“That would be the Northcote,” said Durrant.
“The steamer was supposed to pass by Batoche at the same moment that Middleton’s ground forces came upon us from the east. The men were late in arriving, but eventually his mounted soldiers and riflemen were able to fight their way past the church and the rectory. Our lads scrambled back to their rifle pits in time to keep them from taking the Mission Ridge.”
The three men reached the cemetery. “We got back in time to put up quite the fight,” Lambert continued. “It was at times close quarters. We were just fifty yards from one another. They even managed to get their field guns up to the crest of the ridge and fire down onto the town. We had the advantage of cover, while they were mostly lined up in the open. That’s the way it went for several hours. Middleton would press any advantage he could find, and we’d fend off his advances.
“Around three o’clock, General Dumont decided to try and circle around the soldiers on the north flank. They had that Gatling gun on loan from the Yanks, and put it to good use. Dumont ordered that a brush fire be set and we would advance on their border through the smoke. It would have worked. We might have surrounded them, had they not turned that gun on us. It held us at bay.
“This whole time I was in this rifle pit.” Lambert carefully stepped down into the pit and leaned against the logs that had been stacked on its north wall to provide cover and a slit through which the Métis man could fire his weapon. “I was armed with an old single-shot Sharps Silhouette. It was my buffalo gun. I don’t think you whites understand. We are starving. Our crops have failed, the buffalo are gone, and the food that Macdonald promised is being lorded over us by the Indian Agents. We have become beggars. It was the last straw of many, many insults. That’s why Dumont told us to fight. That’s why Riel returned. I sat in this pit and shot at Middleton’s soldiers.”
“Did you shoot anybody?” asked Durrant.
“There was but one man dead from Middleton’s forces that day, and it was out yonder, on the Mission Ridge. Fellow named Phillips gunned down when they tried to take the ridge early in the afternoon. We suffered our losses too. I might have zipped a few fellows, but I didn’t kill a man.”
“Tell us about Rueben Wake,” Durrant said.
“I told you about our scouts and spies. We watched Middleton’s advance up the Humboldt Trail. It turns out that those bastards took to looting as they went. I had left my family at my farm, believing that if this was to be a fair fight, they would be safe there. That was a mistake. Just about the time that the Northcote was steaming up toward Batoche, mon ami arrived to tell me the news. My friend told me that the night before, men had gone to my farm, just a mile off the road, and there found my wife and children. My friend, he watched much of this from the hill above my farm, but he was alone, and there were a dozen men. He said that they were the men who cared for the horses, coming along behind Middleton’s forces. They took my family out of the house and took all of our stores and put them in a wagon. They torched the house and watched as it burned to the ground. Mon petit garçon—he is but eleven—he tried to stop him and they beat him. One of the men took my little girl away to the barn.”
“Did your friend see what happened next?”
Lambert pushed tears away from his face. “No, he did not. But what is a man to believe?”
“How do you know it was the man Reuben Wake?”
“My friend had seen this man before in Batoche. He had come often, with his horses and wagons, bringing supplies, trading. He had been here when Dumont went to bring our father Riel back.”
“You were told, just before the fighting, that your farm had been burned, and that your daughter may well have been hurt by the man Wake. What did you do?”
“What could I do? The fighting had started! When Middleton retreated to his compound that night, he posted men all along the bluffs and the river, and try as I might, I could not get past them. I slept that night just two hundred yards from your encampment. In the morning, I decided that for the honour of my family I must kill this man Reuben Wake.”
“Did you?” asked Durrant.
Lambert was sobbing now. “How could I? I could not get to him! I heard that on the second day he did not leave the enemy camp. On the third, he went with Middleton to La Jolie Prairie, and there he received a wound and once again hid in the compound. I broke ranks that day! God forgive me, but I saw how things might go for Dumont. We had nothing left. We were out of bullets. We were melting down lead balls pried from trees to make something to shoot. I went again to the compound to try and find Wake but could not, as there were too many soldiers, and in the afternoon there was a great charge, and the town fell. Dumont fled, and Riel hid, and the resistance came to an end.”
“You were found on the riverbank, near suppertime. Doctor Armatage tells me you tried to cut your wrists.”
“I had fired my last round. What could I do? If I had a single cartridge left, I would have taken my life with it, but all I had was my knife. I cut my wrists and waited to face the punishment of God for my sin. But instead—”
“Instead the soldiers found you and took you to the zareba.”
“That’s where I saw Reuben Wake, already dead.”
“You saw him?” asked Durrant, his voice betraying his astonishment.
“I was put down on the ground to await the doctor just a few feet from where this devil lay!”
“How did you recognize him?” asked Durrant.
“I saw him when he was in our midst, under the guise of a friend. I will never forget him.”
“Did you see what happened to his body?”
“What do you mean?” asked Lambert.
“His body is missing. We can’t find it.”
Lambert spat into the dirt at his feet. “That band of crows has come to peck out his eyes! Before I was taken to have my wounds dressed, I saw two men come and take the body away. I suppose they were to bury it. I wish that I had thrown the first shovel.”
“Mr. Lambert, I know you have suffered a terrible blow, but I must ask you a question. Did you find a way into the zareba, make your way to Wake, use his pistol, kill him, return to the river, and cut your own wrists?”
Lambert looked at Durrant. “If I had killed him, I would have gone to my family and told them immediately. If I had been able to dispatch this beast, I would have gladly declared it to the world. My only crime is not having avenged my family’s disgrace.”
Durrant stood up, pressing hard on the cane as he did. Now there were three men who would have gladly killed Reuben Wake, all proclaiming their regret for not having been able to do it.
WHEN THEY RETURNED to the zareba, Durrant and Saul returned Mr. Lambert to the infirmary and instructed a member of the North West Field Force that he was not to be allowed to leave without Durrant’s consent. They quickly went in search of Garnet Moberly and found him with other members of the Surveyors Intelligence Corps, preparing for the evening meal. “Ah, Durrant, and the good Doctor Armatage, you must both join us for supper.” About thirty men sat around a roaring blaze. They wore no uniforms but instead bore the dress of men accustomed to living and working in rugged country: sturdy boots and heavy coats. Each had a rifle leaning on a leg or close at hand, and several had pistols tucked into their belts.
Garnet stood on a crate of tinned meat and introduced, with some rhetorical flourish, the company’s two guests. The surveyors clapped and hurrahed and then tin plates were passed to the men. Durrant tucked in and looked at Garnet. “This is not the bully beef we’ve grown accustomed to. This isn’t from the main cook tent, is it?”
“No, sir! My Mr. Jimmy has been serving as company cook and steward since we assembled with Wheeler this last month.”
“Luckiest company of soldiers in the field force.” Saul ate appreciatively.
“Let us tell you what we have learned,” said Durrant.
“Excellent,” said Garnet, “and I have news for you, but I’m afraid it complicates matters furt
her.”
“I should expect nothing less,” said Durrant. He shared his information with Garnet.
“That sounds eerily like the confession of Terrance La Biche,” said Garnet. “It would seem that few who knew this man Wake did not wish him dead.”
Durrant continued. “It turns out that after Mr. Lambert was confined to the infirmary for his self-inflicted wounds, he actually laid eyes on the deceased man, only to witness two men carting him off, supposedly for burial.”
“Might he identify these men?”
“He may. We’ve posted a watch and will continue our conversation with the man in the coming days. Now, what news do you bring?”
“These good fellows have been charged with being my eyes and ears about the camp and through the surrounding country. I trust them and they are careful observers,” said Garnet, regarding the surveyors. “Word has come to my ears this afternoon that there is a small encampment of Dakota Indians on the western bank of the river. These were men cajoled into fighting in Dumont’s army after he hazed off their livestock and browbeat them to take up arms. They did little in the way of actual fighting, and most fled when the going got hot, but I have learned that there is one man who also had a history with Reuben Wake.”
“Good Lord Almighty, is there no man in the North West Territories that Wake did not cross?”
“It seems that Wake was an Indian Agent some four years ago, and at the time committed some grievous wrongs against the Dakota, including one of the warriors in this particular band. That man is still in the camp.”
Durrant put down his plate. “I suppose come first light we shall have to inquire about a ferry.”
TWELVE
ACROSS THE SASKATCHEWAN
MAY 17, 1885.
Durrant woke to the sound of birdsong. He rose, affixed his prosthetic, and gathered his greatcoat about him as he went in search of coffee and something that might pass as breakfast. The zareba was noticeably quieter. Nearly one third of the twelve hundred men had marched west the previous day. Within an hour, he, Garnet Moberly, and Saul Armatage were warming their hands by a small fire.
“I think it best if just we three visit the Dakota camp,” said Garnet. “The lads from the survey corps would gladly come along, but I don’t think it would serve our cause.”
“I aim to make our presence there about more than just this inquiry.” The doctor finished his coffee and tapped his cup out on a rock next to the fire. “I’ll be bringing some medicine and will ensure that those who are willing are doctored.”
“It’s a good idea, Saul,” said Durrant. “Maybe Garnet and I might see if we can liberate any of the cook’s biscuits and beans and offer them as a means of easing hunger and suspicion. I’ll ask Tommy Provost to help secure some of these supplies. He has an air of authority about him.”
Garnet smirked. “I’m not certain that those biscuits would be considered a peace offering. More like a declaration of war.”
Durrant found Provost and by nine o’clock the four men, along with a fifth horse loaded with supplies, were riding out of the zareba. They rode through the town and were greeted with suspicion and contempt by the Métis, who were hard at work repairing holes in roofs and walls.
“Jacques Lambert told us yesterday of the starvation among the Métis, Cree, and Dakota,” said Durrant.
“The Queen, upon signing the treaties with these people, promised them relief from famine. In the direst of circumstances, it was promised that stores would be brought in from the east,” said Saul, “but still these people starve. The bison were hunted to extinction, and the agents who were to provide lessons in farming have failed to do so. They are more interested in keeping what they can for themselves.”
Provost seemed uncomfortable with the subject matter. He stood stiffly next to his mount and looked down at this boots.
“You told us yesterday that Reuben Wake was an Indian Agent,” said Durrant to Saul.
“He was. I can well imagine how he must have meted out both his knowledge and the stores to which he was entrusted.”
Provost cleared his throat. “These agents were to serve the Indians, not make their lives miserable.”
“I’m afraid that human nature breeds its share of malfeasance,” said Saul.
The ferry was nearing the eastern shore of the Saskatchewan, and the four stepped up their mounts. When the rig was ashore, they pressed the animals forward. Garnet spoke to the ferryman in French and they began to cross.
“You constantly astound me.” Durrant regarded his friend.
“How so, Sergeant Wallace?”
“You speak French?”
“Of course. After the trouble with the Zulu”—he put a gloved finger to the scar that ran down his face, dissecting his left eye—“I was asked to serve Her Majesty for two years as an assistant to the attaché in Côte d’Ivoire. I suppose I was a sort of bodyguard. Needless to say, French was a necessity.”
The men rode away from the river. In five minutes they were at the Dakota camp, where a dozen tipis were set back from the trail and surrounded by a grove of what would be gentle poplars later in the spring but were now the skeletal remains of winter. The four men slowed their approach. Several mange-stricken dogs advanced from the camp.
A pair of men emerged from the nearest tipi to greet them, pulling heavy buffalo robes around their shoulders. They were cradling rifles in their arms as they approached the riders, who all swung down from their mounts. When the two Dakota men were before them, Garnet stepped forward and offered his hand.
“Do you speak English?”
“A little bit.” The first man offered his hand from under the robe. The naked arm looked thin, even emaciated, to the men. Saul’s face grew sombre.
“We come with food and medicine,” said Garnet.
“My English name is Iron Crow—Kangi Maza in our own words. This is my brother-in-law, Stands-his-Ground. We are Dakota. Dumont and his Métis forced us to fight. Our cattle were run off. Now we have nothing.”
“We can help.” Durrant spoke in Sioux.
“You speak our language?” asked Iron Crow. Durrant noticed for the first time that Iron Crow had lost several of his teeth.
“I speak Lakota, in the Sioux tongue. I was stationed at Fort Walsh for many years. Although the dialects are different, we may understand one another a little bit. I am here to ask questions, because among you there is one who may help me understand a murder that I am . . . interested in. What we have brought with us we will leave whether or not there are answers. My friend, the doctor, would be happy to help anybody who might be ill.”
Iron Crow turned and looked at Stands-his-Ground. He spoke again in English. “As for the ill, that would be nearly all. As for your questions, ask what you like. I am the one who can tell you what you want to know. I will sit with you now.”
DURRANT WAS WELCOMED into Iron Crow’s tipi. There in the darkness were half a dozen other people. The space was warm and smelled faintly of leather. Heavy buffalo hides had been stretched out to create a comfortable floor. Iron Crow spoke in Dakota to the others in the tipi and asked them to leave.
Durrant spoke in the Lakota dialect of Souix as they gathered their robes about them and made for the door. “They can stay.”
“It is best. Some things should only be spoken between men.”
Durrant realized that there were only women in the tent, and wondered how many men were left in the encampment.
“Let us speak in English, so we might understand one another better. Please, sit,” said Iron Crow, and Durrant awkwardly lowered himself to the floor. “You are the one-legged Red Coat. I’ve heard your story. Did you catch the men who did this to you?”
“Not yet. But I haven’t stopped looking.”
“That’s the thing about you whites. You never stop looking. Our leader, White Cloud, fled when the soldiers stormed Batoche. I am an old man and did not do any real fighting. I just scouted. But I fear that the whites will not stop looking for som
eone to take their anger out on.”
“I can’t promise you that Middleton’s soldiers won’t.”
“Most other whites would try to tell me a lie. They would say that nobody would harm my family if only I would tell them what they want to know.”
“I learned to parley with the Lakota in the Cypress Hills when they fled the Dakota Territory after Wounded Knee. Sam Steele told me never to lie. Never. I won’t lie to you. Do you know who the man was who was murdered inside our camp?”
“He was the white man called Reuben Wake. Some years ago, when my people came to the Saskatchewan Territory, Mr. Wake was an Indian Agent in the Willow Valley, to the east of the Cypress Hills. We settled awhile there. We hoped to hunt but were told that we had to farm instead. Since the start of time, my people have been hunters moving with the seasons to follow the animals. Mr. Wake, and others, told us that we had to live in sod huts and grow crops. He told us that Macdonald would take care of us if we did. Some of us tried. When things didn’t work, we decided that we had to move north to find game. Mr. Wake told us that we could not.
“He told us the good country in the Qu’Appelle Valley and along the Saskatchewan River was for the whites, and that the Métis had already been driven off. I was a younger man then, and stronger. When Wake told us this, we quarrelled. He told me that if my people didn’t remain where we were, he would kill my family.” The fire popped and a cluster of sparks rose and circled toward the opening in the ceiling. “What could I do? I knew for him it was about money. He was stealing the money that he was supposed to use to buy food and blankets. We Sioux had fought for and lost our homes in America. Now we were going to lose our homes again? We had a council, and it was decided that we would wait for our own chance to live once again as we always have.”
“How did Wake take this news?”
“He put a knife to my throat and told me that if I rode to town he would kill my wife and my children. I could have killed him, but there were other whites in that place who believed we were savages. I waited. It seemed as if the waiting was the right thing to do, because the following year Wake left. It was only later I heard that he was filled with more evil than I could have known.”
The Third Riel Conspiracy Page 9