Belle of Batoche

by Jacqueline Guest

  “Congratulations!” she said, handing Belle the folded note. “I believe you are now the winner of the contest. One day, I hope to come back and perhaps see your work on display at the church.”

  “Come back?” It was then that Belle noticed the trunks and bags piled around the room. “Are you leaving Batoche?” she asked.

  “Yes. I’m afraid with all the troubles, my family has decided it is too dangerous for me to live out here alone. My son is coming this morning and I will go to live with him in Regina.” She shuffled over to a well-worn trunk and opened the lid.

  Reaching inside she removed the most beautiful thing Belle had ever seen. It was a fabulously embroidered red silk bag. She held it out to Belle.

  “Take it, child! I want you to have it.” The old lady chuckled. “A parting gift from the witch who lives in the haunted house.”

  Belle reached for the braided cord from which the extraordinary bag was suspended. The scenes looked like pictures Belle had seen once in a book from China. Clouds swirled around the peaks of lofty mountains and strange looking houses with curved roofs nestled in valleys. Delicate ladies wore long dresses with wide sleeves. The details were so exact that Belle could see the exotic tilt of the ladies’ eyes as they hid their faces behind decorative fans.

  “Did you make this?” she asked in a whisper.

  “Yes, a long time ago. I think someone who is just learning to sew should understand that embroidery is not just a chore, but an art. If you look inside, there is a set of tools to help you.” Madame Coteau nodded for Belle to look.

  Belle reached into the silken bag and withdrew a small pair of scissors shaped like a tall bird, a magnifying glass set in silver and an ornate silver needle case with five golden needles. She drew in her breath. “Oh, Madame! I couldn’t!” Belle protested.

  “Nonsense, child! Now run along. I must finish my packing.” Madame Coteau escorted Belle to the door.

  “Merci beaucoup, thank you, Madame, and bonne chance, good luck!” Belle tucked the note she’d been given into the beautiful bag, slung the strap over her shoulder and waved good-bye to the fragile old woman framed in the doorway.

  Belle had nearly reached the canoe when she thought of how surprised her mother would be when she saw the beautiful bag!

  Her mother! Belle looked up at the sun, now well above the horizon. It was late! She hadn’t meant to stay so long. It must be after eight o’clock, way past breakfast, and her mother must know by now that she had slipped out. How was she going to explain?

  Belle stopped, listening intently as an unfamiliar sound drifted to her on the early morning breeze.

  Gunfire!

  Batoche was under attack!

  11

  Attack on Batoche!

  Belle’s breath caught in her chest. She looked across the river to the south. There, far in the distance, columns of mounted men and foot soldiers moved toward Batoche. It was happening, just as everyone had feared. Batoche was under attack!

  But those soldiers were still far away and the gunfire she’d heard was close by. Where was it coming from? As she broke through the willows at the river’s edge, she saw it.

  A massive steamboat with Northcote painted on its prow was heading toward Batoche. The large boat’s two decks were fortified to protect the soldiers who were firing at the Metis on the riverbank. Black clouds billowed from its twin smokestacks as it churned up the river.

  The Metis fired at the floating fortress. Puffs of smoke rose from the bushes along the shoreline where the defenders were hidden.

  Ducking back into the willows, Belle waited until the boat passed, then with shaking hands she pushed her canoe into the water. She must get across the river before the soldiers on the boat spotted her.

  The sound of gunfire from the big boat was louder as it came to her over the water. Her mother would be frantic with worry!

  The shortest distance was to paddle straight across the river, but when she pointed her canoe at the opposite shore, the current’s pull grew much stronger. She focused on paddling, fighting the current with every stroke. She felt rather than saw the canoe tipping. Water splashed over the edge and soaked her dress and the beautiful embroidered bag.

  Belle tried to steady her craft. If it were swamped now, she would be an easy target as she struggled to get to shore. She angled the bow slightly, which would take her dangerously close to the stern of the steamboat, but made it easier to control the canoe.

  A sudden shriek of tearing metal and yelling from the big boat made her look up. She couldn’t believe her eyes.

  As the Northcote moved upstream, the Metis had lowered the cable that pulled the ferry across the river. The cable had sheared off the twin smokestacks, which had fallen to the deck below. Smoke billowed out of the stricken boat as men ran here and there.

  Without the smokestacks, the engines had no power, and the big boat listed and turned out of control as the current tore at the hull, pushing it back downstream.

  Belle gasped. The huge boat was heading straight for her!

  She paddled frantically as the Northcote loomed over her. Pointing the canoe directly across the path of the steamboat, Belle pulled on the paddle with all her might.

  Her back ached with the strain. The disabled steamboat drew closer and closer, pushed by the force of the river on its broad hull. With less than a paddle’s length separating them, Belle propelled the canoe forward and out of the path of the lumbering giant.

  A stray bullet whizzed past her as she reached the shore. She leapt out of the canoe and ran for the cover of the bushes. The shooting was fierce. She had to work her way down the riverbank away from the fighting.

  Taking care to keep under the cover of the dense willows, Belle scrambled through the brush, branches tearing at her face and hair. Fear drove her on. Her friends and family were back there fighting, or hurt, or worse.

  Belle forced her mind to go blank.

  She worked her way south along the river- bank and started to make a wide circle back to Batoche. The column of soldiers was much closer now, and Belle decided to let them pass by before she made her break.

  She was astonished at how many men there were. Hundreds and hundreds of soldiers were coming to fight the Metis. Through the dust rising from their horses, she glimpsed a strange looking weapon that was so large it was mounted on two wheels. The barrel wasn’t a single metal tube, but many all joined together in a group and it had a tall rod sticking out of the top filled with bullets. On the side was a crank, which Belle realized would be used to fire the deadly bullets. This was the terrible Gatling gun she had heard about. It could shoot many rounds per minute, and there was no defense against it.

  As she made her way to the top of a sharp rise, Belle was surprised to hear voices coming from the other side. Dropping to her knees, she crawled to the edge and peered over.

  Below her, three soldiers stood with their horses. One was tightening the cinch on the saddle as his mount skittered nervously. They were all smoking cigars. The smell made Belle think of burning manure.

  “McCorry, hurry up! We’re falling behind!” growled a tall soldier with a drooping moustache.

  “Don’t worry, Nattras. When they start firing that nine-pound cannon, there’ll be so much confusion, we’ll have no trouble taking the bell.” He kneed his horse in the belly to get the big mare to blow out her breath, then pulled the cinch tight.

  The third man remounted his tall black horse. “Quit jawin’ and mount up! We might not be the only ones who know about the silver waiting in that bell tower.”

  “Who made you boss, Stainthorp?” The one called McCorry laughed, climbing back on his horse. “When we melt that bell down, even split three ways, we’ll have more money than we could make in a year in this stinking army.”

  The three men moved off at a canter as Belle watched, wide-eyed. They could only have been talking about one thing: Marie-Antoinette!

  They were going to steal the bell from the church!


  12

  Hide Out!

  Belle looked back toward the river. She could still hear the gunfire, but she had no choice. She would have to go into the heart of the fighting to warn Father Moulin what was going to happen.

  Belle scrambled to her feet and ran as fast as she could for Batoche!

  Her breath came in ragged gasps as she topped the last hill on the outskirts of the town. She stared in disbelief at the scene below.

  Women and children were running everywhere, fleeing the echoing gunfire. The cannon boomed. Where the shells struck, houses exploded as though they were made of matchsticks.

  Belle became aware of a smoky haze in the air around her. “Oh no!” she whispered. Directly below her on the riverbank, the Johnson house was on fire! Flames licked the sides of the wooden building, reaching fiery tentacles toward the roof where, to Belle’s horror, Sarah clung to the chimney, her brother Samuel slumped beside her.

  Belle raced down the hill to the Johnson house.

  “Sarah, you and Samuel must get down!” she screamed. “The fire is on the second floor and soon the roof will be gone!”

  Sarah sobbed as she gripped the stone chimney for support. “There’s no way down!” she cried. “Belle, please help us!”

  “Where are your parents?” Belle called back, praying that they were not trapped inside.

  “Gone,” Sarah wailed. “And the maid ran away when they … when they start- ed shooting.”

  Her brother Samuel didn’t look right to Belle. He wasn’t moving. “Is Samuel hurt?” she called up. Why had their parents left them on such a day?

  “He was asleep in his room, in all that smoke. He won’t wake up.” Sarah touched her brother gently on the head. “I think he’s going to die!” She began wailing even more loudly.

  “Nonsense!” Belle called. “Sarah Johnson, you stop blubbering this minute! Your brother needs you.” Belle had to do something quickly. She could see the fire was spreading rapidly. “Where’s your ladder?” she shouted, peering around the yard.

  “I … I don’t know,” Sarah cried, “maybe in the shed at the back.”

  Belle ran to the shed, but the wooden ladder was too heavy for her to move by herself. She hurried back to Sarah.

  “I’m going to get my parents,” she shouted. “Hang on!” Belle raced for her house. Please let Mama and Papa be there, she prayed as bullets whined around her and cannon balls exploded. Behind her, soldiers were coming up the road. She ran even faster.

  Belle slammed through the back door and gasped with relief. Her mother was right there in the kitchen, packing supplies into an old carpetbag.

  “Belle! Thank God!” Her mother rushed to her and gathered Belle in her arms. “Hurry, we must go to the church and hide. Where were you? I looked everywhere!”

  “We can’t hide, Mama. Sarah’s house is on fire. Sarah and Samuel are trapped on the roof. We have to help them.” Belle looked into her mother’s worried face. “Are Papa and Patrice here?” she asked, but she knew the answer.

  “Non, child. They are with the men in the rifle pits.” Her mother shook her head, tears in her eyes. “All the men have gone to fight.”

  Belle paused for only a moment to take in what her mother had told her. Then she grabbed her mother’s hand and pulled her toward the door.

  “But, Belle, where are their parents? It’s not safe!”

  “I don’t know, Mama!” Belle cried. “We must go.” Belle tugged harder at her moth-er’s hand, and at last her mother followed.

  When they reached the Johnson’s, the air was filled with smoke. Belle and her mother dragged the big wooden ladder from the shed and managed to place it against the side of the burning building.

  “Climb down, child!” Belle’s mother called up to Sarah, coughing as a gush of smoke billowed out of a downstairs window. Flames licked the edges of the roof, eating through the wooden shingles.

  Sarah looked at the ladder, then at her unconscious brother lying beside her on the roof. “I can’t leave Samuel!” she shouted. “And he’s too big for me to carry!” She started wailing again. Belle wished she would stop.

  “Come down and I will get your brother!” Belle’s mother said, bracing the bottom of the ladder. She looked up at the flames. “Hurry, Sarah! There’s not much time.”

  Rung by rung, her legs shaking, Sarah climbed down. When she reached the bottom, she stared at Belle. Her eyes looked strange, like someone dreaming. Sarah didn’t seem like herself at all.

  “Hold the ladder,” Belle’s mother said as she started up.

  Belle grabbed the ladder, but Sarah just stood, looking around blankly until Belle repeated her mother’s instructions.

  Sarah obeyed her without a word.

  Please let Mama reach Samuel in time, Belle prayed as she watched her mother climb through the smoke. She was nearly at the top when a sudden blast of hot air and searing flames exploded out of the two upstairs windows.

  Belle sucked in her breath and Sarah screamed as Belle’s mother seemed to be caught in the explosion. The ladder swayed, but did not fall. Belle’s mother had reached the roof.

  Through the thick choking smoke, Belle saw her mother dragging Samuel across the roof then holding him against her shoulder as she started back down past the wall of flames.

  She had just reached the bottom when, with a loud roar the roof collapsed, sending a shower of sparks and cinders high into the air.

  “We must get to shelter, quickly!” Belle’s mother said, still holding the unmoving Samuel. Her arms and hands were black with soot and the sleeves of her dress were in scorched tatters.

  Through the gunfire and constant shelling, they started back to Belle’s house, but before they could reach it, they saw soldiers riding toward them.

  Belle looked around. There were troops closing in from all directions. They had nowhere to run to, nowhere to hide! She glanced back at her mother, struggling to carry Samuel, and Sarah who still seemed dazed.

  She had an inspiration. “Come with me!” she shouted, turning to follow the trail that skirted the river. Her mother and Sarah hurried after her as she raced through the willows. As they ran, Belle kept a constant eye out for the government troops. When she had gone some distance along the path, Belle began looking for the hard to find spot on the hillside.

  “Where are we going?” Sarah asked.

  Belle heard the fear in Sarah’s voice. “Someplace safe!” She tried to sound confident, but knew the soldiers were closing in. They had only moments before they would be seen crossing the prairie. Gunfire echoed in her ears and she could smell smoke from the burning buildings. With a burst of speed, Belle sprinted across the open grass and scrambled up the side of the steep embankment.

  She smiled with satisfaction as she spotted what she’d been looking for: the old root cellar door.

  “Sarah, help me!” she said, tugging on the weathered wooden handle.

  Belle and Sarah pulled with all their might until, with a groan, the door opened. “Quickly, go inside!” she instructed Sarah.

  “But it’s dirty and dark and there’s probably spiders!” Sarah whimpered, sounding like a young child.

  “There’s a lot worse than that out here! Go on, Sarah, I’m right behind you!” Belle gave Sarah a gentle push that sent her tumbling into the dark root cellar. Belle’s mother followed, Samuel still in her arms.

  With one last look at the terrible battle taking place in her peaceful little town, Belle pulled the heavy door closed behind her.

  13

  Belle Takes Charge

  The root cellar was dark and still damp with the late thawing ground. Belle was surprised at how large the man-made cave was.

  “Are root cellars usually this big, Mama?” she asked, peering around in the gloom. She saw Sarah sitting, hugging her knees to her chest and rocking quietly back and forth.

  Her mother placed Samuel gently on the ground. She inspected her surroundings. “This must be the old Belanger place. I remember the f
amily moved to Batoche late in the year and had to live in the root cellar the first winter because they couldn’t build a house until spring. I had no idea this still existed.”

  Belle, busily snooping at the back of the dim cellar, discovered an old rusty lantern. She shook it. “It still has a little oil. Now all we need is a way of lighting it!” Then she remembered the small leather bag her mother kept tied to her belt. “Do you have your flint and steel?”

  “Take the pouch,” her mother instructed.

  Belle thought this was odd, but did as she was instructed, untying the soft deer-skin bag from her mother’s belt.

  Easing the glass chimney off the lantern, Belle laid it on the ground, then rummaged in the pouch, withdrawing the steel and flint. “If I do this right, we should be able to see, at least.” Belle struck the flint against the steel, sending a shower of sparks onto the oil-soaked wick.

  A small ember flickered to life, then the wick flared. The glow from the old lantern bathed Belle’s face as she replaced the chimney. Smiling, she looked up at her mother and stopped.

  “Mama, what’s the matter?” she asked, noticing how her mother held her hands away from her body.

  “It’s nothing, Belle. When I was rescuing Samuel from the roof, my hands were burnt a little.” Her voice was light, but Belle saw the sweat on her mother’s forehead.

  Belle lifted the lantern and looked closely at her mother’s hands. “Oh, Mama!” she gasped, noting the red blisters and raw open patches where the skin was entirely burnt away. “We must do something.” She looked into her mother’s eyes, seeing the agony there. “I must go for the doctor!” she whispered, but they both knew that was not possible.

  Sarah got up and moved closer to the light so that she could see Madame Tourond’s hands. “This is terrible,” she moaned. “Who will take care of us if your hands are all burnt?” She began crying again. “I want my mama and papa. They will know what to do.”