is once more cast into the wilderness. But the pain of this particular suffering is so acute that he wonders if death isn’t the only option now. It would be simple enough to die. As simple as walking out of the poplar by the river where he hides on this day that he has lost everything, as simple as showing his bearded face to the first Canadian soldier he sees. Surely there’ll be no mercy for him.

  A few hours ago Louis watched in horror as the sun disappeared behind dark clouds while afternoon came. God spoke his decision. The Métis will perish at His hand now. They are being crushed. Louis must question if he has gone too far this time. Has he angered God by being so bold as to speak out loud that Rome has fallen and the new Rome will rise right here in the Canadian prairies? Has he gone too far in denouncing the inaction of the priests when it came to the sacred rights of the Métis? Has he gone too far in allowing himself to be called a prophet, th
e prophet of the New World? Louis still has the letter from Bishop Bourget telling him that he is meant for important things. But it strikes him now as he listens to the last of the Métis skirmishing in town with the redcoats—the women and children wailing in their holes in the riverbank, the dying half-breeds crying out for water in their foxholes—that maybe he was meant to lead his people to destruction, not salvation.

  The darkest night of his life begins as the rifle fire from town peters out and the crying of women and children turns into moans. Louis kneels and prays, begs God to show him some sign. But on this first night, nothing comes. Only the sounds of men whispering as they quietly slip through the woods and the shouts of victorious Canadians up in town.

  The next day the Canadian patrols swarm over the land, and many Métis fighters realize that it might be best to surrender and throw themselves on the mercy of Middleton. Word begins trickling out that the general is confiscating all weapons. With most farms in shambles the men need their guns to hunt for food, but this clearly will no longer be an option. What other choice is there but to surrender? Food supplies are gone and the women and children are hungry. The trickle turns into a steady stream of wretched halfbreeds holding white handkerchiefs and giving themselves up to redcoat patrols.