First, Riel introduced the men on the platform. “You know some of them, my people. Everyone knows Gabriel Dumont, good Gabriel of the rough tongue and the good heart. If war with the Canadians must come, Gabriel will lead our men. Does anyone object?”
The crowd thundered its applause. Riel nodded and motioned the people to be quiet. “That is good,” he went on. “I am your leader. I returned from exile because you sent for me, but I rule only with your consent. If at any time you are displeased with my leadership, then you must tell me. I will step aside in favor of a better man.”
The crowd roared, “No! No!”
Riel was very good, Sundance thought. Maybe he was a little too good. He was playing the crowd like a melodeon, squeezing out the notes and watching them dance. But that’s what all politicians, even honest ones, did or tried to do. It was a tricky trade, no matter how you looked at it.
Next, Riel introduced the two priests, though everyone knew who they were. Sundance knew that, in a French-Canadian community, the priests should have come before Dumont. Riel, the politician, was making a point no one there could miss. The priests were in a place of honor at the meeting—only as long as they didn’t get in the way.
Riel spoke their names: Father André and Father Grandin. Both men nodded. The old one with the white hair was Father André. Grandin, the priest who was eager to please Riel, smiled nervously and half rose from his chair.
Then the other men were introduced: Charles Nolin— “my cousin”—Riel said to loud applause. Moise Ouellette, Michel Dumas, James Isbister. And there were others.
Riel said, “These men have been with me from the beginning. Through the years, we have been harried by the police and insulted in the newspapers. At one time, an attempt was made on the life of Michel Dumas. They say the Mounties always get their man, but somehow they let this one get away—because, of course, he was known by certain men in the Canadian government. Michel still carries the bullet, a reminder of Canadian democracy in action.”
After Riel let the crowd laugh fora while, he protested, “It isn’t funny. Michel’s only crime was that he talked too freely in the name of freedom. Yes, my people, for more than fifteen years they have been trying to stop us. Petitions, genuine letters of complaint, have been sent and never received—so they say—and always never answered. And when there is some, sort of response, it is unfailingly the same: Be patient! Trust the good men in government! Trust in John A. Macdonald, Prime Minister of the glorious Dominion of Canada! Soon, everything will be wonderful! All you have to do is wait!”
Riel raised his fist. “Do you want to wait?”
Looking at the excited faces turned toward the speaker, once again Sundance decided that Louis Riel knew his business. His voice was clear and deep, but it was his hands the crowd watched, fascinated by the way he used them. All Frenchmen used their hands when they talked. Riel had gone far beyond the usual gestures; maybe he had practiced this spellbinding, and maybe it was natural. It didn’t matter. The effect on the crowd was the same.
Continuing after the noise died down, Riel said: “For more than fifteen years we have been patient. Is that not long enough? Now the Canadian Pacific Railroad is complete, and the government in Ottawa has plans to bury us under tens of thousands of immigrants. Not just Scots and English and Irish, but Germans, Russians, and Swedes—people who do not know our ways and would despise them if they did. If we wait any longer, it will be like trying to fight a plague of locusts. And like the locusts in the Bible, they will fill the land until they occupy every square inch of it. When that happens, there will no longer be any chance for a métis nation. Instead of living as free men and women, you will be crowded off your land.
“For some of you it has already happened. And how will you live then? I will tell you how. The men will work as hired hands, slaving from dawn to dust, on farms across which their ancestors roamed freely. There will be no more joy in life, nothing but these sour-faced Scotchmen with their hellfire hymns. And, men, if you don’t work on their farms—their farms, mind you—you will be forced to load their wagons, sweep out their stores, or break your backs in their lumber camps and mines. And what about your women and children? I will tell you ...”
Beating on the table and raising his eloquent voice as the moment demanded, Louis Riel continued to stir Tip the crowd. Some of the other men at the table were given a chance to speak, but it was clear that Riel’s talk of out-and-out rebellion frightened some of them. It frightened fames Isbister, the English halfbreed from Prince Albert, a skinny sallow-faced man with the nervous habit of coughing after every few words. He argued that freedom, or at least partial independence, could be gained without bloodshed. First, he said, they had to show the Canadians how determined they were. On the other hand, they had to move cautiously.
Some man in the crowd who knew Isbister yelled, “You say that because you have more to lose than we have. You are a townsman with a hardware store. What do you know about the land or what it is to be really free?”
Michel Dumas, the man who had been wounded, was even more extreme than Riel. His dark eyes glittered with hatred, his knobby fists clenching and unclenching as he spoke:
“The time has come to wash the Saskatchewan Valley in blood. There is no other way. They call us stupid, dirty, careless. We are half starved now because we wiped out the buffalo in our stupidity. Serves us right, they say, so we should be glad to eat their salt bacon instead of real meat. But what about the railroad? Everyone knows the railroad wiped out the buffalo. The buffalo will not cross a railroad track unless driven over it by fire. So the herds were split into north and south, divided and scattered. They talk of our stupidity! And I will say now what I have often said before: The Canadians don’t just want to control us. They want to exterminate us!”
A wild roar went up from the crowd. Sundance noticed that Riel stood up quickly, as if to prevent any more firebrand outbursts from Dumas. He was getting too much attention. No clever politician could let that happen. Sundance knew Riel was going to say something that would startle and infuriate the crowd.
His voice was low and penetrating: “My people, I do not know if they want to exterminate us, as Michel says, but I do know they want to get rid of me. Wait! Wait! Let me continue. Most of you know who D. H. MacDowall is—a powerful man in the Territories, a man who would like to become even more powerful. When I first returned from Montana, word came to me that MacDowall wanted to have a meeting with me. I refused. I know MacDowall and have never had any reason to trust him. I did not think there was anything to discuss. Another messenger came, and again I refused.” Riel paused. “Then a third go-between came to me. I will not reveal his name, but he is in this room at this very moment. Wait! I will not reveal his name because I leave what he did—tried to do—to his own conscience. This great friend of our people said MacDowall and his friends—meaning, I suppose, the Canadian government—were willing to pay me one-hundred thousand dollars in cash on condition that I leave the Territories, never to return. Think about it, my people, one tenth of a million dollars just to get rid of a poor schoolteacher!”
Riel spoke quickly now. “Do you have any idea how much money that it? I am what they call an educated man, and it is almost beyond my understanding.” Finally, the shouting faded. Riel said: “I have worked as a store clerk and a prairie schoolteacher, and for several years I roamed with the buffalo hunters of Montana and Wyoming. I have never had more than two-hundred dollars at once in my life.”
He laughed. “And I thought myself rich when I had that much. But one-hundred thousand dollars! My God! The figure danced in front of my eyes! And do you think I was tempted?”
The crowd roared, “No!”
Riel smiled slyly, as though taking them into his confidence. “Yes,” he said, “I was tempted. You don’t want to think your leader is a fool, do you?”
The crowd remained silent.
“For about ten seconds I was tempted,” Riel shouted, “and then I told MacDowall’s emissary to go back and tell his master the answer was no. Not for a million and not for ten million!”
Father Andre stood up shakily. The crowd stopped yelling and stared at him, unsure of what he was about to say. Riel’s dark eyes flickered from face to face. It was very quiet in the big room.
UI am the man Louis is talking about,” the old priest began. He waited for the yelling to start again, but there was only silence. “MacDowall is not my master. Only God is my master, and I serve Him willingly. When Louis first returned from Montana, I welcomed him because I know how much you have suffered and how much you respect him. Louis is back, I thought, and he is fifteen years older, not so hotheaded as he was. He has been a schoolteacher, is married, with a wife and two daughters in Montana. He is even an American citizen. We talked, and at first I like what he had to say. Then, as weeks and months passed, I saw that he was more hotheaded than ever.”
Michel Dumont started to say something. Riel silenced him immediately: “Let the friend of the people speak.” Father André said, “I began to see nothing but bloodshed ahead. I still do. When I heard of MacDowall’s plan, I went to him; he did not come to me. I thought it would be best for everybody if Louis went back to Montana. I knew he would talk to me if not to MacDowall. I was empowered to offer him five thousand dollars if he left the Territories. Louis said he would leave for nothing less than one hundred thousand.”
“Lying priest!” Michel Dumas shouted. “You always take the side of the rich!”
Sundance’s eyes narrowed as he looked over at Riel, who was taking it calmly. Father André remained on his feet, badly shaken by the ordeal. Disregarding him completely, Riel stood up, saying, “Hold your tongue, Michel. He is still a priest. However, in the interest of truth—not to dirty his name but to clear mine—I would like to ask him if it’s true that D.H. MacDowall has promised to build him a new church and parish house?”
Father Andre’s voice faltered. “That was months before.”
Riel turned quickly and shouted like a prosecuting attorney, “Why would a Scotch Presbyterian want to build a Catholic church for the métis! Why would a Scotch Presbyterian want to do anything for the métis? Sundance knew that the crowd was squarely on Riel’s side, and he knew the whole thing had been carefully planned.
The old priest held out both hands toward the sullen crowd. “Mr. MacDowall is a good man, a kind man. He came to the Territories as a poor boy from Scotland. He became rich here and wants only good for everyone here. When the Indians left the reservation and were starving, Mr. MacDowall fed them with his own beef. A wagonload of blankets was provided.”
Michel Dumas, the priest-hater, was up on his feet again. “We all know that story. You know damn well the only reason MacDowall fed the Indians was to keep them from raiding his herds and his storehouses. He bought your trickery with the promise of a church. What is the cost of a church? I don’t know, but a man like MacDowall would carry enough money to build it in his pocket. But your worst lie is when you said MacDowall tried to bribe Louis with a miserable five thousand. Answer me, priest. How much money would you say the North West Territories are worth? How many hundreds of millions of dollars? And you say MacDowall could spare only five thousand!”
Dumas turned to the crowd. “We know the Scotch are tight with their money. But only five thousand for a whole country!”
Riel slammed his hand on the top of the table. He continued to thump the table until there was absolute silence. “That will be enough, Michel. I do not want to hear any more about it. If this disruption could have been prevented, I would not have mentioned it at all.”
Suddenly, Riel’s voice rose almost to a scream. “I will allow no man, priest or not, to accuse me of treachery to my people. Because, my friends, honor is all we have. The world outside our borders is trying to destroy us, suppress our customs, push us aside as old fashioned and primitive. To hell with the rest of the world is what I say!”
Riel’s voice became quiet, almost sad. “I don’t want the world to go to Hell. I just want it to keep out of the North West Territories.” He raised his arms as if trying to hug everyone there. “We are all we have. That is why we must remain faithful to one another in all things. Without honor, there is nothing. In my mind I see a great host of enemies arrayed against us. To prevail over these destroyers, we must be strong as never before in our long history.”
Riel made a grasping motion, as if picking up a handful of soil. Everybody watched his hand as he held it out toward them, his fist clenched tightly. “This—this is our land,” he said quietly. “This is where our fathers have lived since before men can remember. Out there, the bones of our ancestors lie buried. Land, my people, is not just something you use to make a living. If that is all you think of the land, you might as well run a little dry goods store. No, the land is mother to us all. It gives us life, and we water it with our blood, fertilize it. Yes, that is the word—and with our bodies when we die. By the God that made us all, they are not going to take it away from us!”
Riel sat down as calmly as if he hadn’t been ranting a moment before. Sundance thought Riel glanced over his way, but he couldn’t be sure. On Riel’s face there was a half-smile. No, not a smile but a strange, twisted expression. His eyes looked at the crowd, but Sundance wasn’t sure he saw anything but his inner thoughts.
The crowd was still yelling and stomping their feet when the old priest got up shakily and left the platform. He was infirm and trembling, but no one helped him to step down to the floor. Well, Sundance thought, he really put the boot to you today.
The crowd made a lane for the old priest to pass through. He walked slowly, eyes fixed directly in front of him. Sundance knew nothing about Father André but figured he had served this people most of his life. In the remote settlements, a priest arrived when he was young and remained until he died. How many births and deaths had this old priest presided over? Hundreds? Thousands.
Louis Riel, very calm now, waited until Father André was gone before he spoke again. It was obvious the crowd was uneasy. In the halfbreed settlement, isolated by distance and choice, a priest wasn’t just a psalm singer dressed in black. He was a living bridge between this life and the hereafter.
Yep, Sundance thought, old Louis knows his stuff. He slipped in the knife and turned it without getting even a spot of blood on his hands. Michel Dumont had done all the tough talking, while Riel had remained regretful and forgiving. How much did it have to do with Riel’s new church, his “true” religion, as he called it? It probably had a lot to do with it. And what about the two stories—of the five and the hundred-thousand dollars?
In the end, it didn’t matter a damn. Sundance had been sent to stop Riel. Thus far, he hadn’t even begun to form a plan. All he could do at the moment was look and listen and keep Hardesty and his Irish friends from killing him. He knew they were going to try. It was in their faces every time they looked at him. He would have to tread carefully if he wanted to stay alive. He couldn’t make up his mind about Riel. At times, he sounded like the world’s most honorable man. But it was all shot through with trickery and deceit. Whatever he was, and he was probably many things, Louis Riel was no ordinary man. It could even be that he was an honorable man who felt he had to act like a trickster to get the things he wanted for his people. Of course, that .was the trouble with so many men of destiny. They always thought they and they alone knew what was best for the ordinary man.
Riel was talking again, this time about concessions. “My plan,” he said, His not to tell the Canadians what we will do if they don’t grant concessions. My plan is to do certain things—and then ask for concessions. No matter what people say, I am willing to settle for something less than complete independence.” His dark eyes were hooded. “I am ready to settle for partial independence, because that will give us more time to prepare. Yes, that would be breaking a promise, I know. But how many promises have the Canadians broken? It would take an abacus to count the number. We will take whatever they give us. We will wait and prepare and arm ourselves secretly. Then we will make more demands. And so on and so on.
“That is how it is done, my friends. It is not the way I would like to do it, but at the moment we are outnumbered, so we must fight might with guile. Every concession we get takes us one more step away from Ottawa. After a while, they will begin to see complete separation as inevitable. That is how it can be achieved. It is slow, perhaps too slow for those of you who are impatient and angry. But it is the road I would like to follow, if such is possible. If not, then we’ll fight. That is what I am afraid we will have to do, and you must not think it will be easy.”
Now what was Riel trying to do? Sundance wondered. Sure, that was it. He was trying to sound like a man of peace while urging the métis toward war. Nothing Riel had said so far proved to Sundance that the man wanted peace. All his words and actions pointed toward, war. It showed in his eyes when the wild words began to flow. It showed in the way he used his hands, literally tearing Canada apart in his mind.
Michel Dumas jumped to his feet. “These Canadians will be no match for us. They are a race of storekeepers and chicken farmers. They don’t know this country, and we know every inch of it. We will bury them in the muskeg, lead them into the wilderness until they are lost, starving, blinded by snow. If they come into this country, they will stay here forever!”
Riel held up his hand. “That is brave talk, Michel, but we must look at the facts. They may not come at all. Macdonald is a man who finds it hard to make up his mind. I have observed his career for many years. It is possible that he will put off doing anything, then do nothing at all. Or, being the man he is, he may postpone action for a while, thinking that his militia can recapture the Territories any time he feels like that. My God, if he only took that course! Give us a year, even six months, and we’ll be strong enough to turn back any force he can send.”
Gesturing toward Hardesty and the other Irishman, Riel said, “Not many of you know who these gentlemen are: Mr. Hardesty and Mr. Lane. Mr. Hardesty is going to tell you a few things you will like hearing.”
Hardesty got up and moved out in front of the platform. He told them that he was an Irishman, explaining what being a Fenian meant. He said he was a Catholic and a hater of Great Britain, and therefore of the Canadian government, for what was Canada, after all, but a foreign province of Queen Victoria’s?
“Men and guns are coming from the United States,” said Hardesty. “Some will be here soon, and others are to follow. Given enough time, we can build an army of volunteers from the United States—men, experienced soldiers who have served in the army, veterans. They are well armed, well trained, and they know how to fight. Whereas, as Michel Dumas says, the Canadian militia are nothing but storekeepers and chicken farmers, led by pot-bellied lawyers and business.
“But,” Hardesty continued, “even if they don’t give us the time we need, the fight against the Canadians can still be won. What we have to do is prove to them that it isn’t worth it. War costs money. The longer it goes on, the more it costs. Hit them in the pocketbooks is what we have to do. In the end, that’s all they understand. Contest every inch of ground. They may think war is a gentleman’s name, but we will show them otherwise. We will make the war so bloody, so costly, they will wish they never heard the name of the métis.
“There is this railroad with which they are supposed to destroy us. In the end, it is just wood and steel, tunnels and bridges. All these things can be destroyed. Telegraph wires can be cut, the poles burned. Towns are made of wood and can be burned with a can of coal oil and a single match. Hit them, and keep on hitting. I know this has a brutal sound, but we have to do what General Sherman did in Georgia—wage total war.”
Hardesty looked sideways at Riel. “Of course, there will be no killing of prisoners. We will feed them to the best of our ability. This is the chance you waited for those long fifteen years when Louis Riel was in exile. Well, let us repay them for Louis’s suffering, his years of wandering without a country. All we need is courage and determination. In years to come, you can tell your grandchildren that you were here, in the Lindsay schoolhouse, when it all began.”
Hardesty sat down to polite applause. He looked disappointed. He had expected a better reception. Sundance grinned behind his hand. The métis, poor and largely uneducated, had plenty of everyday good sense. For all his blarney and war talk, Hardesty had failed to win them over completely. That would be at least one setback for the Irishman. But it was not to rule him out as a force in the movement.
Louis Riel stood up, still applauding the Irishman. “It’s time,” he said, “to talk of our friends, the Indians. I know it’s been on your minds. It’s time we talked about it frankly and openly.”
The two Indians didn’t move.