THEY MOVED UP at five o’clock in the morning. Light wet snow that might turn to rain fell on the two hundred men as they moved silently through the woods. Scouts sent on ahead came back to report that the fort had no outlying defense positions, no men in trenches or behind earthworks, but there was barbed wire staked and coiled on the slope that went up to the gate.
They had a Light and a Heavy Maxim gun, two Hotchkiss 37-millimeter Revolving Cannons. Two Hotchkiss Balloon Guns had been taken along, because they fired incendiary bullets and could be used to start fires. Dumont sent the gun crews in first, to cover the guns with oilskins after they were set up. The Maxims were water-cooled, but it wasn’t cold enough for the water to freeze in the two hours they had to wait.
The riflemen were spread out in a long line, and when they were close enough the ends of the line would swing around until the fort was ringed on all sides. A second, much shorter line, would go in after the riflemen in front of it attacked the wall where the gate was. The Maxim and Hotchkiss guns would start the attack, laying down heavy fire as the first line of riflemen went up the long slope at a run. Dynamite would be used against the barbed wire.
They were in position before six. There were lights inside the fort, none in the town. Most of the townspeople had moved south, their wagons piled high with everything that wasn’t too heavy to move, and now the town was deserted. Dogs were barking in the fort.
Gatling and Dumont were hunkered down in the shadows of the trees. “Sound like dey got plenty dog in dere,” Dumont said in a raspy whisper. “Mountie trick, you bet. I figure we have chance to get in close in de dark. But goddamn dog betray us. Gatling, you know we have to kill ever’body in dere if dey don’t give up?”
Gatling whispered back, “Maybe that’s not such a good idea. There can be no peace if you do that.”
“I tink so too. My idea was to capture dere guns and supplies, take dere horses and let dem go south. Den to leave a small garrison to hold de position. At first Louis agree with me, den he change his mind de night before we leave. Kill dem all if dey don’t surrender when we make de attack. We give dem one chance to do dat, Louis say. I tink Louis know damn well dey won’t surrender. Least de Mounties will not and dey will shame or frighten de militia into keeping up de fight.”
“Too bad the Mounties are there,” Gatling whispered. “I always heard they were a pretty decent bunch.”
“Dey always get dere man. Now de métis get dem. But dey are ten time better men dan de militia. Dey don’t kill nobody less dey have to. Mounties got plenty of nerve. Ever’body tell dem dey are de best. And brave, you bet. You know what Mounties do when we attack dere post at Duck Lake, de first days of the rebellion? Is nearly one hundred of us métis, six of dem. Sure dey got Winchester rifle, but dey don’t got no chance. War not real war yet, so we give them chance to surrender. Den they send back word dat we are all under arrest and we better lay down our arms or de charge will be plenty serious. What can we do? We run all over dem, have to kill two men, pile on top of de others, and send dem south. Too bad dey don’t stay south.”
“That’s their job.”
“And dis is our job.”
Dumont looked at the sky. Darkness was thinning out to dull gray. “Not long now, Gatling. Sure you don’t want a few more guns?”
That was a joke. Dumont had stopped scowling at him since Towers’ death. The guard Towers had knifed would live, so it was all right. Gatling had the Mauser slung over his shoulder, a bandolier of clips across his chest, the Colt .45 in its holster, the new Officer’s Model .38 in the side pocket of his coat. And the leather case containing the modified Light Maxim lay beside him in the snow. Two 300-round belts were linked together in the feed box; all he had to do was click them into place and open fire.
“I think I got enough hardware,” he whispered. “Any more and I’ll sink to my knees.”
It started to rain. “God does not favor de métis dis morning,” Dumont muttered. All soldiers hated to fight in the rain. The rain came down heavier; it would turn the snow on the slope into slush. It put them at a disadvantage, but the attack had to be launched in a few minutes.
Dumont looked back at the line of métis riflemen waiting silently in the shadow of the trees. He fired a single shot and the Maxim and Hotchkiss guns opened fire. The Maxim loaded .303-caliber ammunition. The Hotchkiss Cannons loaded huge cartridges, ten lead balls to a cartridge. The Maxims fired automatically and were very fast-firing. The Hotchkiss Cannons were top-loaded with a feed case that held ten cartridges. How fast they fired depended on the skill and speed of the loaders. With a good gunner and a good loader, the Hotchkiss could fire eighty cartridges a minute.
Dumont started for the slope with a big heavy Webley revolver in his hand. Yelling like madmen, the métis riflemen hit the long slope at a dead run. Gatling couldn’t run as fast because he had to carry the cased Maxim and 1200 rounds of ammunition. The ammunition belts added to the weight of the case, but he couldn’t take the chance of running out of bullets. A bell was clanging inside the fort, and the riflemen cut loose after they climbed up to the firing platforms. One Gatling began to fire, and then the other. Some of the métis dropped as the Gatlings swept the long, bare slope with bullets.
Dumont was still ahead of his men. Gatling saw him get down on one knee, put a match to a fused dynamite stick, and throw it into the tangle of barbed wire thirty or forty feet away. He threw another stick before the first one exploded. Then he threw a third and a fourth. The explosions were bright orange in the rain. The gunners on the wall were giving Dumont all their attention. Somehow he wasn’t even scratched. Then a shell from one of the Hotchkiss guns scored a direct hit on the Gatling gun nearest the gate. The broken gun and parts of bodies were hurled into the air. Another shell tore a hole in the wall right under the hole made by the shell that killed the Gatling Gun crew. But the second Gatling was still firing. It stopped for a moment when the Heavy Maxim concentrated its fire on the firing port where the second Gatling was. Not all the barbed wire had been blown away, but there were enough holes to let the riflemen through. Fire from the walls was heavy, and the Gatling opened up again. The métis ran, stopped, leveled and fired, leveled and fired. Now the heavy Maxim was firing at nothing but the firing port where the Gatling was. The automatic and the mechanically operated rapid-fire guns dueled for several minutes, but the Maxim got off more bullets than the cumbersome Gatling. Screams sounded as the Gatling crew were killed by a long burst from the Maxim. The gun stopped firing and didn’t start again. Two Hotchkiss shells exploded against the massive gate and it sagged on its hinges. Two more shells knocked it down. Now the two Maxims could concentrate on the riflemen on the walls. Fire from the walls was becoming weaker and the métis gunners started to move their weapons closer. The Hotchkiss Cannons were mounted on wheels; the Maxims were carried. The gunners took up new positions at the bottom of the slope and opened fire.
Covered by heavy fire, Dumont and his men poured through the gate. Back from the gate a cannon boomed and shrapnel tore through the front ranks of the métis attackers. Gatling heard Dumont shouting and knew he hadn’t been killed. Holding the Light Maxim at his hip, Gatling stepped over the bodies of the dead and dying and killed the men behind the cannon with two bursts. The gate was narrow and the métis behind him were fighting to get through. Militiamen were still shooting from the firing platforms; others were trying to get down the ladders. Gatling raised the light gun and went through a belt and a half before everyone on the platform or climbing down from them was dead. Métis were coming over the back wall of the fort. Some were killed or wounded as they got over the sharp-pointed upright logs and dropped to the ground. Those behind them on the scaling ladders got over without being shot when Gatling swung the light gun and brought down the militiamen who were backing away from the wall, still firing their rifles. The parade ground was littered with bodies. Some of them were Mounties, their red coats dyed a darker red by blood. Now all the métis were inside the fort and the militiamen were trying to make for a low stone building that looked like an arsenal. About half of them were killed before they got to the door, but the rest got inside and began to fire their rifles from the small slit windows set into the stone.
Hand-to-hand fighting raged wherever men were too close to use their rifles effectively. The militiamen lunged with their bayonets; the métis fought back with their huge knives and trimming hatchets. Gatling laced the narrow windows of the arsenal with bullets. Dumont was still out in the open, and kept on firing. Gatling was down on his belly behind the light gun. The short bipod was extended and he raked the arsenal windows with bullets. He turned and saw métis dragging the wheeled Hotchkiss Cannons in through the gate. They turned the cannons and opened fire on the arsenal.
The arsenal door was solid oak faced with iron and it took two shells to break it in two. It still hung from its hinges. Another shell blew it into the arsenal. A fourth shell stopped the screaming and moaning that came from inside. Suddenly the fort was quiet. Gatling picked up the light gun with the bipod still extended. But there was nothing to shoot at.
The métis were under orders to shoot the wounded, and the crack of rifles sounded all over the fort. Some of the wounded begged for their lives. It didn’t take long to get the job done. Dumont took part in the killing, his way of showing his men that he was one of them. He reloaded the Webley and walked over to where Gatling was. The rain was still coming down hard.
“It wasn’t easy,” he said. “We could have climbed over de walls in de dark. But de goddamned dogs ...”
Baptiste came up and reported that they had lost forty men. “But we killed one hundred and seventy of them. Not many rifles were in de arsenal. Some were damaged.”
“Never mind de broken guns,” Dumont said impatiently. “How many good guns have we captured?”
“More than two hundred rifles, Gabriel. Forty pistols, plenty of ammunition, much food, whiskey and beer, medical supplies.”
“Tell de Irish doctor about de medical supplies,” Dumont said.
The Irish doctor, a thin, pale-faced man about sixty, was tending to the wounded métis. He rapped out orders to the two métis who were acting as his assistants. His French was labored and his accent was bad, but they understood what he was saying. More métis were pressed into service. They ran to the infirmary and came back with stretchers. One by one, the wounded métis were carried in out of the rain.
“Forty dead. More will die of dere wounds,” Dumont said. “We will leave fifty men here. Not a big force, but if Fitzsimmons and de other métis leaders have taken de smaller towns north and south of here, de militia will have to fight dere way back. De regular army soldiers, we must wait and see what dere commanders want to do.”
Gatling had no doubt that the regulars were already on their way from the east. The Canadian Pacific ran through Lower Saskatchewan. Thousands of regulars could be rushed there in troop trains. But he said nothing, and maybe Dumont knew that he was fighting for a lost cause.
They went into a frame building the Mounties had used as their headquarters. The sergeant’s office was bare except for a battered blond-oak filing cabinet, a small deal table with a scrubbed top, a few chairs. A kerosene lamp hung from a chain; a framed and tinted photograph of Queen Victoria was on the wall. On the cold cast-iron stove stood half a pot of yesterday’s coffee. Any guns that might have been there had been taken away by the métis. It was cold and damp; the rain beat against the windowpanes.
Crumpled newspapers, kindling, and chunky logs were in a box beside the stove. Dumont started a fire and the bare room was less cold. When the sides of the stove glowed red, it was warm enough to take off their wet coats. They hung them on chair backs, to dry. When the coffee began to bubble, Dumont filled two thick, white mugs and gave one to Gatling.
The reheated coffee was bitter and black, but it was coffee. Gatling hadn’t had a mug of coffee since he’d changed trains in North Dakota. Dumont would have preferred hot, sweet tea, but he drank his coffee like a man. He was behind the sergeant’s desk. He started to look through the drawers and found a large brown envelope stuffed with wanted posters. He laughed as he thumbed through them. There were fifty posters: half of them offered a thousand-dollar reward for information leading to the arrest of Louis Riel, the same amount for the apprehension of Gabriel Dumont.
“Only a thousand dollar. Not much money for important métis like me and Louis. I keep one for souvenir, take one back to Louis. Least dey don’ say dead or alive like dey do in de States. Mounties don’t like civilian killing other people for money. Course it don’t make no difference if you get shot or hung. I will be honest with you, Gatling. I tink any chance of making peace with de Gov’ment have gone up in smoke. I tink they hang Louis and me if dey catch us.”
“Then don’t get caught,” Gatling said. “Head for the border if things start to fall apart. Riel ran for Montana after the first rebellion back in ’70 went bust.”
“Louis won’t run dis time,” Dumont said.
“Then let him stay and be a martyr. You don’t want to be a martyr. You wouldn’t be deserting the métis. They won’t hang or shoot the rank and file. Men like Baptiste and Boulanger may get the rope or life in prison, but they’ll let the rank and file go. There will be some sort of amnesty. You have to look out for yourself.”
The wet coats steamed in the heat of the stove. Dumont poured the last of the coffee into Gatling’s mug. Outside, men were yelling back and forth. Wagons were being readied for the journey back to Batoche. Dumont wanted to move on as soon as possible.
Dumont said quietly, “If I want to look out for myself I stay in de north. My cabin is many days’ journey from anyting. Nobody ’cept a few trappers know I am dere. Nobody bother me. No people, no war. Look out for myself. Sure I could do dat. Only I don’t want to.”
Gatling sipped the bitter coffee. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“No, you say anything you like, Gatling. You have done much for de métis. Sure as hell I don’t want to be a martyr, but I will stay to de end. Let dem hang me if—”
Baptiste knocked and came in. “Big Bear and his Crees are approaching the fort. They want to come in and talk. Is it all right?”
Dumont told Gatling what Baptiste said. “Let dem in, but watch dem. How many?”
Baptiste said it looked like Big Bear’s entire tribe, maybe three hundred braves. “The other Cree chiefs aren’t with him,” Baptiste said. “Big Bear has an important announcement to make.”
Dumont got up from the desk. “Too many Indian. Big Bear and twenty of his men can come in. No more dan twenty.” They went out and Baptiste hurried on ahead of them. “Son of a bitch, they have watch de whole fight from de hills back dere. They could have help. Now we have won de battle and I tink dey want to join us. Share in de loot, maybe get guns, dat is what Big Bear want, you bet.”
Big Bear rode in on an Indian pony, followed by his men. Baptiste counted twenty Crees, then ordered his men to keep the rest out. Big Bear didn’t look like a bear of any kind. He wasn’t even a big man; the biggest thing about him was his belly. He was about sixty and wore a thick mackinaw coat, a fur hat with side flaps, wool pants tucked into soft-leather boots. His face was flat and brown. His thick lips were unusually red. To Gatling he looked like a fat, petulant baby.
“I bid you welcome, Big Bear,” Dumont said. Baptiste translated for Gatling. “Here you witness a great victory. As you can see, our enemies are all dead. You must have come a long way and must be thirsty. May I offer you a drink of beer?”
Big Bear wanted whiskey. Dumont apologized for not having any. He said the greedy militia pigs had drunk it all. “But the beer is very good. Dismount so that you may drink in comfort.”
Gatling didn’t think Big Bear believed the part about the whiskey. But he accepted the beer and drank it greedily after Dumont sent a young métis to fetch a pitcher and a mug. Big Bear refused the mug and drank straight from the pitcher. He didn’t stop until the pitcher was empty, then he shoved the pitcher at Dumont and said, “More.”
“I am told you bring good tidings,” Dumont said.
“I have come to join you,” Big Bear said. “I have brought many warriors. You have asked me to join you many times. Now I am here.” Big Bear paused to look at the new rifles carried by the métis and the captured Lee-Medfords being loaded into a wagon. “You will give us good rifles such as I see now.”
The repeating rifle Big Bear carried was an old Henry, its butt bound with thin copper wire. A good rifle for its time, it loaded fifteen rounds in a tubular magazine, but its cartridges were under-powered and it had lost out to the Winchester ’73.
“I will give you a new rifle,” Dumont said, unslinging his own Mauser and handing it to Big Bear. “This is the finest military rifle in the world. Let me show you how it works.”
Big Bear wouldn’t give back the Mauser and Dumont had to use Gatling’s. He held up a clip, pulled back the bolt, and loaded the rifle. “See that bucket over there?” Dumont leveled the rifle and fired and the bucket went spinning. He bolted another round and hit the bucket again. “That’s how it works. Very fast, very accurate. Because we are now allies, I give you dat fine rifle and all de ammunition you need.”
Big Bear just grunted. Dumont saw him looking at a dead Mountie. “I want red coat and Mountie hat,” Big Bear said.
The dead Mountie’s tunic had two holes in it. Dumont shrugged and was about to strip it off when Big Bear spotted another dead Mountie with many bullet holes in his chest. He had been hit by machine-gun fire.
“That one.” Big Bear pointed.
Baptiste said to Gatling, “He want dat one ’cause he tink other Cree chiefs will say: ‘Big Bear plenty great warrior. He have put plenty bullets in Mountie dat wear dat coat.’ He will draw plenty fly to him when weather get warm.” Dumont handed the riddled tunic and hat to Big Bear, who pulled the tunic on over his mackinaw coat. It wouldn’t button but he didn’t mind. He stuffed the fur hat inside his mackinaw and set the dead man’s hat squarely on his head.
Dumont looked on admiringly. “You look very brave,” he said in the Cree language. The métis stood watching with deadpan faces. Gatling thought: They may be part Indian, but they’ve got little in common with this conceited fat man.
“Guns,” Big Bear said, getting back to the subject closest to his heart. “Rifles. The métis are loading captured militia rifles into the wagons. The métis have their own rifles. Why can’t my men have the rifles in the wagons?”
Dumont stood firm. “We’ll talk about de rifles when we get to Batoche. No rifles till then. But we have capture’ much food and tobacco. We will share everything with you. Your people will say, ‘Big Bear always provides for us.’”
Big Bear liked to be flattered, but he wasn’t going to be put off by food and tobacco. Gatling sensed a deep antagonism between Dumont and the fat Cree. Big Bear was an easy man to dislike: vain, slippery, greedy, and not to be trusted.
“You don’t share rifles,” he complained as if they hadn’t been through all that. He pointed to the Maxim guns and the Hotchkiss Cannons. “You think you will give us guns like that when we get to Batoche?”
“That is not possible,” Dumont said patiently. “But de rifles, we will talk about de rifles in Batoche.”
Baptiste whispered, “Gabriel no fool. He tink if he give rifles to Big Bear, dat fat Indian maybe try to take ever’thing. Not here in de fort but out in da woods. Ride on ahead of us, den try to make ambush. Could be plenty of trouble he do dat. Cree is not de militia.”
“You don’t trust Big Bear,” the Indian said. “If you trust Big Bear, then give him rifles now.”
Gatling knew Dumont wanted to take Big Bear by the throat. But Dumont remained calm. “Dere is no one we trust more dan Big Bear. Big Bear is like a brudder to us. We know de white settlers have treat’ de Cree unfairly. Our hearts ache for de Cree. But dere can be no more talk of rifles till we arrive in Batoche. We must leave soon, my brudder. It is a long journey.”
Dumont left Baptiste to supervise the distribution of food and tobacco. Indians loved tobacco as much as they loved whiskey and guns. Most of the food they got was salt bacon and canned beans.
“Dat fat Cree is a son of a bitch.” Dumont laughed. “I tink he eat half de food by himself. De belly he have! He look like he have twins any day now. Hard to tink de American soldiers was once afraid of him. Used to raid across de border, den run back to dis country. De Mounties put a stop to dat. He have hate Mounties ever since. He look like a fool but is sneaky, dangerous Indian. We have to watch him all de time.”
Gatling asked the same question he’d asked about the hired gunslingers: “Why do you need him?”
Dumont said, “Fat bastard can keep de militia busy. Canada have no Indian wars, but Big Bear like to start one dat make him famous. Like Sitting Bull, like Crazy Horse. White Canadian don’t treat Indian too bad, least not like de Americans treat dem, but Big Bear don’t give a damn ’bout dat.” Dumont laughed. “You bet Mounties and militia will chase him pret’ good when dey hear he is useful to de métis.”
Gatling looked at the corpses that littered the parade ground. Other dead men were under the firing platforms and in the arsenal. “What’re you going to do with all these bodies?” Gatling asked.
“De men we leave behind will take dem into de town in wagons. Den dey will burn de town and de bodies. Dat should do it. We don’t want start no plague. We start back as soon as de wagons are loaded. After we raise de métis flag.”
Gatling had seen the métis flag flying over Batoche. It had the word LIBERTE lettered in big black letters on a white background. They raised it now; it hung listlessly in the rain. Dumont looked up at it with no expression on his face.
Boulanger approached them and told Dumont that everything was loaded. They could leave anytime. Dumont said they would leave right now.
They started back with five wagons. Three wagons taken from the fort carried the wounded and the captured weapons and supplies. It was still raining. Nearly half the métis force had been killed or wounded. But they had taken an important position, which was what they’d started out to do.
Dumont turned to look back at the fort; the sodden flag hung from the flagpole like a dishrag. “Maybe God isn’t a Catlick,” he growled. “Maybe he have no religion.”