RIEL LOOKED AT a map while they ate. Nobody spoke, and even Dumont was silent. Eating was serious business to the big métis. The bear steaks were enormous, tender and good-tasting, and Gatling drank the good Canadian beer, ice-cold from the snow. Riel looked up when they finished, and they took their chairs over to his desk.
The set-to with Riggs had kept Gatling from getting a good look at the métis leader. There was nothing of the Indian or mixed-blood about him, but then he was three-quarters white. He had light-brown hair, gray eyes, white man’s features. Thick sideburns grew to the corner of his jawbone. He looked more French than anything else, but he didn’t have a French accent when he spoke English.
He looked at Gatling. “We will move as soon as you show my men how to use the new weapons.”
Gatling agreed.
“Gabriel will select the men you will train in the use of the Maxim machine guns and the Hotchkiss Cannons.”
Dumont nodded. “I don’t want any of the foreigners, not even the Irishmen, to be trained in the use of the rapid-fire guns.”
Gatling repeated the question he had asked Dumont earlier: “You don’t trust them?”
Riel sipped his tea. “Mr. Gatling, if the hired gunmen turn on us-—unlikely but possible—I want my people to have control of the rapid-fire guns. They may not win the war for us, but they will put us in a better position than we have been. A position, it is to be hoped, from which we can bargain with our oppressors.”
“Why not get rid of the gunmen now? The Irishmen will back you. You didn’t send for the gunmen, did you?”
“No, they just drifted in looking for work. We need all the men we can get, still do, so I agreed to hire them. Now I am not sure I made the right decision. Gabriel, while you were away, there were two unpleasant incidents.”
“You mean there was trouble?” Dumont said.
“Yes. Serious trouble, I’m afraid. A métis from the north brought gold dust and nuggets, but it was late and I was asleep, and he decided to keep the gold until morning. During the night he was hit on the head and robbed. Nobody knows who did it.”
“Son of a bitch!” Dumont growled. “I find him, you bet. What else happen?”
“Two of the gunmen got into a fight and one of them was shot in the side. He will recover. It happens that he and the man who shot him are good friends. They said they were drunk. What do you think, Mr. Gatling?”
“Run them off,” Gatling said. “Do it now. They’ll only get worse.”
Dumont’s chair threatened to collapse as he shifted his great bulk. “Gatling is smart fella, Louis. What he say is true. Get rid of dem is fine idea.”
“How would you do it, Mr. Gatling?” Riel asked.
“Take their guns and horses,” Gatling answered. “Chase them south. The militia will grab them or kill them, and you’ll have no more problem.”
“I’ll consider it, Mr. Gatling.”
“Did you get a letter from Colonel Pritchett? That business with Riggs—I didn’t have time to ask. The colonel said he’d send the letter through O’Brien’s organization.”
“Yes, I got it last week. Poor Rideau. Colonel Pritchett said the two British agents who murdered him were dead. Naturally, the letter was unsigned. O’Brien’s man could have been captured, the letter read. You yourself are sure they’re dead.”
“I’m sure,” Gatling said. “I killed them.” He told Riel how it had happened.
Riel said, “They dared to do that in the streets of New York. Such arrogance.”
Gatling didn’t say a lot worse happened in the streets of New York. “The British think they own the world. They own a lot of it.”
Dumont made a spitting noise. “Dey don’t own Saskatchewan, by God.”
Riel took Colonel Pritchett’s letter from a drawer and glanced at it. “Colonel Pritchett is certain there is a British agent in Batoche. Colonel Pritchett says the information provided by this spy murdered Rideau. We have to find him.”
“It would be easier to find him if you got rid of the gunmen. Maybe it would. But he could be an Irishman or passing as one. A lot of Irishmen are in British service. He could be one of your own métis.”
Riel looked startled. “One of my own people!”
“Why not? Men have poisoned their mothers for the insurance money. You can’t vouch for every métis in Batoche. You can’t know all of them. This man could have been sent here to kill you. You’ve got to station trusted guards at your door. Day and night. People walk in and out of here like it’s a hotel lobby. This agent could come late at night, when you’re alone or asleep, and kill you with a knife. Make no noise, then slip away.”
Riel wasn’t alarmed by the possibility. “But I have always been available to my people. Now you suggest guards and locks and bolts. The métis will not like it. They will think I am becoming self-important. We are simple people, have always lived a simple life. I don’t like to do what you suggest, Mr. Gatling.”
“But Gatling is right,” Dumont cut in. “What good will we be if you are killed? I tink I am a good fighter, but I could not do what you do. I could not bargain with de British or de Canadians. I would rather kill dem than bargain with dem. Tink of dis, Louis. If peace come and we win our freedom, who will be de leader of our new government? Me? Dey would laugh at me. Boudreau? A good man but not strong enough. Charpentier? I don’t think so. It have to be you, Louis. So do what Gatling says.”
Riel dismissed the subject of safety with an impatient wave of his hand. “Enough advice, my friends. Guards will be posted, the door will be kept locked. Do you think I need a bodyguard when I leave the house?”
Gatling knew that was intended to be sarcastic. “Two bodyguards,” he said. “That man Baptiste and another good man. That’s up to Gabriel.”
Dumont nodded. “I told you Gatling was smart man.” Riel brushed a speck of dirt from the map. He turned it around so they could read it. Towns and settlements were marked with red ink. Riel used the handle of his pen as a pointer. “This is Batoche. These other places are within a hundred miles of Batoche. As soon as the men are trained with the new guns, we will divide our forces into smaller forces, companies and platoons, depending on the size of the place to be attacked. Then we will move against the British who think themselves beyond our reach. Our aim will be to drive them out and gain complete control of this part of the Saskatchewan River Valley. Some of our men will be left behind to hold what we have taken.”
Dumont frowned. “But not every place we take. You are tinking we will leave our men to hold only de key positions. From dere dey can control de smaller places so de settlers and de militia don’t sneak back. Would take too many men to hold every’ting.”
“Exactly,” Riel agreed, taking Dumont’s ideas as his own. Dumont pretended to be a simple man, but Gatling knew he was anything but. Without Dumont to lead his ragtag army, Riel would be beaten hands down.
“It’s vitally important that we control the country between Saskatoon and Prince Albert. North to south, approximately one hundred miles. East to west, from North Battleford to Crooked River. The same distance. All the key towns we take must be linked to Batoche by expert horsemen. If the militia or the settlers counterattack, we must know about it as soon as possible. Then we can move against them in force.”
Dumont nodded. “But you are tinking maybe de militia tink dey can fool us by sending a small force to attack one town while dey are sending a big force to attack someplace else. To draw us off, try to make us send plenty man to de wrong battle. You are tinking dey don’t get us dat way.”
“Exactly,” Riel said.
In the morning, Dumont and Gatling set about training the men. There were four hundred Mauser rifles, all that Colonel Pritchett had in the warehouse and the Maxim arsenal in New Jersey. More than a thousand men, métis and foreign, were in Batoche, and not all the métis from the north had arrived.
“Chief Big Bear and his Crees will join us if he tink we are going to win,” Dumont said. “Cree hate British settlers as much as de métis do. Dey have some gun, not enough. We could use four tousand Mauser rifle. But four hundred still ver’ good. And we capture plenty Lee-Medford rifle when we take what Louis call de key positions.”
“Good luck to you,” Gatling said. “But I plan to head back as soon as I’m satisfied the men know how to use their weapons. That was the deal.”
Dumont scratched his matted beard. “Sure, de deal. But don’t you want to see how de men use dere weapon when dey fight? Colonel Pritchett, he tell Louis dat is part of de deal. He don’t tell you?”
“The hell with Pritchett,” Gatling said. “Let’s train the men, then we’ll see.”
Gatling would lose forty thousand dollars if he didn’t test the new Mauser rifle in combat, as well as the new .38-caliber double-action Colt revolver, Officer’s Model, with the swing-out gate. The Officer’s Model would supplant the .45-caliber single-action Army Colt that had been the standard military sidearm since the ’70s. He had fired the new .38 at the Maxim warehouse range. It was a well-made weapon with a smooth action, and because of the swing-out gate it was much faster to reload, but he had his doubts. The old Army single-action was heavy and dependable and had great man-stopping power. Colonel Pritchett argued that the new .38 would have as much killing power as the old .45, and more if the Army issued hollow-point bullets.
“We have to be fair,” Dumont said. “We give three hundred and fifty Mauser rifle to de métis, fifty to de Irishmen. We don’t give de gunmen nothing. Dey have dere own rifles, Winchester and Remington, and dere own ammunition. Dey come to fight, dey bring dere own weapon and dere own horse.”
The bugler tried to blow them out of bed at eight o’clock, and the métis and the Irishmen assembled in the town square. It took longer to raise the gunmen, and it took some loud yelling by Dumont to get them out of the three newly built bunkhouses where they slept and played cards night and day. Some of them had served in the U.S. Army, or had deserted from it, and they hated discipline. Gatling knew it had to come to a showdown with these dangerous drifters.
The big double doors of the barn were unlocked, and when it came time to pass out the rifles, it would be done by Gatling and Dumont. Light snow was falling; sometimes it snowed to the end of April in this part of the country. The light was thick and would stay that way until it got dark in the early afternoon. The men, mixed-blood and outsider, huddled in their heavy coats and waited for the show to begin.
Dumont spoke to them from the porch of an old frame house. He told the métis, in French, that three hundred and fifty of them would be given Mauser rifles. “I will decide who will get them,” he said. A métis named Boulanger translated for Gatling. “I want no arguments. You may think you deserve a new Mauser, but if you don’t get one, don’t cry bitter tears in your morning tea. Now pay close attention. Those rifles have come thousands of miles and a good man and a loyal métis died for them. The man who brought them to us risked his life every mile of the long journey, and he did it not for money, but because he believes in our cause. The money was always second in his mind, and he accepts our money only because the guns do not belong to him. Those who do not get a Mauser rifle should not cry. But those who get them will cry their eyes out if just one of them is damaged.”
Dumont concluded by telling them that Gatling, good friend of the métis nation, would speak to them about their training. “Listen to him as you would listen to me.” He said it in French and in English.
Gatling began by telling Major Fitzsimmons, the Irish commander, that his men would get fifty Mausers. Fitzsimmons was a florid-faced, chunky man in his middle forties, who had been a brevet major in the Civil War, and still liked to be addressed by his old rank. He was up front with Dumont’s métis lieutenants. He interrupted Gatling with a loud complaint.
“Mr. Gatling,” he bellowed. “I don’t think that’s fair. It’s true that about half my men brought their own rifles. However, most of these rifles are cavalry carbines purchased second hand. Some are in good condition, some are not. Many of my men have been soldiers and are trained in the use of firearms. It would be a terrible waste of their fighting abilities if they weren’t all armed with the best rifles available. I demand that we be given at least a hundred Mausers.”
A sea of faces looked at Gatling; he looked at the Irish major. “It’s been decided,” he said. “You get fifty like I said. I’m not running this show. Gabriel Dumont is. What he says goes.”
One of the gunmen called out, “How come you don’t call him Gineral Dumont?”
Gatling ignored him. “You hired guns don’t need Mausers. You got your own hardware. Any objections?”
The same heckler yelled from the back, “Sure we do. Us boys object to being treated like blacks. Please, Colonel, sir, you got to give us a few of them Mausie rifles. We’d be mighty pleased if you did.”
“No dice,” Gatling said. This wasn’t the place for a showdown; anyway, keeping these bastards in line, or running them off, was Dumont’s business. “You’ll have to make do with what you have.”
Gatling got down from the porch and Dumont began to select the métis who were to get Mausers. He made them form a line as they were picked. Most of them were grinning. He left the Irishmen to Major Fitzsimmons.
A firing range had been set up outside the fort. Dumont told Fitzsimmons not to waste ammunition. Fitzsimmons didn’t like having to take orders from a half-breed. Gatling thought the Irish major was in the wrong army. Dumont knew what Fitzsimmons was thinking, and it amused him. Dumont was a good hater, but he always spoke in a courteous manner to the arrogant Irishman.
Rifle practice went on all morning. Two days, three at the most, was all the time Gatling could give them to become accustomed to the new rifles. Riel wanted to move out on March 17th, St. Patrick’s Day, a day that meant nothing to the métis or the hired guns. But to the Irish Fenians it was the most glorious day of the year, even here in hard-frozen Saskatchewan. The holiday was four days away; already some of the Irish were sporting sprigs of greenery in their hats.
Looking on from the rear, Dumont winced every time a shot was fired. Every bullet fired at a target could be used to kill a militiaman, a Mounted Policeman, or a regular when the regulars finally came. But he said nothing, and he didn’t interfere. He looked relieved when Gatling dismissed the riflemen and said they would continue the next morning.
On the way back to the house Dumont said, “I tink dey do pret’ good.”
“They did all right,” Gatling said. “We’ll start on the Maxims and Hotchkiss Cannons this afternoon. The Hotchkiss Balloon Gun we’ll leave till we see a balloon. Got any observation balloons on you?”
Dumont laughed. “Funny man. No, we don’t got balloon. How ’bout if we send up Major Fitzsimmons. Dat Irishman so full of hot air, he float right up in de sky.”
“I think he’s all right,” Gatling said.
“Sure he’s all right, as a soldier,” Dumont said. “As a man he is plenty pain in de ass.”
They got to Dumont’s house, and he sent for steak and eggs, a lot of beer for Gatling. He drank two glasses of whiskey before the food arrived. The liquor had no noticeable effect.
Neither man spoke until they finished eating. Dumont stretched out on his camp bed and smoked a pipe. The tobacco in it was as foul-smelling as Colonel Pritchett’s. For a man with so much on his mind—and Riel was not the least of his problems—he seemed at peace with the world.
Gatling stayed at the table and drank the beer. “What did you do before you became a soldier?”
“Soldier!” Dumont spoke through a mouthful of smoke. “I am no soldier, I am hunter. Since I am a boy I have been hunter. I know dis country better dan any man. I am a hunter who know how to be a soldier. Men listen to me. Dey don’t do what I tell dem, I break dere ass, you bet.”
“You bet,” Gatling agreed.
“I can plan pret’ good,” Dumont said. “I can see far ahead, tink far ahead. I figure what de militia is planning to do. I do it to dem first. All dat I can do, but it don’t make me a soldier.”
“Sure it does. A damn good soldier, if you ask me.”
Dumont turned to look at Gatling. “You don’t please me to say dat. All I want is go back north and be a hunter like I was. Sometime I tink of my cabin dere and how quiet ever’ting is. No foolish talk. Nothing dere but me and de animals and de birds and de woods. I love de animals, even de wolves, even de animals I hunt. I like people, but I like more to be by myself.”
Gatling was seeing another side of the métis commander. It didn’t surprise him all that much. Big, boisterous men often had a quiet core to their nature.
“What will you do if the métis win their independence?”
“Go back to my cabin. Hunt.”
“You don’t want to be a part of Riel’s government?”
“No. I told you. A hunter is all I want to be. Nuttin’ else. But if Louis and the métis need me I will come back. A man has to be loyal to his friends. But we talk too much ’bout me. Have you decide? Will you be wit’ us—wit’ me—when we march out from Batoche?”
Gatling didn’t want to go, but he knew he would. “Why not?” he said.
During the night a métis woman, a widow living alone, was raped in her cabin. It was dark and she couldn’t identify her attacker. She knew he wasn’t a métis or an Irishman by the way he talked. The Irish had their own way of talking. She was sure the rapist was an American, and when he first came into the dark cabin he tried to talk nice to her. He offered her money if she was nice to him. But when she said no and tried to escape, he clamped his hand over her mouth, slapped her several times, and raped her. Then he buttoned up his pants and left, and she lay on the bed for a long time, too terrified to do anything. Finally, when the shock wore off, she came and beat her fists on Dumont’s door.
Now it was morning and Riel was listening as Dumont repeated the woman’s account of what happened to her. “I know her, she is a good woman and does not lie,” Dumont said.
“Why didn’t she scream?” Riel asked.
Gatling knew that Riel had studied for the priesthood for two years, in Montreal. He had a rich métis father who’d wanted his son to be a bishop someday. Riel, the failed seminarian, found it unpleasant to talk about rape.
“She is too scared to scream,” Dumont said. “Maybe you tink she is a widow and misses big cock inside her? Maybe she enjoy it, den change her mind and get mad and make up dis story?”
It was the first time Gatling had seen Dumont get tough with his beloved leader. But Dumont had earned the right to talk back, although he exercised it very seldom.
“Those were not my thoughts,” Riel said awkwardly. “Rape is a terrible crime, and should be punished. The woman says an American did it, but can’t identify him. There are seventy Americans here. How are we to find the man responsible?”
Dumont growled, “You don’t find him, Louis. I find him. Me and Gatling find him, and when he is found he don’t get bullet. A bullet too good for de son of a bitch. I will hang de pig with my own hands.”
Riel kept looking at the leather-bound book he’d been writing in. The pen was still in his hand. Gatling figured he wanted to get back to drafting a constitution for the métis nation, or something of equal importance.
“I leave the punishment to you, Gabriel.” Riel wrote a few words, but this time Dumont wasn’t so easily dismissed. Riel put down his pen and sighed. “Is there something else you want to discuss?”
“Louis, I know you have many tings to tink about. But we have to talk about de Americans, the hired guns. Gatling calls dem dat, and he don’t like dem no more dan I do. This attack on de woman, de trouble before dat, we have to get rid of dem. Now, Louis. It has to be now. We move out in a few days. Could be bad for us we don’t settle dis trouble before we go. By now de métis know it was some American dat rape dis woman. Nobody have spoke to me ’bout it, but I know métis will not fight ’longside de Americans. Worse dan dat, Louis, the métis may try to kill all de Americans right here in Batoche. A lot of men could die for nuttin’. How good we fight de militia den?”
“You think it might come to that?” Riel looked nervously from Dumont to Gatling. “What do you think, Mr. Gatling?”
“Gabriel is telling it,” Gatling said. “But I agree with him. It may not come to a gun battle, but what difference does it make if it doesn’t. If the métis don’t want these gunslingers in their army, all the more reason to get rid of them.”
Dumont was getting impatient again, but he got himself under control before he spoke. “Louis, you must decide before it is too late.”
“Very well,” Riel said at last. “Seventy professional fighters, a big loss. But you have persuaded me. I leave it up to you.”
Riel’s steel-nibbed pen was scratching across the page before they got to the door. Outside, Dumont socked one huge fist in the palm of his other hand. “I love Louis like a brudder, but sometime he get me so fuckeen mad. He tink and he tink and sometime he forget what he start off to tink about. But he is our leader, he hold us together. Nobody else could do dat.”
“Let’s get it done,” Gatling said.
Half an hour later fifty métis armed with Mausers escorted the American gunmen to the town square. Gatling and Dumont were on the porch of the old house. Baptiste sat behind a heavy Maxim at the top of the steps. The machine gun was just for show, and Gatling hoped they wouldn’t have to use it. He would take over from Baptiste if shooting started.
For a moment it was dead quiet, and then the gunslingers began to yell.