by Maia Caron
The Indians were the wild card. The new agent at Frog Lake was starving-out Big Bear to get him on the damn reserve. But if the old chief came south with his warriors, then powerful men like Pound-maker and Little Poplar would leave their little patches of earth and join in. European settlers would not take kindly to the warrior societies beating drums and sharpening their tomahawks.
The breeds were a brutish lot. Savage Indian on one side and vulgar French on the other. The worst of two arrogant races, formidable men on the plains, and easy to manipulate. Only a few of them had proved that theory wrong. Gabriel Dumont for one. He’d locked horns with him ten years ago when Dumont had formed the St. Laurent Council to petition for land and govern the last buffalo hunts. Dumont got too big for his britches and Clarke had to rein him in. In revenge, Dumont started watching him closely and learned that he was trading rations to the area chiefs in exchange for their headdresses and regalia—selling them to the Smithsonian Museum in Washington. Dumont had issued a threat: Best not find yourself alone on the trail at night if you value your scalp.
Clarke ran a hand over his thinning hair and looked up at Riel. “Why not do what you did in Red River? That made Macdonald listen. You were a genius to take Fort Garry. And a provisional government? Ottawa needs politicians like you—willing to take risks.”
Riel stood abruptly and put on his hat. Clarke worried that he’d gone too far.
“I trust you will do your best to explain to Macdonald that we are earnest in our desire to have all of these demands honoured,” Riel said, his eyes now hard and unsettling. “We have the support of the Métis of Red River—Archbishop Taché is reading a copy of the petition as we speak.”
After the men left his office, Clarke went to the window to watch them emerge in the busy street below. They were in earnest. His body thrilled with an almost childlike excitement. But one must be careful. All of the players were in place on the board of a complicated game. He had not heard of any meetings between Riel and the half-breeds in Red River. But he would find out.
The feeder railway line had already been started, and like Macdonald’s own CPR, had run into financial troubles. The tracks now languished in swamp, unfinished near Qu’Appelle. Clarke considered it his life’s purpose to get it finished. There might be a brief lull as immigrants refused to come in after savage Indians and breeds had staged an uprising, but when the last tie on that line was laid, they would come all right. The rebellion would long be forgotten and any remaining Métis stragglers would be serving time for treason, dispersed, or shamed out of the territory.
Clarke packed and lighted his pipe, savouring the first draw with closed eyes. He would ride out the next morning and be on a train from Regina to Ottawa in two days. He’d present the petition to Macdonald and offer his suggestions when the prime minister refused to honour it. Then return and enjoy a front-row seat to a rebellion that would be the making of a country.
beyond comfort
in this life
A series of punishing blizzards during the first half of December had blocked them in with snow piled four feet high around the house. A week before Christmas, it warmed, and the drifts began to melt and soften.
Josette and her children had trudged through the snow to a stand of small poplar north of the house, on the bluff above the river. Her mother had taught her to harvest poplar buds before they opened in late January or February, but many large branches had come down in the storms, and Josette would not let them go to waste.
The sun hung like a still, dull orb behind a veil of cloud that drifted like smoke across the sky. A grey mist obscured the far horizon. Despite milder temperatures, the Saskatchewan was still frozen solid and riddled with snow-crusted pathways that had been cut by deer, wolves, and men. Because of the drought last summer, there had been no vegetables to put up from the gardens. The men were forced to find work in Battleford, a day’s ride north, where more white settlers had arrived, needing shelter. Norbert had taken his dogs and sled up there to work with other Métis, constructing a mill.
While her sons picked buds off the smaller downed branches, Josette and Cleophile shared the use of the hand axe to cut bigger fallen limbs to size. Later, in the warmth of the house, they would shave the bark for making tea to strengthen Eulalie’s heart and lungs. Her second oldest was at the end of a persistent cough, but had come out bundled in a blanket to hold the tin pail for the buds, her hair smelling of woodsmoke from sleeping close to the stove. Josette stroked the girl’s cheek and felt her forehead. Eulalie resembled her father, tall and with the strong chin, but was sweet and gentle in disposition—so different from Cleophile.
Overhead came the distinctive chucking call of wîskipôs, a whiskey jack. Eulalie peered up at it. “Wîskipôs does not like that we are stealing bark he needs for his nest.”
“Offer tobacco,” Cleophile said. Her normally guarded expression was now transformed by rapt attention to the task of stripping buds. They made a soft thudding sound as they went into the pail, releasing a strong resin scent, which was like perfume to Josette, and brought back memories of harvesting them with her mother on the banks of the Red River.
Patrice had wandered away to collect twigs from another tree. In a moment, he called out and showed them a place where a pack of stray dogs or wolves had recently killed and devoured a deer. The snow was stained red with the animal’s blood. Even its bones had been eaten or dragged off, and only an antler was left among the scraps of bloody hide. If Norbert had been here, he would have seen the buck’s tracks and hunted it down, providing them with fresh meat. But she would not trade a full stomach for his presence.
The month of the Cold Moon was her least favourite time of year, yet these had been the best days of her life, taking the children in the cutter to St. Laurent to teach William Jackson, enjoying the banter between him and Riel, and the secretive looks Riel would give her at times, over William’s head: only you and I know. Only we.
Josette looked south in time to see Gabriel emerge from his house. He followed the packed snow footpath across his front pasture and glanced up toward her farm in a way he had never done in the past. He hesitated for a moment before disappearing into his barn.
She’d seen him at the Ouellette wedding, but they hadn’t spoken since that day in the woods on the trail to Prince Albert. When she had raised her fears that Riel might very well cause them trouble, he had assured her, I will not let him fail. She would not forget how he had looked at her, a promise, but something else, too. It had seemed they would be close, disciples standing by their prophet. If Riel had asked the priests to bless the forming of a provisional government, he could not still be dreaming of his own church. Josette suspected that Gabriel avoided her because he was unable to deliver on his promise, and that he rode out even in the storms with his brother Isidore, assembling an army of Métis to back Riel if he must rebel against Ottawa.
Madeleine was nowhere in sight. Was it possible that she had gone up to Batoche? Josette went to the edge of the trees as Gabriel led his roan out of the barn and swung up into the saddle. His mare picked her way forward in the snow to find the Humboldt Trail in his back fields, then he looked over his shoulder and saw her, but did not slow his horse, only touched his hat with a gloved hand before settling into a canter south.
There was a movement of black in the yard, like a crow flapping against the snow, and there was Madeleine, who had come down from her porch and stood staring after him, hands on her hips. When she turned, she looked up at Josette, who raised her arm in a tentative wave. Madeleine nodded curtly before returning to the house. In the old days, she would beckon for her to come down and they would bake together, the children playing in the kitchen. Josette could not understand her behaviour. It was not like Madeleine to be possessive, but if she was going to resent anyone it should be Riel, who had thrown Gabriel and Josette together by making them his disciples.
As Gabriel’s figure receded to the south, she thought of the last time she’d bee
n in St. Laurent. Louis had been on edge, anticipating a response to his petition, which he hoped would come before the new year. He told her that he had sent a scout to find her grandfather, but the scout had returned, saying that Big Bear had taken his band closer to the Frog Lake reserve. Riel had paced, unable to hide his disappointment that her grandfather was yielding to Ottawa in order to feed his starving band. She had felt guilty for not doing enough to persuade Mosom, but he had the survival of his people to think of, not putting his mark on a half-breed petition.
She went back to her children in the tree cover. Patrice was cleaning the antler he’d found in the snow, and singing an old Cree song about whiskey jacks. He mixed it up with another song about being stolen by a bear and soon had even Cleophile laughing. The sun broke through the clouds, and they returned to the house, playing a guessing game as they walked. As they neared the barn, a man on a horse came down the north Humboldt Trail from Batoche.
“It’s l’Anglais,” said Eulalie. “The one in love with La Rose.”
“We’re going up to St. Laurent tomorrow,” Cleophile said with a scowl. “Why is he here?”
“Don’t be selfish. William will soon be confirmed. He needs my help with the abjuration.” It worried Josette that Cleophile was often stricken by black moods, yet she had seen other young girls close to their first blood acting this way.
After William had taken his horse to the barn, he climbed to the porch, removing his fringed buckskin gloves and fur hat. He wore a Hudson’s Bay blanket over his coat, tied with a ceinture fléchée that La Rose Ouellette had woven him. His hair was now long, and he kept it parted in the middle and straight down the back of his neck. Some said he now thought of himself as a Métis. He held out his hand dramatically to Josette. “Turn your ear towards me and answer me quickly when I call,” he said. “For my days are vanishing like smoke, my bones burn away like a fire.”
She laughed. How fond she had become of him. “You’ve memorized your penitentiary psalm. Does it give you comfort?”
William’s expression quickly changed. “I am beyond comfort in this life.”
“You are meant to be joyful now that you are reformed to the true Church.”
He shook his head. “If I’d known how involved this conversion would be, I would not have had the courage to undertake it. I confess the abjuration is knocking the stuffing out of me.”
It had been a challenge for her, as well, to revisit the infallible dogmas of the Church. She understood why William might struggle with the abjuration, where he must renounce his Methodist religion as a “heretic cult,” and “a preposterous contention in the supernatural order.” Her eyes went to his saddlebag, seeking the telltale outline of a book. He had recently lent her a volume of poems by Ralph Waldo Emerson. She had not read anything like it—as if the man had taken Spinoza’s thoughts and set them to verse. She had devoured the book in one sitting, fascinated by this poet who William told her had kept his own prodigious diaries. One poem in particular had captured her, which William later told her he’d written for his son, who had died at a young age:
“I am too much bereft
The world dishonored thou hast left.”
It had stirred memories of P’tite Marie, but she was inspired to put her hand to his style, had even given the resulting poem to Louis, heart in her mouth to share this private grief.
Josette built up the kitchen fire and sat down at the table with William. He had brought his dog-eared copy of the abjuration, and she decided not to press him on why they were holding the lesson here and not in the house where he stayed with Riel and his family in St. Laurent. They went over the Profession of Faith, which he must understand and sign before Father Moulin.
William admitted to having trouble with a clause that demanded he promise true obedience to the pope in Rome. “Louis let me read a poem he wrote,” he said. “He described the pope as a pasha—sly and dangerous as a cat. He wants the fiercest war waged to destroy the Roman Church.”
She looked up at him, thinking for a moment, that she had misheard, but William would not meet her eye. “Riel told me he wanted to reform the Church,” she said, with relief to finally speak of his secret. “But I thought it was a dream of his, harmless.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “A dream is all it is.”
He glanced at her, his face drawn. She knew that he had the same questions in his mind: why had Riel bothered with the petition if he feared it would be ignored? Why ask for the priests’ blessing to create a provisional government if he hated their church and meant to reform it?
William looked down at the abjuration, jiggling one foot in a repetitive, nervous gesture, and there was an unusual look in his eyes. He obviously did not find humour in the idea that he was converting to a religion Riel meant to throw down. That Riel was sponsoring his conversion and would act as godfather at his baptism had put William in an intolerable position.
She pulled the abjuration toward her on the table and made a halfhearted attempt to explain church hierarchy to him, but he drew in a breath and said, “After we gave that bastard Clarke the petition, Riel came to my sister’s apartment for dinner. We had an argument over land rights. He was certain the food was poisoned and rushed out to throw up in the snow.” William paused, his face now flushed in agitation. “I went after him and do you know what he said to me? Accused me of being among those who wish him dead.”
Josette got up to put the kettle on for tea. She thought of Louis’ bizarre actions at the Ouellette wedding. Now here were worries of being poisoned by William, of all people. He had fallen silent and she turned, not used to seeing him at a loss for words.
“I did not tell you,” he said, low-voiced. “A delegation from Red River came last month to see Louis and Gabriel.”
She fought resentment that she had been kept out of important matters. “Louis’ old supporters?”
“Not the ones he wanted to see. His two war captains did not come.”
“They are too old now.”
“Ambroise Lépine is forty-five. André Nault, ten years older.” William shook his head. “They sent their nephews and cousins. They wished to form a Union of the Métis to support our cause. Riel insisted they take back the petition to their Archbishop in Red River.”
She looked at him with incomprehension. “What good will it do for a priest to have it first?”
“Taché intervened in the Red River troubles. Louis wanted Macdonald to get wind of it, fear we are collaborating. The threat is there: Manitoba is not glad of you—the North-West is not glad of you either.”
“I should have known this. Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” William said nothing, only fixed her with his doleful eyes. “What is it?” she said, thinking the worst. “Is Riel ill?”
“No,” he said, sounding unconvinced. “He no longer wants you coming up to the house.”
Although the fire was hot at her back, she stood transfixed, unable to speak.
“He thinks someone in our inner circle is spying for Father André and the priests.” William eyed her cautiously. “He thinks that someone is you.”
a viper poisons
the nest
Father moulin pushed back from the kitchen table and glanced around at the faces of Fathers André, Fourmond, and Vegreville. André had called an emergency meeting, and the priests of the South Branch had gathered at Fourmond’s rectory in St. Laurent. Moulin thought of helping himself to more of the rabbit stew that had been made by one of their Métis parishioners, but stopped himself. It would not do to show greed when tension was so high.
His hands out of sight beneath the table, Moulin began to pick at his ragged cuticles, but with slow comprehension became aware that Father André had looked up from his bowl to fix him with an indignant stare. André was a stout country Frenchman who had, in his youth, held his own in the Métis canoes and on the trail. The old priest had dedicated the last twenty-five years of his life to ensure the breeds established a strong French community in the
Saskatchewan, had even helped Gabriel Dumont petition for their lands. André had worked hard to earn their trust—built parishes and brought three priests here to minister. Now Riel threatened to undo it all.
“Lawrence Clarke tells me Riel left him with a threat of support from the half-breeds of Red River,” André said to Moulin. “That they met with Riel and Dumont in your church.”
The eyes of the other priests went to him, and Moulin felt the urge to scratch at the carbuncles on his back. He thought of that day last month, when Riel and Dumont had entered the church after Mass with a delegation from Manitoba. The Red River half-breeds had been respectable men, dressed in their best suits.
“Why did they come?” asked André.
“I thought the archbishop meant for me to bless them,” Moulin said, disturbed at the irritation in the priest’s voice. “They asked me to choose a patron saint as head of their society …” He trailed off, now realizing that any society formed with Riel and Dumont was of an evil nature.
“What society?”
“I believe they called it, l’Union nationale métisse Saint-Joseph,” Moulin said in a small voice.
“And you did not tell me? You did you not realize these were the very men who supported Riel in the Red River troubles?”
“They had a letter … from Archbishop Taché.”
“They also took back a draft of Riel’s petition for him to read.”
Moulin was mortified. He had warned Josette that Riel threatened to form a provisional government, and yet failed to notice sin taking place under his very nose. He had been too eager to see a letter addressed to him from such an important man of the Church. His fingers had shaken when opening it.