EARLY THE NEXT morning a captain with yellow tabs on his collar came in under a flag of truce and demanded their unconditional surrender. He was a youngish man with an unlined red face and a yellow mustache. He wasn’t wearing his service revolver. Gatling figured his real reason for coming was to take a look at the fort.
Shouting down from the wall, Dumont told him he would not be allowed inside the fort. Dumont didn’t give a reason. Instead, he climbed down a rope and they talked. The red-faced captain repeated his demands: They would lay down their arms and march out of the fort with their hands in the air. He said he spoke with the full authority of the Canadian Government behind him. He said he also spoke on behalf of Her Majesty, Queen of Great Britain and Ireland and Empress of India.
Dumont said no.
The officer stood gaping as Dumont climbed back up the rope and over the wall. Holding himself very stiff, the captain returned to his lines.
“Now we get it good,” Dumont said to Gatling.
The barrage started immediately; it looked like the artillerymen were doing their damnedest to blow Batoche off the map. It went for an hour and still the infantry hadn’t attacked. The ground under the fort shook every time a shell exploded. Sometimes four or five landed at the same time. Dumont called the métis into the poor cover provided by the firing platforms. Fighting to be heard, he told them it was close to the end. If the infantry hadn’t attacked by nightfall, any métis who wanted to leave should go over the wall and try to make his way to the river. They knew the deep woods, he said, and the Army did not. So there was a chance, a very small chance, that some of them could escape to the north. The food was nearly gone, but an equal amount would be given to every man, and it didn’t matter if he stayed or went. They had been brave and loyal and always fine fighting men. He thanked them, and that was all he had to say.
Some of what he said was drowned out by the exploding shells. But the men understood what he was saying, and there were some who squirmed with embarrassment or became angry at the unsaid suggestion that they were cowards. They dispersed and ran for cover as the shells rained down. Bomb-proofs had been dug but there wasn’t enough room for everyone. Fighting broke out at the entrance of one of the shelters. An exploding shell broke it up by killing or wounding ten or more people.
Gatling knew Dumont wasn’t speaking for Riel, who remained in the shelter underneath his house. Dumont had given up on Riel. Riel had lost all sense of reality and spent his time reading, or writing speeches, while shells burst overhead. Dumont did send him food, but it remained uneaten.
“I can’t help him,” Dumont told Gatling. “He live now in his own mind. Last time I saw him he ask me who I am. It make me sad to see him like dat. You know he once want to be a priest, maybe a bishop. People use to say he could be a cardinal if he was not a métis. You know dat?”
“I know it.”
“When we was young I use’ to joke with him. Call him Louis de Cardinal. He don’t like dat. He is a very holy man. Some of de old people tink he is a saint.”
Gatling had nothing to say about that. Louis the Cardinal. Louis the lunatic.
Gatling was thinking he would take Dumont’s suggestion and make his way across the line to Alberta. If they didn’t catch him, he would board a train bound for Vancouver. There might be delays because of the war. But some passenger trains had to be running. How he would get through the Army lines was something he hadn’t figured. A canoe, he thought. If I can get hold of a canoe, maybe I can make it across the river, then head west to Alberta. A canoe or a raft? He didn’t have time to make a raft; even if he did build a raft, even a very small one, how would he get it to the river.
Dumont said he would sell his soul for a big glass of whiskey. But he had given the last of his whiskey to the hospital. “I am joke about selling de soul, but I would like a drink. I am nervous. Whiskey would calm me down.”
“I wonder why you’re nervous,” Gatling said.
In spite of the situation, Dumont burst out laughing. “Crazy man,” he said. “Always you make de joke? How can you do dat?”
“It’s better than whining,” Gatling said.
“I feel like whining and crying,” Dumont said. “I feel like tearing out my beard.”
“You’d look damn peculiar doing that,” Gatling said. The shelling began to ease off. The final attack couldn’t be far off. He made one last attempt to persuade Dumont not to throw away his life. “They won’t kill your people if they don’t have to. This is not the Alamo. These soldiers are Canadians. There will be no massacre unless you force it.”
Dumont gave Gatling a long look. “You are getting ready to leave? If I may say so, you have picked a bad time to do it. But you have stay for your own reason. How do you tink you will escape?”
“Get to the river, follow it north for a bit, then try to get across. Head west to Alberta.”
Dumont shook his head. “No good. Soldiers—militia—will be coming down de north. From Prince Albert. Dey will be watching de river for métis trying to escape. No more rebellion if dey round up all de métis. Dey catch you quick, Gatling.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“Here is a plan,” Dumont said. “Not so good, all dere is. When de attack come, dis last attack, get over de wall. De town will be burning from de shells. Plenty smoke everywhere. I pray God give you fog or rain. But you will have plenty smoke. Do not run to de river. Crawl to it. Find a hiding place under de bank. Not far upstream dere are reeds. Get in dere and wait. Take your pistol, all you take, hear me. Long guns do you no good. You have to leave de gun in de case.”
Dumont knew how much Gatling depended on the modified light machine gun. “I’ll have to think about that,” Gatling said.
Dumont shrugged. “Do what you like, Gatling. I am telling you what I would do. Now. Dere are some canoes here in Batoche. Dey are in a shed to protect dem from snow and rain. You have seen dem? Good. Den I don’t have to show you. We have to give de métis a chance to use dem. Dey won’t. If nobody want dem, then you smash up all but one canoe. Pile broken canoe on top of de good one. Soldiers won’t bother with broken canoes. If dey don’t catch fire, then you have good canoe when you come back.”
Gatling let Dumont talk.
“Could be a long wait for you. Nothing you can do. Now listen to dis part. Dey will start de infantry attack and we will give up. Sound crazy. Never mind. I have decide. Fight to de death? But we have to show de world dat métis fight till dey have nothing left to fight with. Soldiers will tell us to march out, hands up. Okay. You go over de back wall when dat is going on. I don’t tink dey will burn de rest of de town. Dey do what dey like. If town is burning, dey won’t try to put out de fire. No way dey can. Dey will not try.” Gatling just nodded. It wasn’t a bad plan. It had a lot of ifs in it, but what desperate plan did not.
Dumont said. “After we march out, dey will post a guard over de town. Dey will search de town, look in de underground shelters. But you will be at de river by dat time. Dey don’t find anybody in de town ’cept dead men. Who can say how big a guard dey will leave? No so many men, I tink. Now come de hard part. In de night you have to come back, get out de canoe is not damage, and get it to the river.”
“I may have to wait more than one night,” Gatling said.
“You may have to wait plenty of night if dey leave big party here. Not likely. But dey will leave some guard. Maybe you should wait till all guard leave. Is a risk what you have to do. Canoe is light but big. You must decide. You have canoe, you can cross de river. One thing you got to remember. Get away before de militia arrive. Dey will burn de town for sure.”
The shelling had stopped. Dumont unslung his Mauser. “Dey are coming, so I will say goodbye now. I am grateful for all you have done.”
They shook hands and Dumont left to take up his position on the wall. Gatling watched him as he climbed up the ladder. The métis riflemen followed him, though some hung back, confused and frightened, not knowing what to do. Gatling thought: It’s one thing to be ready to die, but it’s hard to get through it. Far out from the fort the regulars were yelling. They were coming in for a frontal assault. They expected resistance, but nothing could stop them and they knew it.
The shed where the canoes were hadn’t been hit by shell fire. Long, light canoes were piled high. He picked up a chunk of wood and started to smash in the fragile sides. Now all but one were destroyed. He piled the wreckage on top of the sound canoe and started for the back wall. There was no one there; Dumont had ordered everyone forward. Gatling was crouching down behind a row of barrels when the infantry opened fire. On the wall the métis began to shoot back. The Maxim guns opened up.
Gatling looked at the leather case that lay beside him. Dumont had advised him not to take the light gun. But he would. Maybe it would be the death of him, yet he hated to leave it behind. Far from being superstitious, he didn’t believe in good or bad luck. He just didn’t want to abandon a weapon that had proved so reliable. The leather case had seen some hard use; so had the sample cases carried by most traveling salesmen; and when the bipod was folded back and the ammunition box removed, it was no longer or larger than many cases used for bulky items.
He went up to the firing platform, and from there he could see the river. On all sides of the fort the land had been cleared. Not a bush or rock remained above ground. Behind him, at the other end of the fort, the firing eased off, then stopped. A bugle sounded and there was shouting. They would be clearing the gate in a few minutes.
He dropped the gun case into a drift of dirty snow that still clung to the base of the wall. Then he dropped down beside it and waited. He couldn’t see the gunboats, but they’d be moving in close to the riverbank. There was a screeching noise as the wrecked gate was dragged open. Crawling, dragging the gun case with one hand, he started for the river. By now there was a lot of shouting inside the fort, but he didn’t look back. No point. If they spotted him from the wall, there was no way they could miss, well-trained regulars with rifles.
Now he was about halfway to the river. Bracing himself for the shock of bullets, he kept going until he reached the bank and slid down into the reeds. Only then did he look back. There was no wind and a pall of smoke hung over the fort. A single rifle cracked, but whether the shot was fired by a métis or a soldier, he had no way of knowing. Faces appeared over the top of the wall, and a few minutes later a squad of soldiers came around from the front of the fort. They looked around and went away.
One of the soldiers on the wall was scanning the river and the woods with binoculars. Gatling burrowed down in the reeds and tried to stay warm. If the wind blew up or it started to rain he would be a lot colder than he was. It might even snow. He had stuffed dried meat in his coat pocket but he wasn’t hungry yet. One thing he wouldn’t run short of was water. He didn’t look forward to drinking freezing river water, but he’d be glad to drink it after he ate some of the dried, heavily salted deer meat.
Hours later, when it was getting dark, the gunboats pulled out; the sound of their engines was lost in the great stillness of the river and the woods. Smoke still hung over the fort. It got colder and it looked like rain. The rain started and it came down heavy, and he watched it falling in the dark river. He chewed on dried meat and drank water from scooped hands. He was saving his canteen water for later.
It was dark but still too early to try anything; he might not be able to get the canoe tonight or even tomorrow. But he would take a look and then decide. He knew he could wait as long as he had to if the temperature didn’t drop back to freezing. If that happened he would have to make his move. He’d often heard it said that freezing to death was painless, but it wasn’t a theory he wanted to test by doing it himself. Better a bullet than to end up a frozen corpse.
There was no sign that the rain would stop anytime soon. But it wouldn’t freeze as long as it rained. By now he was soaked clear through; his boots were full of water. It was a waste of time to take them off and empty them out, because they’d just fill up again.
He crawled up to take a look at the fort. The fires had gone out and the fort was dark, yet he knew the soldiers left to guard it would have a fire going somewhere, probably in one of the buildings that hadn’t been damaged by shell fire. They were regulars, and would guard the town as ordered, but for now they would stay out of the rain. They would make their rounds and then go back to steam themselves dry at the fire.
Gatling decided to try for the canoe before the rain stopped, and though he hated the rain, it was the only thing he had in his favor. He left the gun case where it was, and when he was up and over the riverbank he ran toward the deep shadow of the wall. Inside the fort there wasn’t a sound. He waited and listened but there was nothing.
One swing dropped the looped rope over one of the pointed logs that made up the wall. He was over the wall and climbing down the ladder from the firing platform when he heard them coming. He ran for cover behind the row of barrels and lay flat on the mud. There were two of them and one was saying, “What I wouldn’t give for a hot meal and a warm bed! How long d’ye think they’ll keep us here?”
“As long as they bloody well please,” the other soldier said bitterly. “Ours not to reason why, or hadn’t you heard?”
Gatling had the Colt in his hand, and he would kill them if he had to. Then he would run for the woods and head north, not that dodging and hiding would do him any good. But it didn’t come to killing, not yet anyway, and after a while the two soldiers moved on. He gave them a few minutes before he headed for the shed where the canoe was.
The rain drumming on the galvanized-iron roof covered the noise he made dragging the wrecked canoes away from the sound one. He balanced the canoe on his head, gripped the sides with both hands, and got it as far as the ladder. He went up backwards, dragging the canoe after him. If they came along now they’d have him dead to rights, but nothing happened. He roped the canoe securely and lowered it to the ground. Nobody challenged him as he carried the canoe to the river.
The current was moving the broken-up ice; he had to paddle and ward off slabs of ice with jagged edges at the same time. Even a short slash along the fragile sides of the canoe would send it to the bottom, and he knew he wouldn’t survive for more than three or four minutes in the freezing water. But he got across, and after he picked up the gun case he kicked a hole in the canoe and pushed it out into deep water. It filled up and sank.
He picked up the road to North Battleford where it came down from the north. Up ahead there was a low, crumbling cliff, and when he got to it, he climbed a brushy slope looking for a place to spend the night. Somehow he had to get his clothes and boots dry. A cold, pale moon gave some light as he made his way along the base of the cliff. He found a deep hole that wasn’t a natural cave but had been made by the collapse of the rock face. Inside it was dry, and brush and twigs had been blown in by the wind.
He got a small fire going with a match from his watertight match case. Even though the case was guaranteed to be waterproof, some of the matchheads were soft and he laid them on a flat stone to dry out. He piled on more twigs and then went out to root up brush to keep the fire going. He broke off pieces of brush and put them on the fire before he went back down to the road and looked up at his hiding place. The rockfall all but covered the entrance to the cave. He saw nothing.
A fissure that went up to the top of the cliff carried off the smoke. The cave was dry and soon it was warm. He stripped off and hung his clothes from small branches that would be used as firewood. He would have to buy or steal better-looking clothes before he boarded the train. The clothes he had were caked with mud and ripped in several places. Even if he tried to pass as a dirt-poor homesteader, he’d still look like a hobo. And what would a hobo be doing with a salesman’s sample case?
But how he looked was something to think about tomorrow. For now, he was warm and dry; as far as he knew, there was nobody dogging him. He chewed jerked meat and drank from the canteen. He wanted to sleep but that was too risky. It would be a hell of a thing to be chased bare-assed through the woods.
Finally his clothes were dry enough to put on, and he stretched out and slept. By morning the rain had stopped and the fire was out. He had to face a hard wind when he went down to the road, but the country was thawing out, and it wasn’t too bad. Not much farming was done between the river and North Battleford, Dumont had told him, and the few farms in that part of the country had been abandoned. Now that the war was over these farm families would be coming back, but not just yet, he figured; it was the militia he had to watch out for.
There was no sign of any recent traffic, and he walked all day without seeing anybody. That night he slept for a few hours, without a fire, without shelter. He ate the last of the salty meat before he started out hours before first light. That day and the day after were the same; he saw no one.
Finally he reached the bend in the road, where it went northwest to North Battleford. He followed a smaller road going south, and it was narrow, not much more than a track, but it was safer than the road that went to the fort. By this time, the fort would be reoccupied by the military, regulars or militia, and the Mounted Police would be back. If any of the métis garrison had escaped, they would be combing the woods, trying to find them, and from here on he could expect to be shot at.
That night, huddled behind a rock, he heard shooting far off in the woods. After it stopped, he got a few hours’ sleep. Later he saw hoofprints that came out of the woods and went on ahead of him before going back into the trees. What he had to watch out for was a party of men in a fixed position, regulars or militiamen stopping anyone who came along. With North Battleford in their minds, the militia might not bother with questions. Late on the following day he nearly walked into such a trap, but they had a small fire going and he was able to circle their position without being seen.
The road went through a long stretch of sand hills that would be like a desert in summer. There was no water here and he drank sparingly from the canteen. No signposts told him where he was going, but he figured he was in Alberta. Dumont had told him that Medicine Hat would be the best place to board the train. It was a fairly big town and he was less likely to be noticed at the depot.
Now he was in settled country and could travel only at night. His belly rumbled with hunger, but it was too dangerous to try to buy or beg food at a farmhouse, and though the war hadn’t touched Alberta, people there would be jittery and suspicious. He had come too far to be killed by a nervous farmer armed with a shotgun.
But it came close to that, though the man who tried to kill him was no sodbuster. It happened just after he came to a signpost that pointed to Medicine Hat. Ten more miles to go. He still hadn’t done a damn thing about his clothes. Maybe he could get a shave and new clothes before he boarded the train. There would be food on the train; the thought of ham and eggs and hot coffee made him walk faster.
He could see the smoke of the town, no more than three or four miles in the distance, when he heard a horse galloping far behind him. He was off the road, crouched down in the brush, and the rider was getting closer. The man on the horse had a rifle in his hand; a bottle stuck out of his pocket. Gatling thought he was going to ride on, but he turned the horse off the road and came straight in at full tilt. Gatling got off one shot with the Colt before the frightened horse rode over him, kicking and plunging. A steel-shod hoof knocked the gun from Gatling’s hand and he got a hard kick in the thigh. He was scrambling for the Colt and was close to getting it when the rider fired one shot from his Winchester carbine and levered another round into the chamber.
“Get up,” the rider ordered.
Gatling got up and turned to face him. The man holding the carbine was in his forties, carefully shaved, and had crazy eyes. He was very drunk, but the short gun in his hand was steady enough. Gatling started to say something, but the rider roared at him to be silent.
“Silent, I say,” the man roared, frightening the horse even more. Spittle flew from the man’s mouth and some of it remained on his chin. “You know what I’m going to do to you, you filthy vagrant scum. Or are you a métis? We’ve been warned. That’s what you are, a crawling, treacherous half-breed mongrel. Sneaking away from your rotten, so-called rebellion. When I think of the good men you’ve killed! But you’ll kill no more, you disloyal rubbish. This is where you die.”
“The rebellion is over,” Gatling said. “Nothing to do with me. I’m just a bum.” The man with the carbine wasn’t just drunk, he was out of his mind. His clothes were good, black wool suit, short wool topcoat. Certainly no ordinary farmer.
“That doesn’t concern me,” the man said. “You are on my land, a dangerous trespasser, and that gives me the right to shoot you. This is my land and I do what I like. Nobody crosses me and gets away with it. My neighbors don’t like me because I drink too much. Nobody likes me, matter of fact, and I glory in it. But even my sour-faced Presbyterian neighbors can’t object if I shoot down a lice-ridden métis, now can they?”
The man was insane but Gatling had to give it a try. “I’m not a métis. Do I sound like a métis? Look, mister, I’m sorry for coming on your land. I’m just a ’bo. Let me go and you’ll never see me again.”
“I don’t care what you are, I have the right to kill you. What’s in that case? Open it.”
Gatling pretended to fumble with the metal snaps. “Get a move on, you foul bastard.” The man rode in closer as Gatling opened the case. “Get back,” the man said.
He was still staring at the light machine gun when Gatling swept off his hat and slapped the horse across the muzzle. The horse reared up and plunged away and began to run. Gatling was grabbing the Colt when the man was flung from the saddle, hit the ground, and lay still.
Gatling looked around and saw nothing but desolate farmland under a gloomy sky. If the shots had been heard, nobody was coming to see who was shooting at what. The man was dead, his neck broken by the fall.
Gatling stripped the body and dressed himself in the dead man’s clothes. He left the dead man’s personal belongings beside the body. The clothes weren’t a bad fit; they would pass. Later, when the neighbors or the police found the body, most likely they would put it down as a drunken accident. The fact that he was naked might not even puzzle them. He had been a wild, crazy drunk who did crazy things.
Gatling picked up the gun case and walked the rest of the way to Medicine Hat.
He got back to New York.