Sundance 19

by Peter McCurtin

  Riel didn’t seem to understand, “But they wouldn’t shoot me. I am not armed. I carry a flag of truce.”

  “Wait,” Sundance warned him. “Somebody might shoot you. It doesn’t have to be a Mountie, but one of the militiamen might take a crack at you.”

  “Then what do you propose to do, Sundance?” Riel gripped his broomstick with fierce determination.

  “Fire a shot at the gate. One shot to show them what we can do if they refuse to surrender. They have no way of knowing that we only have two shells. After that, you can talk. They will want to be very sure about the Indians. Otherwise, we’re in for a long fight.”

  “Cover me,” Sundance said to Dumont. “Tell the métis to fire over the heads of the men on the stockade.” Dumont rapped out the order. Immediately, a hail of lead was thrown at the fort, the métis firing the ten round Lee-Metford as fast as they could work the bolts.

  Sundance and Dumont manhandled the cannon around the side of the wagon. “Get back now,” Sundance warned Dumont. “Your people need you more than they need me.” He adjusted the range and elevation again. It looked all right, as good as he could make it. A lot of lives were riding on those two shells.

  “Now!”

  He touched a lighted fuse to the cannon. It dug back on its wooden carriage as the shell screamed straight at the gate of the fort, going slightly higher than he had figured. There was a splintering crash as some of the thick verticals in the gate gave way. White smoke boiled up from the muzzle of the cannon, and from the métis ranks a wild cheer went up.

  Sundance took the peace flag from Riel’s hand and waved it from behind the wagon. A flurry of shots came its way. He yelled and waved the flag again. This time there was only one shot, then a man’s voice on the stockade yelling for the defenders to cease firing,

  “What do you want out there?” the same voice called out.

  “To talk,” Sundance answered. “We demand your surrender and will guarantee safe passage to Alberta. Louis Riel is here and wants to talk to you. He will walk out under a flag of truce. If anybody shoots at him, you will all be killed. No one will be spared. Do I have your word?”

  “Who are you?”

  “My name is Jim Sundance. And yours?”

  “Inspector Kennedy, Royal North West Mounted Police. You have my word. Riel will not be shot. I am coming out now with one of my men. You will walk with Riel?”

  Sundance said he would. He took the flag of truce from Riel and began to walk toward the gate. Dumont and the métis watched from cover, their fingers twitching on the triggers of their rifles.

  Riel and Sundance walked without hurry, the crunching of their boots in the muddy snow being the only sound heard on the slope that went up to the gate. Then the gate opened and a tall Mountie officer with bushy red hair came out followed by a noncommissioned policeman. Both men had left their sidearms behind. The gate closed. They met about twenty-five yards from the gate.

  Kennedy, the officer, looked from Riel to Sundance with frosty blue eyes. He was about thirty and stood very straight. His fair skin was reddened by the cold. “Do you have any idea of what you’re doing?” he rasped in a British military voice. It was a voice well accustomed to being obeyed instantly. He was speaking to Riel. “You are in armed rebellion against the Dominion of Canada. Do you know what that means? Do you realize what you’re facing? I advise you to put down your arms immediately. Of course, you realize I can promise you nothing but a fair trial. Well, what do you have to say for yourselves?”

  Sundance couldn’t help grinning at the arrogant Britisher. “I can promise you something better than that,” he said. “Unless you surrender and march out of here, we will blow the fort to bits, then burn it.”

  Fifteen

  Major General Frederick Middleton’s beefy face was almost as red as the tunic he wore. Usually, it was red from many years of drinking brandy and soda in the far corners of the British Empire. A veteran of the Indian Mutiny and the savage Maori Wars of New Zealand, General Middleton was an Englishman and never let anyone forget it for a minute, especially the Canadians he was now forced to command.

  On this bright morning in April 1885, the General’s face was red as with rage, not brandy. After a lifetime of service to the Empire, the bad-tempered old soldier had been sent from England to take command of all the Canadian militia, in all the provinces and territories. It was not a job that appealed to him, but it was either that or face compulsory retirement. The old warhorse had been put out to pasture in Canada in a post that was supposed to be a sinecure. By the time he had arrived in the Dominion, he had become paunchy, stodgy, opinionated, and openly contemptuous of the fighting abilities of the Canadian militia. Now he had a rebellion on his hands.

  Waving the telegraph message he had just received from Prime Minister John Macdonald, the General sputtered with anger while his aide, Captain Winfield, another Englishman, listened in sympathy. General Middleton trusted no one but the British officers or former British officers on his staff.

  “Damn these colonials!” Middleton was raging. “Who the blazes is this fellow Riel? I never heard of him before this week. Who in hell is he, and what does he want?”

  “Riel is leader of the métis, sir. That’s what the halfbreeds are called. Riel wants to establish a separate country.”

  “Yes! Yes! I’ve been told all that. They tell me he’s even tried it before. Why didn’t they hang him the first time, when they had the chance? A length of strong hemp would have settled the whole blasted problem. Now I’m supposed to go up there and clean up this mess. And what have I got to do it with? A thousand ragtag militiamen who hardly know one end of a rifle from the other. Probably half of them are in sympathy with this mongrel Riel. Ah, Winfield, if only I had two hundred British regulars, I’d march up the Saskatchewan, burn their towns and hand the ringleaders. I’d give them a trial all right, about thirty seconds of a trial, then—”

  General Middleton twisted his thick neck to one side and made a strangling sound. “By God, I gave those buggers what for in India. I’d like to do the same here. Burn them out. That’s all these savages understand. Burn them out and hang a few dozen for good measure.” Captain Winfield said without irony, “So far, sir, the métis have been doing most of the burning. Fort Carlton and Fort Battleford have already been burned to the ground. However, except for the battle at Duck Lake, there has been remarkably little bloodshed. Even the Indians seem to be under some kind of control”

  General Middleton scowled as he hacked at his breakfast of bacon, liver sausage, and eggs. “If I had my regulars, I’d put them under control all right. I can’t say I have much respect for the Americans, but they do seem to know how to deal with savages. Treat them kindly and they think you’re stupid. The iron fist, hot lead, cold steel—that’s what they respect. They look up to the man who can flog them back into place.”

  “Do you have a plan of battle, sir?” Winfield drank the tea the General had graciously poured for him.

  Behind the General, there was a map of the North West Territories on the wall. He picked up a ruler from the table and tapped Fort Qu’Appelle. “That’s where we are, and up there is Batoche. That is where we will strike, at the heart of this miserable rebellion. That is where their women and children are concentrated. Once we take Batoche, the back of this rebellion will be broken.”

  Wingate asked, “When you say strike, did you mean cavalry, sir?”

  “I do not! This isn’t country for cavalry. No, Winfield, we will do it the way the British Army has always done in its wars. The old foot-slogging infantryman may not have the dash of the cavalry, but he gets the job done. Let these halfbreeds gallop about on their ponies as much as they like. While they are doing it, we will march into the heart of their country. Of course, we will use the militia cavalry, but only to guard our communications. Always watch your communications, Winfield, because if you don’t, some fine day you’ll find yourself cut off, isolated. A lifetime of campaigning has taught me t
hat.”

  “What about the two other forces, sir? General Strange’s and Colonel Otter’s. General Strange is on his way to Edmonton with six-hundred men. Colonel Otter is moving north with another six-hundred. Here in Fort Qu’Appelle we have eight-hundred men, including the Winnipeg and Ontario cavalry. Colonel Dennison thinks we should send a strong force of cavalry to drive the métis out of the towns they have taken. By the time they can regroup, our main force will command the whole Saskatchewan Valley.”

  At the mention of Dennison’s name, the General’s face grew even redder. “Dennison would like to make a name for himself, become the General Custer of the North West. Well, sir, we all know what happened to him. The Winnipeg and Ontario cavalry will guard our supply depots. There isn’t much glory in that, but the Colonel will have to make the best of it.”

  “The Prime Minister requests an answer to his message, sir,” Winfield said as diplomatically as he could. “His suggestion was that you move at once. What do you want me to say, sir?”

  “Tell that gibbering Scottish idiot to go to the hottest part of hell. And while you’re at it, ask him how many wars he fought in. Ask him if he ever did anything in his life besides sucking around for votes.”

  Winfield waited patiently.

  General Middleton raged on. Finally, he said, “Tell Macdonald I’ll move as soon as I’m ready. If that doesn’t suit him, tell him to take it up with Her Majesty’s government. No, don’t say that. Just say I’ll move when ready. But do tell them this. Request that the five-hundred British regulars now stationed in Nova Scotia be sent here immediately.”

  Winfield finished writing the message. “Mr. Macdonald may not like that, sir. He’s already told the newspapers that he is determined to keep the Dominion intact at all costs. He speaks of an all Canadian army. I think he sees himself as another Abraham Lincoln.”

  Middleton stabbed at an egg and let the yolk run out. “Macdonald’s a bloody fool, but I still request transfer of the British regulars. I don’t care how many Canadian militiamen are being sent from the east. I want those regulars if I can get them. Then you’ll see those half-castes run. I don’t think Macdonald will grant my request. What I want is to get it down in writing.”

  General Middleton finished his tea and sat back in his chair. Winfield hurried to light his cigar. “Thanks, my boy,” the General said, his anger fading away as he thought of the campaign ahead. “In a way, it’s going to be good to get out from behind a desk and into the field. It isn’t much of a war, but it’s the only one we’ve got, I suppose. But what a country to fight it in! These half-caste blighters—what did you say they’re called?”

  “They call themselves the métis. I think it means, the people.”

  “The people, eh! Peculiar thing to call themselves. I wonder. Can they fight, do you think? Not just burn a few isolated posts, but really fight. The Maoris in New Zealand fought like tigers. And during the Mutiny, the sepoys were a pretty game lot. But these half-castes are quite new, quite strange to me. I suppose they’re strange to everyone.”

  Winfield’s voice was quiet. “From what I’ve been told, they fight very well. They believe they have nothing much to lose.”

  “Their lives, of course. Oh, I see what you mean. Well, that’s going to make this campaign all the more interesting. Isn’t it?”

  “A campaign to be remembered, sir,” Captain Winfield said.

  ~*~

  After Inspector Kennedy had surrendered the fort and marched away with his people, Gabriel Dumont ordered the stockade burned. “But do not burn the town,” he warned his men. “If the people who lived there want to return when the war is over, they are free to do so. Everything must be left as it is. We will have no use for the fort.”

  Riel was sitting on a waterproof blanket in the snow. He looked at the burning fort and sighed with satisfaction. “These have been fine victories, my friends. It seems as if God is with us. They run from us like sheep, even the Mounties. Do you remember, Gabriel, when the Mounties were first established? Ten or twelve years ago it was. One Mountie was worth a hundred men, white or red or halfbreed. Kill a Mountie, they said, and you would be hunted to the ends of the earth.”

  Sundance looked up from his food as Riel laughed harshly. There was no way to know how to take this man. One moment he was the commonsense and gentle leader of his downtrodden people; the next he was gloating over the number of men they had killed.

  “We have killed many Mounties,” Riel said, “and we are not hunted. Instead, we are the hunters. The Mounties died by the dozen at Duck Lake, and they slunk away from Fort Carlton and Fort Pitt like whipped dogs. And they talk of the power of that pudgy old woman they call the Great White Mother. The Great White Mother will take care of you, they told the Indians.”

  Riel laughed again. “The Great White Mother cannot even take care of them.”

  “They would have fought if the women and children hadn’t been there,” Dumont said. “Do not count on them always running.”

  “I did not know you admired the Redcoats so much, Gabriel.”

  “I admire all brave men, Louis. It is best to know the kind of men we face. When the women and children of the settlers and militia have been cleared from the Saskatchewan Valley, there will be fighting. It won’t be like the fighting that has been going on. I think, when we have taken Fort Pitt, we should offer to make peace on our terms.”

  Staring into the fire, Riel said, “Is that what you think, Gabriel? You think they will want to make peace? But there is another question, one even more important, and that is: Do we want to make peace so soon? Is it not possible that we do not have to come to terms? What if our terms are simply get your forces out of Saskatchewan and do not return?”

  Sundance knew it wasn’t his place to interfere in this discussion. He knew, too, that arguing with Riel when he was in a certain mood was a waste of time.

  “You are so silent, Gabriel,” Riel said. “Why is that?”

  “Because I am thinking what it would be like to have peace again along the Saskatchewan. Very soon there will be spring flowers on the prairie and along the banks of the river. The sun will be warm and the days long and the wind from the north not so cold. I would like to see peace before the end of spring.”

  Riel said, “It may not come by next spring. Who can say when it will come? Perhaps it will never come for the métis. We must accept the inevitable.”

  “Nothing is inevitable, Louis.”

  “For some men it is, my friend. It may be that way for me. Often, late at night when I can’t sleep, I think it is. Some things can’t be changed.”

  “Nothing is inevitable,” Dumont said.

  “Perhaps not for you. You are a good man, but there are some things you don’t understand.”

  “I understand that I am going to blow the railroad bridges on the Canadian Pacific. More than five thousand men are on their way from the east by rail. I don’t know where they are now, but I would think more than half way. That is why some of us have to ride south and do what we can to tear up the tracks. But the bridges and tunnels are more important than the tracks.”

  “But you are needed here, Gabriel. I am no general.”

  Dumont said, “I will send Boudreau and Roberge. They will take twenty men. I know the tunnels and bridges will be heavily guarded, but we have to hope. If we can stop the main force long enough, we can deal with the others. They are not so many, and the old Englishman who leads them, Middleton, is slow and cautious,”

  While they were talking, a rider came into camp at full gallop. “It’s one of the relay men,” Dumont said. They all stood up. Sundance had already guessed what it was.

  “They’re on the move,” the relay rider said. “Middleton and a thousand men left Fort Qu’Appelle the day before yesterday. They have a big supply train guarded by cavalry, with Gatling guns and cannon.”

  Dumont looked puzzled. “The cavalry is guarding the rear? I do not understand. Are you sure of what you’re saying?
Have any cavalry units been sent forward of the column?”

  “No. Our scouts have been watching them ever since they left the fort.”

  “What about scouts?”

  “There are some scouts.” The relay rider smiled. “But they do not scout so well. Or maybe they are acting under stupid orders. The whole column is moving very slowly.”

  “Good! The slower they move, the more time we have to get ready for them. Any news from the east and west? They will come at us from three sides. Anything from the north?”

  “Not yet, Gabriel.”

  “All right, get something to eat, then ride back. Tell Campeau to send extra men to watch east and west. General Strange commands in Alberta, and he will come from there. But the man we have to worry about is General Otter from the east.”

  “Why Otter?” Sundance asked after the relay rider left.

  “A Canadian,” Dumont answered. “His is a rich lawyer who has written books on war. Twenty years ago, as a very young man, he served with your General Sheridan’s cavalry. Ever since then he has been arguing in Parliament and out, that cavalry is the driving force of a modern army. Of course, he is right, though the old men in Ottawa don’t agree with him. I would say that, right now, General Otter is delighted to have this opportunity to prove how right his arguments are. That is why I think we have more to fear from him than from Middleton’s main force. True, Otter is a militia officer and not a regular. It makes no difference. As a soldier, he is worth more than ten stupid Englishmen.”

  Sundance said, “If he rode with Sheridan, then he believes in the fire and the sword. Does he?”

  “I have been thinking about that,” Dumont answered. “If he starts to kill our people and burn our farms, we will answer him in kind. I pray he does not. But if he does, then we will show them what the word ‘savage’ means.”

  Dumont smiled bitterly. “They call us savages. I hope they don’t make us prove it. We have spared many lives since this fight began. If they start killing, we will spare no more. One thing you can be sure of with Otter, and that is he won’t worry much about supply lines. He’ll carry all the supplies he can and forage for the rest. He once wrote that every cavalry unit ought to take along extra horses, not to be ridden but to be eaten when the food ran out.”