STARS STILL GLIMMERED in the blue-black sky when Gatling and Dumont walked down to the river. The enormous raft that was to carry the chains to the far side of the river had been constructed some distance back from the bank. It was feared that if they built the raft too close to the bank its weight might cause that section of the bank to collapse.
The raft had been built with raised sides; the chain had to be on board before it was launched. Because the riverbank was high, a slope had been dug from the front of the raft to the water’s edge. The raft had been built on rollers; the launching slope was lined with tree trunks. Behind the raft a hundred hard-muscled men held the ropes that would ease the raft down into the water.
“Plenty big job,” Dumont said.
There was ice in the river, but most of it had broken up and been carried downstream. Dumont wasn’t worried about ice; what bothered him was the possibility that the weight of the chain would sink the raft the moment it hit the water. The river was a quarter of a mile wide, and that meant an awful lot of chain.
Pilings had already been driven deep on the Batoche side of the river. On the western shore the pilings, carried across on a small raft, were firmly in place.
“Here it come,” Dumont said.
The gate was open and the first of the chain carriers came out of the fort and started down the slope. Mud slowed them down. The chain was five hundred feet long; it took fifty men to carry it. When they got to the riverbank they had to carry the chain half a mile downstream to where the raft was. The men in front reached the raft and circled it, coiling the chain, laying it down evenly so the raft wouldn’t be lopsided. Finally, the entire chain was on the raft.
“We will know in a minute,” Dumont said. He took a deep breath and gave the signal that started the launch. Big men with sledgehammers stepped forward and belted the chocks out from under the rollers. The huge raft creaked and began to move and the men behind it put their weight on the ropes to keep it from crashing down into the river. It was still moving too fast when it hit the water, but after the first tremendous splash it floated all right, and the men on the ropes hauled it back to the bank.
They held it in place while the end of the chain was secured to the pilings. The men on the raft played out the chain as they moved out from the shore. Foot after foot, the chain slid off the back of the raft and sank to the bottom of the river. The men feeding out the chain had to be nimble as well as strong. If a man got his hand caught in the links, he would be dragged down to his death.
Halfway across the raft disappeared into the fog and for a while the only sound was the rattle of the chain. Though nobody could see it from the Batoche side, the raft was edging closer and closer to the western shore. Then a wild cry sounded through the fog. Somebody was shouting through cupped hands. Dumont looked at Gatling and smiled. All around them people were cheering.
The raft came back and the men who were to haul the chain out of the river went on board. Dumont and Gatling went with them. It wasn’t that Dumont didn’t trust the men in charge of the operation. It was just that he liked to check everything himself before he was satisfied that it had been done right.
The end of the chain snaked up over the riverbank; Dumont and Gatling took their places in the long line of sweating, heaving men. Slowly—very slowly—the chain came up from the river bottom. They moved back toward the woods as the chain cleared the surface of the river and became taut. They pulled it tighter, and when it looked right one of the links was eased down onto an enormous iron hook that had been driven into the pilings. Then the end of the chain was wrapped around the pilings that supported it, and the job was done.
Dumont was very proud of his “engineers,” as he called them. Gatling had seen bridges built and tunnels dug, but he was impressed by what he had seen today. The great builders had banks and governments behind them; the métis made do with anything they could get their hands on. Too bad they couldn’t get a square deal from somebody.
Back on the Batoche side of the river, they watched as the raft was floated downstream. A mile from the first chain, the raft would be tied up. The men who carried the second chain would have to carry it three times as far as the first one. The second chain would stay on the river bottom until the gunboats passed over it. Then the métis waiting on the western side would haul up the chain and secure it.
“If de plan work,” Dumont said, “de gunboats cannot go north and dey cannot go south. Dey are trapped. And den we destroy dem ... if de chains don’t break. You are tinking de same ting?”
“That’s what I’m thinking,” Gatling said. “If they find themselves trapped they’ll fight like hell to break out. What else can they do but run in close and put their men ashore.”
“Sure dey will, and de métis will be waiting for dem.”
“They’ll put them ashore under heavy covering fire,” Gatling said. “If I were you I’d move one Hotchkiss and the Heavy Maxim down from the fort. You won’t be stripping the fort. You’ll still have a Light Maxim and a Hotchkiss if a separate force attacks by land.”
“You tink dat’s what dey will do?”
“It’s standard military procedure. It’s something you have to expect. I know the métis are good fighters, but this time they’ll be facing well-trained regulars.”
Early next morning, at the end of a cold, clear night, the métis named Boulanger reported that the second chain was in place. Boulanger was exhausted, but he looked pleased with himself.
“Gabriel,” he said. “We are ready for anything.”
Dumont flew into a rage. “Goddamn you,” he roared. “Don’t ever say dat again. Never, never say such a ting. We are not ready for any ting. Get out of here, you idiot. Put up another row of sandbags outside de front wall. Dat should keep you busy, by God!”
Boulanger protested. “Gabriel, I have not slept for two nights.”
“Why should you need sleep? You are asleep when you are awake. Find some men and start filling sandbags. And when you are finished you will still not be ready for any ting.” Dumont turned and glared at Gatling. “What are you looking at?”
Gatling knew the reason for Dumont’s fist-clenching anger. He knew—had known all along—that the métis didn’t have a chance. No matter how hard he tried to pull things together, it would make no difference in the end.
“I’m looking at you,” Gatling said. “You think I should get permission to look at you. Anyway, your back was turned, so how—”
Dumont got madder. “I feel you looking at me. Who are you to look at me like dat. A man like you?”
Gatling knew he should go out and walk around until Dumont cooled off. He liked the man, but he could be an awful pain in the ass.
Gatling stood up. “What do you mean? A man like me?”
Dumont kept clenching and unclenching his huge fists. “Dat’s what I said. A man like you. You belong to nuttin’. You believe in nuttin’. You got no wife, you got no child. I tell you dis. I would hate to be a man like you.”
“Screw you, Dumont.” Gatling didn’t move, but he was ready if Dumont got mad enough to try something.
“Son of a bitch!” Dumont’s eyes bulged with rage. He swung at Gatling and was knocked back by a solid punch in the mouth. He spat out broken teeth and came at Gatling with his head down, like a mad bull. Gatling kneed him in the face and his head snapped back. Boring in hard, Gatling drove him back to the door with rights and lefts. He should have been out cold on the floor, but he wasn’t. Gatling stomped on his foot, punched him in the belly, and he hit the door so hard it tore loose from its hinges and he sailed out and landed on his back in the mud.
Gatling looked down at him. He didn’t want to go on with it. It was a stupid fight to begin with. “You want to call this off?” he said. “We’re both tired and edgy.”
Gatling didn’t feel tired or edgy; he thought it might make things better if he said he was.
“Like hell!” To show how tired he wasn’t, Dumont jumped to his feet and the fight was on again. Gatling knew this was no fight between two good friends with hair-trigger tempers. Dumont was doing his best to beat him to a pulp. He threw a hard right at Dumont’s head. Dumont dodged the blow and put all his strength behind a haymaker that knocked Gatling against the wall of the cabin. Dumont grabbed him by the neck and tried to beat his head against the wood. Gatling brought his knee up into Dumont’s crotch, and he howled and released his hold and danced away clutching his balls. By now a crowd had gathered; even some of Big Bear’s Crees were there.
Gatling moved away from the cabin. If he had to fight Dumont, he might as well give himself room. Nothing about Dumont suggested that he was ready to let it drop. He might have if the métis hadn’t been there. What the Crees thought didn’t matter; they were outsiders and didn’t count. Worst of all, some of the young métis were beginning to taunt him. He’d been pushing them very hard, and this was their chance to get back at him.
Slit-eyed and scowling, he came at Gatling with swinging fists. He knew how to kick and bite, but fancy footwork was beyond him. Now he growled and snapped like a mean barnyard dog. Gatling backed away, but Dumont kept coming. Then he sprang at Gatling and tried to bring him down with a body hold. Gatling dodged aside just in time and Dumont fell flat in the mud. Gatling kicked him in the back of the thigh before he could get up. But he got up and danced around on one leg until feeling returned to the other. Gatling was getting sick of this nonsense, and he moved in to finish it. Dumont threw a handful of mud in his eyes; the crafty bastard had scooped it up when Gatling knocked him on his ass. Gatling backed away, half-blind and now mad as hell. He came back at Dumont and hit him several times without doing any damage. Hitting Dumont was like hitting the trunk of a tree. He took anything you threw at him without flinching. You could knock him down, but he’d be up again before you could count to three.
Dumont tried a circling movement, and for a man so nimble in other respects, he was heavy-footed when it came to fighting.
“What’s the matter, Big Foot?” one young métis jeered. “You got lead in your ass as well as your feet?”
Hopping mad now, Dumont turned his head and tried to see who was baiting him. Gatling hit him in the side of the neck with a blow he had aimed at the jaw. Dumont swung and hit hard and Gatling went reeling back. Dumont dived at his legs and they went down rolling in the mud. For a few seconds Dumont was on top, then they rolled again and Gatling was on top. It went on like that. Both of them were covered with mud and horseshit. Gatling began to black out as Dumont’s thick fingers tightened around his neck, cutting off his air. He broke Dumont’s hold by butting him in the face. Dumont’s nose spurted blood. He got blood all over Gatling and himself. They closed again and rolled again. It would have gone on and on if pistol shots hadn’t sounded close to the fort. Then they heard the hollow sound of a horse galloping over the planks that had been laid over the spike-filled trench.
Gatling got up first, then reached out his hand to Dumont and yanked him to his feet. The rider galloped in through the gate. He pushed his pistol back in its holster and jumped down. For a moment he was startled by the two mud-covered figures that stood in the middle of the town square. He looked away from them and shouted, “Where is Gabriel Dumont? Somebody find Gabriel Dumont.”
Bloody and muddy, Dumont stepped forward and raised his hand. “What’s the matter with your eyes, boy? I’m Dumont. You’ve got something to tell me?”
The young rider was totally confused by Dumont’s filthy appearance. Could this be the man who would lead the métis forces to victory? He could hardly speak until Dumont clamped a dirty hand on his shoulder and squeezed.
“Gunboats have started up the river,” he said in a rush of words. “Five hours ago. I’m on the second relay. I had to ride like hell.”
He tried to squirm out from under Dumont’s hand, but found he couldn’t move.
“How many boats, boy?”
“Three boats filled with soldiers. Heavy guns on the deck, all three of them. It was dark and they were moving slow.”
Dumont let the boy go. He told Gatling what the boy said, then shrugged. “Dey are finally on dere way. What did Boulanger say? Oh, yes. ‘We are ready for any ting.’ Let’s hope so, my friend. I feel better when I know for sure we can’t turn back. We have a little time yet. Let us get cleaned up and have a drink. Oh, I forget you do not drink.”
“You drink whiskey,” Gatling said. “And I’ll drink beer.”
The Heavy Maxim and the Hotchkiss Cannon had been moved to where the second chain lay at the bottom of the river. A hundred riflemen were spread out along the bank. It wasn’t light yet; there was no sign of the approaching gunboats. The métis knew the kind of soldiers they’d be fighting if and when the regulars stormed ashore. Nearly all of the métis could read, except the very old people, and though the two métis French newspapers published in the region carried mostly local news, the exploits of the British Army, said to be the finest in the world, got some space. The Canadian Army was modeled after the British; in métis minds they were one and the same.
Dumont told the men not to be frightened by bayonets. Many men who would charge headlong at riflemen in position were frightened by bayonets. Dumont said the métis did not need bayonets because they were such good shots. He stressed the need to make every bullet count. The British-Canadians had unlimited supplies of ammunition; unfortunately the métis did not. However, if it looked as if the regulars were going to overrun their position, they were to fire at will.
A scout who had ridden far downriver galloped back on a lathered horse and reported that the gunboats were indeed on their way but were moving very slowly. The gunboats had big revolving lights to show them the way. These lights, the scout said, also were used to probe the darkness on both sides of the river. There were so many soldiers on board the boats, and so many guns, that the boats were deep in the water.
“Dat’s why dey move so slow,” Dumont said. “Dey are afraid water will wash over de side and sink dem.”
The scout went on to say that the lead gunboat had a high, thick steel prow that cut right through solid ice in places where the river was still frozen.
“We will see if dere ice-breaker can break our chains,” Dumont said.
There was fog on the river when first light came; fog often followed a clear, very cold night. It would disappear as the day wore on; right now, twenty minutes before seven, the fog lay heavy just above the surface of the water. On the far side of the river, fifty métis waited to pull the chain out of the riverbed after the gunboats passed over it.
Gatling knew some of them would be killed; once they were spotted, the armored gunboats would open fire. Back in New York, the colonel had told him that no Maxim guns, light or heavy, had been sold to any organization or individual in Canada, not even the armed forces. However, the colonel said, the Canadian Army and Navy had been using hand-cranked Gatling Guns for years. The Canadians were a thrifty people; they wanted value for their money; and when the Gatling was first introduced in the ’60’s, it was the best rapid-fire gun in the world.
Gatling and Dumont didn’t talk about the fight. It had started over nothing; now it was in the past. Both men knew that they would see plenty of real fighting before the day was over. And if the regulars failed to take the fort, the fighting could go on for days or even weeks. Gatling knew it couldn’t last more than weeks. No way it could continue past that point.
Dumont rejected the idea of sending another scout back down-river. They would hear the gunboats as they approached; soon after that they would see them. There was no need for scouts with the enemy so close.
They waited. The fog had been gone for several hours. Dumont looked down the line of riflemen and told the man closest to him that they were moving around too much. “Pass that along,” he told the métis. “Tell them to find a comfortable position and not to be sticking their asses up in the air. We’ve got binoculars. You think the regulars don’t have binoculars?”
He turned to Gatling, who was lying behind his modified Light Maxim. “You tink they are rowing de goddamn gunboats? Or maybe pulling dem with ropes?”
“I don’t know what they’re doing,” Gatling said. “Could be they’re tied up while their scouts are scouting us. By now they know what the métis did at North Battleford. They know what the métis did to the gunslingers in Cudworth. What they’re doing, I figure, is looking for a métis trap.”
“De chains?”
“Any kind of trap. An ambush. A drifting raft or small boat loaded with dynamite. But they’d blow it up with Gatlings or light artillery before it got close. I think the trap you’ve made is a good one. The chains will hold no matter what they throw at them.”
Dumont used Gatling’s binoculars to look down the river. “Nuttin’. Not a ting.” He gave the binoculars back to Gatling. “Maybe dey come at night. Dey have de big lights.”
“They’re called searchlights,” Gatling said.
“A good name for dem. Are dey as bright as dat scout say?”
“They’re very bright. The darker the night, the brighter they are. If they come tonight, and it’s dark, we have to shoot out those lights. We can’t see them if they stay behind the lights. The lights give them a big edge. They can see us but we can’t see them.”
“Dey got no advantage if de chain sweep ever’ting off de deck. Men. Guns. Lights. Boxes of ammunition.”
“Sure,” Gatling agreed. “That’s what’ll happen if they don’t stop short of the chain.”
Dumont didn’t like the sound of that. “Okay, dey don’t break demself on the chain, dat don’t mean dey can go back. Dey are trapped.”
“Trapped or not, they’ll still have their guns, the soldiers their rifles. If that happens, the only way we can sink them is with the Hotchkiss Cannon. The Maxim won’t make a dent in their armor plate—”
“Christ Almighty! Look at dat!”
Miles downriver an observation balloon was rising up into the clear sky. There was no wind and the balloon ascended slowly and steadily; there was no air turbulence to blow it off course. It was anchored to one of the gunboats, probably the boat taking the lead. The riflemen saw it and were disturbed by its size. The gunboats had edged their way north without being heard.
“Dey can see dat far?” Dumont asked. “Dey are a long way off.”
“They can see plenty with a naval telescope,” Gatling said. “I don’t know if they can see us. Things don’t look the same from high up. They can see the fort plain enough. Tell the men to flatten out and hug the ground.”
Dumont passed the order down the line. “You have been up in a balloon, Gatling?”
Gatling uncased his binoculars. The sun was behind him; the lenses wouldn’t flash. “I was up in an Army balloon when I was trying to sell Gatlings to some general. Aberdeen, Maryland. Like I told you, things on the ground didn’t look the same. The general let me use his telescope. I could see wagons moving on the roads. Very small. People were harder to see.”
Gatling adjusted the screw of the binoculars; two men were in the balloon. One was looking through a telescope; the lens flashed. Up high, the balloon remained steady.
He handed the binoculars to Dumont. “Son of a bitch! I can see dem real good. One of dem have a beard. You tink you can shoot dem down with de Balloon Gun?”
Gatling took another look at the balloon. “Not from here. They’d have to be closer. The balloon rifle is seventy-caliber and carries a big load. But it won’t shoot that far.”
“Look! It’s going back down. You tink dey will go up again?”
“I don’t know. We’ll just have to wait. I’m going down there and take a look.”
Gatling took the Mauser because he might run into Army scouts. They would hardly tie up in métis country without taking some precautions. But you never knew what any military commander was going to do. Gatling had known more than a few high-ranking officers who were stupid, stubborn, and just plain crazy. Custer could have taken a Gatling Gun battery to the Little Big Horn. He left the five Gatlings at the fort because he decided they slowed him down.
He left the modified Light Maxim in Dumont’s care. “Remember, it isn’t water-cooled. That one is.” He meant the Heavy Maxim that had been set up to cover the river. “My gun has to be fired in short bursts.”
Dumont didn’t like to be instructed about anything. “Please, Gatling, I have seen you firing de gun. I know how you shoot it. I will shoot it de same way.”
Pine woods came down to the water’s edge after Gatling had gone two miles. There was no way to tell if the men in the balloon had spotted them. It would be bad if they had; the light artillery would open fire from a distance. The Hotchkiss was a fine weapon, but it didn’t have the range of a light, breech-loading, rifled cannon. They might even have big guns on board, though he didn’t think so. Small gunboats—they had to be small for river warfare—weren’t built to take the recoil of heavy guns.
The woods offered plenty of cover; big and small rocks were scattered everywhere; there were stunted, brush-covered hills. But what was cover for him was also cover for them. These men were regulars, and though Canada hadn’t fought any recent wars, its army had a good reputation. The British influence again.
He had come about five miles when the pines began to thin out. Now he had to cross a long, wide meadow that went down to the river. The grass was frozen and yellow and lifeless-looking. The meadow was more than half a mile wide. On the far side, the woods started again.
If they were there, and if they were watching, now was the time to kill him. A marksman with a scoped Lee-Medford could hardly miss. And if he did miss, he had lots of chances left; the meadow was level and bare, the grass flattened by ice and snow. He walked with the Mauser at the ready position. He got halfway across. Nobody shot at him. They might have orders to take him prisoner. He couldn’t let that happen. He’d be in for some very rough treatment if it did. The way he looked, they might take him for a métis, and métis were filthy, treacherous animals. All half-breeds and mixed-bloods were treacherous. A man could respect a full-blooded Indian; a métis was a stinking mongrel and hardly deserved to be called a man. Killing or torturing a métis was less than nothing.
The woods were dark and silent. He walked on waiting for a rifle to crack or men to pile on top of him. A few minutes later he heard something up ahead. He knew he couldn’t be far from the boats. He couldn’t tell what was making the sound. The sound was sharp but small; if the wind had been blowing away from him, he might not have heard it. It was repeated every two or three minutes. It wasn’t being made by a small branch cracking under the weight of ice.
Gatling got down and crawled, with the Mauser in the crook of his arms. If he slung it, he might not be able to get at it fast enough. He stopped and listened. The cracking noise sounded again and he knew where it was coming from: a half-circle of rocks with brush growing between them. A good place to hide in; a good place to shoot from. The muzzle of a Lee-Medford stuck out through the brush where it was thin.
Gatling crawled away and around until he was behind the rifleman’s nest. He raised up and got a good look at the soldier. He was very young, towheaded and fuzz-faced, and he was cracking walnuts. Every few minutes he reached into his greatcoat pocket and took out a nut and cracked it between two small, flat rocks. Then he chewed and swallowed and reached for another nut. He was half-turned from Gatling, but he would have been an easy kill. Gatling knew he could knife or strangle the young soldier and not make a sound. But killing like that was pointless.
Concealed by rocks, he backed away; when he was far enough away to stand up he moved down toward the river. Soon he heard voices and the throbbing of engines. He crawled to the bank of the river. He was so close, he didn’t need the binoculars.
Three gunboats were moored to thick iron spikes driven into the frozen ground at an angle. The one closest to him was the biggest. Cleated gangways reached up to the riverbank. Thin smoke drifted up from the funnels of the boats. On the big boat were two Gatlings mounted on swivels. A single rifled cannon was placed forward. It stood on a circular sheet of heavy tin; the gun was bolted down, but the wooden platform under the tin could be turned by raised handles. Steel boxes painted dark green stood beside the guns: feed-cases for the Gatlings, shells for the rifled cannon. They had plenty of both.
Enlisted men were on deck and on the riverbank; others had to be below decks. They wore black uniforms and thick wool greatcoats of the same color. Bandoliers were slung across their chests. He could tell the officers by the colored tabs on their collars. The tabs were blue, yellow, red. Only four men wore red tabs. The lead boat was big enough to carry five hundred men, if they packed them in tight. Together, the smaller boats would be able to handle about six hundred. And more gunboats, he thought, might be on their way.
The two smaller gunboats had a single searchlight placed forward. The lead boat had two; one forward, one astern. They were powered by huge storage batteries, charged and recharged by the engines. This allowed the searchlights to be used when the engines were shut down.
The observation balloon, now deflated and limp, lay on the deck of the lead boat. A hose ran from the balloon down to the engine room. The balloon could be filled with hot air and sent aloft in minutes. It was all pretty efficient.
Gatling had seen all he needed to see and he went back through the woods, keeping well away from the nutcracking soldier.
Dumont laughed when Gatling told him about the nut-loving regular. “If dere all like him, we don’t got much to worry ’bout.”
“Stay worried,” Gatling said. Sure the kid was careless, probably because nobody seemed to feel themselves in any real danger, but he might be the best shot in his outfit.