Dear Canada: Blood Upon Our Land

Edmond says that people at One Arrow’s reserve are talking about Big Tom Hourie. I wondered aloud if it was because he is so tall, but that was not the reason. They say he is now carrying messages for the government’s army. Some say they saw him swim across the Saskatchewan to take a message to government men in Prince Albert. Moushoom said it was idle talk and nonsense. No one could swim across and back through all that ice.

Tom Hourie is very tall. As serious as the matter was, I must admit that Armand’s words made a very funny picture in my mind.

I cannot stop thinking about it. Not about the ice, or the walking through the river, but about people who would betray their own friends and neighbours to help Macdonald’s army. Papa says that loyalty is different for everyone, and that it is difficult to understand how a person will chose one thing over another. I am not so sure. Loyalty seems a very simple thing to me. It is what I feel for my family.

Holy Thursday. A wet and snowy day, suitable only for staying inside at home. This evening after we said the rosary together, I worked on Mama’s rug for a while. I suddenly realize that I have not described the rug. It is a small one that measures two feet by three feet. In the centre are seven roses. I remember watching Mama draw the roses, and hearing her say that they stood for the seven of us. All around the roses are vines and leaves. “This is our home, our place,” Mama explained. “Nothing can change that any more than cutting back a vine will stop the roses from returning.”

Vawndarzee Saen always seems like such a sad and lonely day to me, this day on which Le Boon Jeu died for our sins. After Mass we spent a quiet afternoon that suited the seriousness of the day. It was so peaceful. For a little while I could not imagine anything that could end that peacefulness.

Later Papa went over to visit Monsieur Dumont. The Dumonts are staying at Monsieur Letendre’s house for the sake of convenience, as the parlour is the place from which Gabriel is commanding our army. Papa also visited the Riels, who are now living in a small house here at Batoche, one owned by Joseph Fisher.

Adrian brought a newspaper from Garnot’s. Here is some of what it said about us.

OTTAWA, March 23. — Immediately after routine proceedings in the House to-day, Mr. BLAKE made inquiries from the Government respecting the reported outbreak among the half-breeds at Fort Carlton.

Sir JOHN MACDONALD, in reply, said that it was true that a disturbance among the half-breeds under the leadership of Louis Riel had taken place. They cut the wires and stopped communication between Qu’Appelle and the Saskatchewan. Several operators and officials had been taken prisoners. One wire had since been repaired. The immediate cause of the outbreak was not known, but a telegram received said it was owing to a letter sent from one of the departments which stated that Riel was not a British subject. Inquiry in the departments had failed to discover that such a letter had been sent. It was true, however, that certain questions in connection with the half-breeds’ complaints were under consideration and remain unsettled. Some of them were unreasonable and could not be entertained, but others were in process of readjustment. No bill of rights had ever been forwarded to the Government. Sir John denied

When I read it aloud in our kitchen, Papa said we should not pay any attention, and that maybe Adrian should stop bringing newspapers here. Newspapers were supposed to be the writings of educated men, but something must have gone wrong in Ottawa if that was the sort of thinking education has created. Papa added that I could make a better newspaper than this … this … and then he faltered.

“Dilet kwyee?” Moushoom suggested, and he made that sound he makes. It took away the sting of the newspaper’s words and made us all laugh, for of course the story was just so much sour milk.

Père Moulin and Monsieur Riel argued after Mass this morning. Again! Monsieur Riel felt that our priest should have praised the bravery of our Métis soldiers in his sermon. Père Moulin called Monsieur Riel a heretic. It sounded like a very foul word, like something you might hear at the forge. Later, though, Louise explained that a heretic is a person who disagrees with the teachings of the church.

Still, I refused to let their disagreement spoil such a holy day for me, and although nothing was said by any of us, I am certain my family — except perhaps Adrian, who worships Monsieur Riel — felt the same way. Still, Adrian did seem happy enough. I thought about Emma, who calls this day Easter, and hoped she was happy, too.

Louise and I set the table for eight. There are only seven of us, but an extra place was added for those who had gone on before us, as it always is on special days like Zhour di Pawk. Lent having ended and meat again being allowed, we enjoyed boulets of venison and muskrat all rolled together into small balls. There was a savoury rababoo with grawdpayrs, the dumplings tasty from simmering in the stew. Soup di pwaw, of course, and warm fresh galet.

We filled our plates and Papa filled the eighth. It was a hearty, cheerful meal. When it ended, Papa took the eighth plate and put the food into the fire, whispering as he did so.

I cannot help but wonder who was in each of our thoughts as our eyes passed over that plate and the empty chair. Papa was surely thinking about Mama. Did Moushoom recall his wives or perhaps all his friends, dead these many years, some of them just recently killed at Duck Lake? And Louise. Had memories of her first husband come to mind? In any case, she did not eat much and her face was pale.

I thought of Mama, as I have each time we have set and filled that plate since she has been gone. Then sometimes I think about relatives who have passed on. This time I did not. This time I thought of the men who died at Duck Lake, men whose faces I had seen since I was a small girl. But then I could not stop myself from thinking of the others — the soldiers, and the volunteers. Were their wives and children now doing the same? I felt shame at my disloyalty. Those men might have killed Papa or Moushoom, Edmond or Adrian! I vow I will try to harden my heart. I must and I will, but somehow I think Mama would not be very happy about that.

They say that Macdonald’s army is only a few hundred miles away. Their leader’s name is General Middleton, this soldier who means to destroy everything I hold dear.

How strange the way a family behaves sometimes, as though it has only one brain. We did not speak of preparations and yet today we all worked as one. Perhaps the cold rather than fear has spurred us on. Adrian melted lead and poured it into bullet moulds, working slowly so as not to waste a bit. Papa went over to Louise’s old house with the sleigh — the house is not yet rented out — and when he returned he had all the pots and kettles from the kitchen. I wondered why, for a moment, and then realized that Adrian could use the lead linings to make more bullets if they were needed. I tried not to think about those bullets, or about the bullets that General Middleton’s army would have. The thought of them made me feel ill.

Louise and I took stock of the cellars, and the work helped ease my mind. Most of the food was in the big cellar under the floor of this house, but a bit of flour, some potatoes and containers of seeds for the kitchen garden are stored in the small cellar beneath Moushoom’s cabin. We counted the jars of preserves and checked the butter, flour and peas stored in their stone crocks. Going through each of the wooden bins of vegetables, we set aside those potatoes, carrots or turnips that were a bit shrivelled, to use soonest. Then we dusted everything and put fresh straw on the floors. Armand helped, insisting that he would hunt down and kill any rats or mice, even though they cannot get in because of the rocks that line the walls. Finally Louise sent the little hunter outside, saying that it was a clear cold day and the fresh air would do Armand good.

All the while, she and I could hear the faint sounds of hammering and sawing outside the house. When we came up, Papa called to us to see what he had made. Shutters for the windows! Now the precious panes of glass will be better protected from hail or stones. Or anything else that might hit them, although I forced that thought out of my head. Louise and I swept the floors, and then moved furniture away from the windows, saying how much better it all looked. Moushoom and Edmond again sharpened all the axes and knives, and then Moushoom cleaned and polished Gárso Zhounn until his brass gleamed like gold.

UPON THE NORTHWESTERN RANGES

They are a nomadic people, and can live in tents during the severest seasons, subsisting on jerked meat and pemmican, which is their natural food. As they follow hunting for a living they are armed with the latest pattern of repeating and breach-loading rifles, are dead shots, and could but secure an abundance of ammunition by the capture of the posts referred to. If they resist the constituted authorities by a resort to arms they will prove a very formidable foe to mounted police and undisciplined volunteers. In fact, they would make it warm for British regulars of the line.

Later, when Papa went to call Armand in for supper, instead of shouting to him Papa stood in the doorway and watched. He laughed a little and said we should come quietly and see something the newspaper story must have inspired.

There was Armand marching around the yard, a stick over his shoulder, Eagle and a few chickens following him. “I am Gabriel Dumont!” Armand shouted at the chickens. “Leave this place, you weak stupid soldiers, or I will make it warm for you.” He aimed the stick at the chickens and made the sound of gunshots, which made Eagle bark and bark.

All the men laughed. Louise smiled, but it was a smile that she made only with her lips. Her eyes were serious, and when they met mine, I know she saw the same thing. Worry. But Armand was coming in, Papa was talking about the good smells, and supper must be put on the table. I sent worry away, out to where the chickens scratched in the snow.

It is the second time I have felt a bond with Louise, and this time I am certain I have not imagined it.

During the night, the ice on the river disappeared. It has always seemed special to see this, as though spring is flowing in with the river’s water. Today, though, all I could think of was what else might be coming up the Saskatchewan.

Frogs. I heard peepers this evening. Such a sweet sound, but all sweetness disappeared when Edmond arrived with yet more terrible news. A telegram came to the office at Clarke’s Crossing earlier. It said that on le 2 avril there had been a massacre at a place called Frog Lake, perhaps two hundred miles to the west. Nine white settlers were killed, including two priests and the Indian agent. Edmond said he was told that it was some of Big Bear’s young Cree warriors who were responsible for the killings.

Moushoom told us that he had not talked to Big Bear in years. He went on to say that Big Bear is a good chief, a man who always tried to do the right thing by his people. He talked about how the Cree were truly starving out there, and how starvation does strange things to a man, when he sees his wife and children waste away. So much suffering and so much hunger among all the tribes since the buffalo have stopped coming.

Papa wondered what Monsieur Riel must think, and although I wondered the same thing, none of us could guess. Now, I am certain that somehow we will be blamed for this. Two hundred miles, a thousand miles. No matter.

When Adrian came in this afternoon, his lip was swollen and bloody. Someone had struck him a blow to the mouth. Papa was angry, very angry, as he disapproves of fistfights, but he did not press Adrian. Finally, after a quiet and melancholy supper, the words poured out of Adrian, the way pus will pour from a boil when it is lanced.

The split lip? He was in a fight outside of Garnot’s. Papa asked him who he had fought. Then Adrian straightened up and his eyes flashed. A Kanayah, he told us, a freighter from Prince Albert who had the manners of a pig. “I taught him new manners,” Adrian said.

Once Armand was asleep, Adrian told us more. He said it had been a matter of name calling. Once I heard what my brother had been called, I understood. Batochien. Moushoom observed that it was a bad word, a slur against what we are, but it was only a word after all. Words can only take on the power you let them take on.

Adrian probably did not heed any of those words. He hides it, but I am certain that he is still so sad about Emma.

There was friendship growing between Emma and I. We might have become closer, but I think that more than a river divides us now. Only here will I admit that I am sad too.

More snow fell today, but the weather also brought something else. Finally, something good has come out of the troubles, and what excitement it has caused. Nuns! Four women of the Faithful Companions of Jesus, the nuns who taught at St. Laurent, have come to stay here. It seems they were on their way to Calgary, since the bishop feared for their safety. That part of the news I did not like, but I suppose the bishop must think the nuns are in more danger than ordinary people are these days. No matter. Back to the news.

Somehow Monsieur Riel got word to the nuns that they had nothing to fear, that they would be completely safe in Batoche. Papa says that Monsieur Riel’s mama wanted to be a nun before she married, and of course his sister Sara was a nun herself. Monsieur Riel has a tender spot in his heart for nuns, I think.

One part of the news I greatly enjoyed. While on the road, one of the wheels of their wagon broke. Now, I did not like to hear that, but the part that comes after, because it was not the driver who repaired the wheel. It was one of the nuns, Mother Mary Greene, who came here from Ireland years ago.

The nuns were taken to Monsieur Letendre’s house, since it is the finest home here, and Madame Dumont and Madame Letendre saw to the nuns’ comfort. They will be staying at the rectory though, since it is near the church.

When Armand heard that Mother Mary Greene came from Ireland, he added her to the picture that Louise drew for him. He says that when he meets this Mother Greene he will ask her if she knows the Fenian slaves.

I had to turn away my face when I heard that. Armand’s picture is becoming very messy and it looks foolish, but anything he does that keeps him from being afraid is good.

Monsieur Riel says the nuns will be safe. I pray that it means we too will be safe.

The camps around Batoche are now full of people who think that they will be protected from General Middleton’s soldiers if they are here. I pity them, for they all look so frightened and lost. These men, women and children have placed their faith in Monsieur Riel. It must be a heavy burden for him to bear.

I find myself searching the horizon, what I can see of it. My ears almost hurt from listening for anything unusual. What does an army sound like?

Papa has heard that the MacLeods’ house is empty. It was hard to watch Adrian’s face when Papa gave us that news.

I keep thinking about Emma and that empty house. It seems to me that nothing is as lonely as an empty house with its dark windows. I am not certain what will happen here, but our house is filled, and not only with people.

We are all sleeping downstairs. Moushoom did not want to leave his cabin, so Papa had to be very firm about how we must stay as close together as we can. To my great relief, Moushoom saw the sense in that. Edmond is living here in the big house as well, naturally. For the sake of modesty, Louise and I will share the bedroom, and all the men will sleep in the kitchen. Modesty does not seem so very important at the moment, somehow, not with an army coming our way.

All our men except for Moushoom left tonight for Tourond’s Coulee downriver past Gabriel’s Crossing, a place the English call Fish Creek. Someone must stay back with Armand and the women, Papa insisted. This made Armand cross. Nothing would please him more than joining in the fight, he says.

Moushoom was not very pleased either. His blood was up, but when Papa said that Moushoom was the best shot and the most fearless, he calmed himself and agreed to remain here. This time.

It was very hard to watch them ride away, but I put on a brave face and the best smile I could manage. Even when Papa embraced Louise, although now that I think about it, something about that embrace touched me somehow.

Some of the men feared for their families, so Monsieur Riel led them back here in the early hours of morning. Papa, Edmond and Adrian were not among them. Not knowing that they are safe is almost impossible to bear. I am too unsettled to write more. Mama’s rug. Just holding it will help.

We can hear the fighting. A heavy wet snow is falling, but it cannot blanket the sounds of gunshots and cannon. Louise put her arm around my shoulder as we stood at the window. Weeks ago I would have pulled away, but today I did not, for I know she loves Papa and the others as much as I do.

People are saying that it was a victory for us down at Tourond’s Coulee where the battle took place. That it was something to see what a hundred and fifty or so Métis had done to seven or eight hundred soldiers. Papa is not so sure. We fought well, he agreed, and yes, Middleton’s soldiers withdrew, but so did we. Papa says our losses were great — four brave Métis dead, some wounded, and fifty-five horses killed. Moushoom does not think the men will be able to fight on the way they need to, for what is a Métis without a horse? I could hear the disbelief in his voice as he repeated the terrible number. Fifty-five. Fifty-five gone.

They say Monsieur Riel and many of the village women prayed together all the way through the battle. He held his arms out so that he formed a cross. When he tired, the women took turns supporting his arms. I am sure Louise prayed to herself while we waited here. I know I did. Now I will pray for the souls of those killed tonight. And I will give thanks that our family is whole.

They are digging trenches and what Papa calls rifle pits on the prairie between Batoche and the church. Our men used trenches at Tourond’s Coulee and so they will surely work here.

Moushoom took Louise, Armand and me over in the wagon to watch the men digging. The pits are shallow, less than two feet deep, but they are each protected by a log embankment. Our men will be able to see the enemy coming long before the soldiers suspect who is hiding in wait for them.

When we returned home, Louise took to her bed. She said the movement of the wagon had upset her stomach a little. She insisted that it was nothing, but it seemed like something to me. Perhaps some tea will help settle her stomach. I will stop writing and see to it.

People are beginning to abandon their houses. Some women are digging hiding places in or near the riverbank. Others are preparing to camp in a sheltered area surrounded by bluffs. The nights are so cold. I fear they will freeze.

I have had a dream, a horrible dream. Most of it is gone now, thank Le Boon Jeu, but enough of it remains. Even when I squeeze my eyes closed, I can still see the men digging the long deep pits. It was no one from here who was digging, though. It was men in red coats, men with silver eyes. One of them looked at me, and even though he did not speak, I could hear his words in my head. Do not worry, Josephine, he said. I am digging a fine deep one for you.

That was when I woke. I know now that the soldier was not digging a hiding place for me. He was digging a grave.

Our men take turns searching the countryside for Middleton’s army. Only when the scouting parties return and Papa or Moushoom or Edmond or Adrian walk into the kitchen does my heart slow.

Indian women and children are now coming in to Batoche too, although there are few warriors. Only White Cap and perhaps twenty of his men are camped just north of Batoche.

We, like our neighbours, have had to give many of our cattle to help feed all of these people. Papa did this willingly but I know he is worried. It is not just the cattle. We have made no preparations at all to plant this year’s crops. Monsieur Dumont has decreed that no man will till the soil. The temptation to farm rather than fight might be too great.

By now the kitchen garden should have been planned, the seeds readied. Knowing this, Louise and I pulled away the mulch and spent the afternoon picking through the seeds. She could barely do the work, though. Her face became slick with sweat, she said her stomach felt sick, and so went back into the house. It worries me to see her feeling so unwell.

The thought of no food is frightening, but so is the fact that there is little ammunition for the guns of our soldiers, though we hear that many of the women have been melting down their pots and making as many bullets as they can. Moushoom has a fine rifle. Adrian and Papa are well armed, but some of our men have only old-fashioned muskets or duck guns. They are good enough for hunting, but if you are hunting men

I must not think of people in that way. Our soldiers will defend us honourably in the eyes of Le Boon Jeu.

Middleton’s army has modern guns. Edmond has described them to me. They have cannon and something called a Gatling gun. Some of the men are saying that the Gatling gun is just so much rababoo, perhaps because of the noise they have heard that it makes. Edmond says that the Gatling gun does not fire. Instead, it spits out bullets, hundreds and hundreds in less than a minute. Compared to those soldiers, we may as well be armed with brooms.

No one said anything. The picture Edmond had put into our heads was too much. Armand stood, went to the corner, and picked up the kitchen broom, shouting that he was ready!

Avril 1885