Every step of Middleton’s advance was being watched by métis scouts. There was even a métis spy working as a freight handler in Middleton’s wagon train. The column moved as ponderously as the mind of its commander. To the rear, the cavalry officers cursed the inactivity, the slow pace, the futility of not being able to take action. It began to snow again, though it wasn’t as cold as it had been. Under a slate-colored sky, the combined force plodded on.
General Middleton, it seemed, was in no hurry to engage the enemy. His tent was elaborate and had a wooden floor made in sections, a folding bed piled with blankets, and buffalo robes. He had even brought along books and a chess set. At night, a small brazier of charcoal heated his quilted tent. He ate well, drank well, and slept well. There were many meetings with the staff of English officers. When it became necessary to have some of the Canadian militia officers present, he invariably disregarded their suggestions with a grunt or a growl.
The General liked to look at maps. The more maps the better. He used his ruler to measure distances, not knowing that, often, the shortest distance between two points was right through the middle of a swamp Captain Winfield, the ambitious young career officer, was still his favorite audience. Middleton’s meals were as elaborate as the rest of his equipment. Winfield was always glad to dine with the General because the food was so good: steak, glazed ham, fresh bread, baked potatoes. And always brandy and fine cigars.
General Middleton would say, “War is a science if nothing else. Strategy is what counts. Consider the situation carefully, then act on it. But always be sure of what you’re doing. I have been a soldier more years than you are old, my boy, and I always know exactly how to proceed. Only fools rush in. Always remember that. I don’t want to sound boastful, but I didn’t get to be a major general in the best army in the world for nothing.”
The General paused and Winfield came in quickly with, “You’ve had a most distinguished career, sir. Would you like to continue dictating your memoirs tonight?”
While the métis scouts watched silent and unseen, General Middleton, mellow with good food and aged brandy, would lie on his comfortable bed, with the charcoal brazier throwing off steady heat, and talk on and on about the campaigns of thirty years before.
“During the Indian Mutiny, a regrettable episode in our history, we were forced to take stern measures against the ringleaders. One particularly severe form of execution was to tie a man across the mouth of a cannon.”
Middleton’s scouts reported back that there was no sign of the enemy. But the moment the scouts had ridden past, the métis would emerge from their hiding places. The snow stopped and the weather was bright and clear for a while. The column, slow as it was, was getting closer to Batoche. Soon it was only twenty-two miles away.
~*~
“If he doesn’t drink too much, then it must be old age,” Gabriel Dumont remarked to Sundance. Our man in the column reports that he sits up half the night in his tent, reading and playing chess. His breakfast takes an hour. There have been times when my scouts were close enough to shoot him through the head. When I heard that one of them almost did, I sent word that not a hair on his thick head must be touched.”
Dumont began to laugh and Sundance had to grin. “Middleton is our friend. I love him like a brother,” Dumont said. “Oh, please God, let him continue the way he is going. I know! I know! Sometimes wars are won by fools. It is time to stop him now!”
Middleton’s right column of about five-hundred men was in camp about twenty miles south of Batoche. His left column, with the same number of men, was on the other side of the river.
Seventeen miles south of Batoche, on the east side of the South Saskatchewan River, Fish Creek emptied into the broad river and cut a forty-foot deep ravine across the prairie. It was on all the maps, but General Middleton didn’t seem to have given it any thought.
“This is where we will surprise then,” Gabriel Dumont decided. There, part way down the slope nearest the Canadian advance, he posted one-hundred and fifty of his men. He led another fifty mounted métis further south to hide them in a coulee so that they could swoop down on the Canadian rear and herd them into the trap.
“It should work,” Sundance agreed.
Early on April 24th, Middleton broke camp and moved forward, his scouts out in front. Then, for the first time, the scouts earned their keep. Riding back fast, they reported finding horse tracks on the road. The alarm was sounded, and Dumont’s fifty horseman had to make a hasty retreat to the deep ravine. For once, Dumont’s cunning had failed—and the fight was on.
In the ravine, the métis had dug rifle pits. If Middleton were a more intelligent commander, he would not have sent his force directly against the ravine. But that was what he did. On and on the Canadians came. When they reached the edge of the ravine, the métis opened fire, driving them back with heavy losses.
Middleton ordered his two cannons to open fire, but no damage was done to the concealed métis. Desperate now, he sent a message to his column on the other side of the river for them to cross as soon as possible. But the river was deep at that point. The water was filled with melting ice and cold enough to kill a man in five minutes. All the second column could use to cross was one leaky scow; on top of that, it began to rain.
Around noon, Middleton’s forces failed in another attack, which even the support of the two Gatling guns didn’t help. The cold April rain beat down harder than ever. For a while, the fight settled down to an exchange of rifle fire, broken here and there by futile charges by the Canadians. The militia fought well, but they were facing an enemy they couldn’t see. They died in waves in the freezing mud. One of the Gatling guns went out of action and couldn’t be fixed.
During the afternoon, the rain stopped and a watery sun appeared, giving no warmth. By now, some of the other column had managed to cross the river, but their crossing was slow and dangerous. Hardest of all was getting the horses across; and all the while, it was getting dark, with rain coming down again in great gray sheets.
By the time most of the second column had crossed the river, there was still enough light for a determined attack. Some of the Canadian officers argued, but Middleton refused to listen. He also refused to admit that he had been beaten. They were going to make a tactical retreat, he said. He became even more adamant when he saw a large column of mounted métis coming from Batoche to join the men in the ravine.
“We are going to pull back to Fish Creek,” Middleton told his aide. “That is the order to be relayed to my Canadian subordinates. There will be no further discussion of the matter. We have a lot of wounded men, and they cannot be treated here, thanks to the wretched medical services provided by the Canadians. We had the men to take that ravine, but they didn’t know how to do it. I doubt that the reinforcements coming from the east will do any better.”
The British general laughed bitterly. “Ah, Winfield, if I only had some regulars—or a few métis. Say what you like about the half-castes, they know how to fight.” His bitterness turned to sarcasm. “And do any of our Canadian friends know what has happened to the Northcote? We could turn that paddlewheeler into a gunboat—that is, if it ever arrives.”
To convert the riverboat into a gunboat had been one of Middleton’s first ideas when the campaign began. Built in 1874, the shallow-draught paddlewheeler had plied the South Saskatchewan in times of peace. It had two decks, with an exposed engine and boiler on the lower one, and a cabin and pilothouse above. On it, Middleton had placed thirty-five militiamen, a cannon, and a Gatling gun. The lower deck was fortified with a double wall of two-inch planks; the upper was protected by piled-up sacks of sand and grain.
Middleton’s plan was to attack Batoche by land and by water. It was still a workable plan. But where was the Northcote? “I ask you, where is it?” Middleton grumbled. “What in blazes is causing the delay?”
Winfield did his best to explain. “The river is full of floating trees and sand bars. Even at full steam, the Northcote is slow. It’s coming, sir.”
“When? Next spring? Winfield, I want you to draft an order above my signature, using the strongest possible terms. I order the captain of the Northcote to proceed here with all dispatch. Never mind the snags and sand bars. I don’t give a damn if he blows up the boilers. I want that infernal craft here! Send a rider downriver at once. Now we will pull back to Fish Creek and wait.”
~*~
“Looks like they’re pulling out,” Sundance reported to Dumont, handing him the telescope. Both men were concealed by heavy brush at the edge of the deep ravine. All along the ravine, the métis were spread out, waiting for the order to counterattack. Those closest to Dumont kept their eyes on their commander. It was raining again, a cold April rain. All day there had been nothing to eat but stringy jerked beef, with canteens of cold tea to wash it down. The métis fighters were cold and hungry. But the killing mood was still on them. A word from Dumont would send them swarming out after the retreating Canadians.
“If you go after them now,” Sundance said, “You’ll be fighting on the same ground they are.”
“I know,” Dumont agreed. “We could lose what we have gained. We will fall back and make ready to defend Batoche. They will not take Batoche, not even with that stupid steamboat they are bringing up the river. We will stop them at Batoche. It is then that I will ask Louis to offer his terms. It began at Duck Lake, but Batoche will be the place of decision. Our friend Hardesty will at last see some fighting.”
After a forward party had been left behind in the ravine, the orderly retreat to Batoche began. The dead and wounded were brought home on sleighs. Compared to the Canadian losses, the métis losses were light; even so, many brave men had died defending the raw slash of earth that ran down to the river and continued on the other side. It was a somber procession that made its way back to Batoche.
Sundance and Dumont were among the last to leave the ravine. Looking back at it, Dumont remarked quietly, “This is called Fish Creek, but it is just a ravine. Yet so many men on both sides died here.”
Some of the métis began to sing. “Listen to them,” Dumont said wearily. “Most of them have lived along this river all their lives. They have stopped the great British general, and so they are happy and proud. They have reason to be. None has ever served in an army, none know of tactics. Farmers, trappers, fishermen, hunters—never soldiers—they have done what people said could not be done. Middleton’s stupidity or caution helped, of course, but that is only part of it. They would have fought as well against a better general. But Middleton will come and continue to come, to advance like a great dead weight, a glacier. I hope my people will be able to go on singing. I do not sing myself, but I like to hear others.”
That night, after Sundance and Dumont ate fried deer meat and oaten bread in the cabin, they went to the new meeting house to listen to Riel and the others. Hardesty and his Fenian subordinates were there, trim and warlike in contrast to the bearded, careless dressed métis commanders. The inside of the meeting house smelled strongly of raw pine and turpentine and tobacco smoke. Hardesty was holding forth when they came in. Hardesty nodded stiffly at Dumont and went on speaking, directing his arguments at Riel, who sat by the red-hot stove with a mug of steaming tea in front of him.
Hardesty was saying, “Louis, my friend, when I came here I thought it was to fight an all-out war. Instead, my men and I have forced to stand aside and listen to news of a lot of skirmishes, half-won battles. You beat them at Duck Lake, but instead of finishing them off, you chose to let them go. In the name of God, why? Where was the sense? Do you think they would have been as merciful? I think not. They would have hunted you down in the snow and killed every last man. You had them at Fort Carlton and Battleford. Once again, they were allowed to march away. Today, especially today, my men were held back again. For what reason? To defend Batoche was the reason given.”
Hardesty paused to make his point. “I am ready to call it quits. I have had enough. With your permission, we will leave here as soon as we are ready. I have no more to say.”
Riel answered him without standing up. “Don’t be so hasty, my friend. Middleton and his forces are facing Batoche. Now is your time to fight.”
“But why is Middleton facing Batoche, Louis? You said yourself he was defeated today. Why was your victory not followed up? Why are Middleton’s forces still intact? Why aren’t they scattered and broken, his men dead? If my men had been allowed to fight, there would not be a Canadian left alive. Instead, you are now forced to defend your most important town.”
Riel looked at Dumont. “Do you want to answer him, Gabriel?”
Dumont nodded. “I know that some of my own people are turning against me because of the way I have been fighting this war.”
From a number of métis commanders there was an angry murmur, and some of the faces that looked at Dumont were set in anger.
“Maybe they are right,” Dumont continued. “For right or wrong, I was chosen as your general. From the beginning I never believed that we could win an all-out war against the Canadians. I still don’t think it is possible.”
A métis commander, named Thibault, a tall man with an eyepatch and a scarred face, shouted, “Then make way for a man with more courage. I have followed you faithfully, and so have my men, because we thought you knew how to command. But always, when victory was ours, you hung back at the last moment. What the Irishman says is true.”
“Let him finish,” Riel ordered without raising his voice.
Dumont said, “True. Everything Hardesty says is true. We could have slaughtered the Canadians at Duck Lake and Fort Carlton. WE could have killed every last man, cut the throats of the wounded. At Battleford we could have let the Indians scalp and torture and massacre the entire garrison—women and children, too.”
“Mercy has no place in war,” Hardesty said deliberately.
“Mercy didn’t have much to do with it,” Dumont went on. “If I thought a slaughter would guarantee freedom for our people, then I would soak this land in blood. I would spare no one, God forgive me, not the smallest Canadian child. I could go to my grave with that on my conscience if I had to. I didn’t do it because I didn’t think it would work. It has always been my plan to leave some opening, some middle ground where a bargain can be made.”
Thibault’s voice was heavy with sarcasm. “This is a fine time you have picked, with the British general only a day’s march away. Is it part of your plan to let him take Batoche?”
Dumont said quietly, “My plan is to fight him at Batoche as we have never fought him before. Batoche has always been his objective. Batoche and nowhere else. If he fails to take Batoche, then he will know that his campaign has failed. That is why, if I am to remain your leader, we will stop him here. Stop him completely, fight him to a standstill. And when that is done, when he can fight no more, we will offer our terms to the Canadian government.”
Hardesty stood up looking startled. He spoke to Riel. “I protest against this. Nothing was said to me about coming to terms. All along you talked of nothing short of complete independence. That was our understanding, and you gave your word on it. Do you think I have brought my men, some of them thousands of miles, to fight for half a cause? If all you wanted to do was discuss limited freedom, why didn’t you get some, of your French-Canadian friends to do it in Parliament?”
Riel refused to be baited. “You sound as if you would prefer war to any kind of peace.”
“To the kind of peace Dumont seems to be talking about—peace without honor.”
For a moment it seemed as if the debate would end in a killing. Gabriel Dumont’s hand dropped to the hunting knife at his belt; his bearded face was twisted in sudden anger. “Are you saying I am without honor?”
Hardesty’s thumb was ready to flip up the leather cover of his army holster. The other Irishmen were waiting to see how it went. “Your words speak for themself,” Hardesty said, knowing that he had support from some of the métis leaders.
Riel got between the two men and ordered them to stop. “It would please Middleton and the Canadians if they could see you now. We are all men of honor. You, Hardesty, are so blinded by your hatred for the British that you can’t see anything else. Maybe it will turn out that you have been right all along.”
Hardesty said, “I know I’m right. They may accept your peace offer, but can you trust them? Once you lay down your arms, you will have nothing left to fight with, while they will still have their armies and their machine guns. A peace made with a halfbreed rabble! Do you think they will honor such a peace? Yes, Louis, a halfbreed rabble! That’s how they think of your people. I know, because that’s how they think of my people—and they are the same color and live in the same islands. If my people are dirt to them, dirty, drunken, illiterate peasants, then what are yours?”
“I don’t know,” Riel said calmly. “Worse, I suppose. What would you do?”
Hardesty was no longer excited. His eyes narrowed and he spoke quietly, though his voice carried to every corner of the big room. “What would I do?” he repeated. “If I had been your commander from the beginning, I would have waged total war against the Canadians. There would have been no indecision. None! I would have made them feel the armed might of the métis. There would have been no talk of peace, not even a hint. Peace would come only when they had left our borders, when every one of their soldiers and surveyors and land speculators had gone. Armed might is all they understand. Make no mistake about it. How do you think the British—and the men who control Canada are British—built their Empire? By force. And by force it shall be torn down—not by peace offers or debates in Parliament.”
Riel shook his head in wonder. “You would destroy the British Empire?”
“That will come, Louis, in a dozen small countries such as yours. Not now, but some day.”
“But what about now, Hardesty?”
“It is still not too late to show them what you—we—are made of. Don’t just fight Middleton to a standstill. Destroy him! Rouse up every métis, every Indian, who is not with you now. Let the English halfbreeds in Saskatchewan know that they must join our cause or be driven out. I would be ruthless toward our enemies and those who are waiting to see which side wins. After I destroy Middleton, I would turn the combined tribes against Prince Albert, the biggest Canadian stronghold in Saskatchewan, and burn it to the ground. With Prince Albert obliterated, its garrison wiped out, we would then control all of Saskatchewan except the towns in the south.”
Dumont yelled, “The Canadians would still come!”
Hardesty nodded and continued to speak quietly. “They would. But I would make sure that, south of Batoche, they came into a country where nothing lived, where not a house or village stood. I would clear the land of livestock, burn every homestead, dynamite every bridge. South of Batoche, they would not find one scrawny chicken to make a pot of soup. Summer here lasts only weeks and winter comes quickly. By the time the first snow came, they would have had enough.”
Some of the métis leaders murmured approval; others stared at the floor. Riel held up his hand. He spoke to Hardesty. “What you propose turns my blood cold, my friend. And yet … and yet. It may come to that if they refuse to meet our terms, or to offer terms of their own that we can accept.”
Hardesty turned away but didn’t leave. “Then all I’ve said hasn’t meant anything. You’re still ready to trust them after all I’ve said?”
“I’m ready to talk,” Riel said. “I am ready to give Gabriel’s plan a chance to work. And now, Gabriel, I am going to ask you a question, so there will be no misunderstanding later. What if they refuse to bargain?”
Gabriel Dumont’s eyes were sad. “Then we will fight the Irishman’s way.” He looked directly at Riel. “Am I to continue as leader of the métis? If not, Thibault is a good fighter. And there is always the Irishman.”
Dumont was so tall that Riel had to reach up to slap him on the shoulder. “You are still our general, Gabriel. So far you have led us well.”
“I don’t mind if you change your mind after I have left here. If there is any change, you will find me with my men.”
Riel protested a little too strongly, Sundance thought, not at all sure that Riel wanted peace, no matter how much of it he talked. He was even less sure that Riel was determined enough to stand up to firebrands like Thibault.
There was silence as Dumont and Sundance left the room. The door had hardly closed behind them when voices were raised in loud argument.
The two men walked away, their shoulders hunched against the wind. “Listen to them” Dumont said without bitterness. “A few small victories and everyone wants to become the new general.”
“What do you think?” Sundance asked.
“About what?”
“About Louis Riel? Will he turn against you?”
“Louis is my friend. I do not want to talk about it.”
“All right, we won’t talk about it,” Sundance said. “I shouldn’t have asked you.”
Dumont said gruffly, “That’s right. You shouldn’t have asked me.”
They walked in silence toward the barracks. The wind was very cold. Dumont stopped suddenly and looked at Sundance. “I don’t know what to think about Louis,” he said. “He is a good man, but … Hardesty knows where his weakness lies.”
“It’s still not too late to do something about Hardesty,” Sundance said.