Blood Upon Our Land Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Batoche, District of Saskatchewan, 1885

  Décembre 1884

  Janvier 1885

  Février 1885

  Mars 1885

  Avril 1885

  Mai 1885

  Juin 1885

  Juillet–Novembre 1885

  Epilogue

  Historical Note

  Images and Documents

  Glossaries

  Acknowledgments

  Dedication

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Also Available

  Books in the Dear Canada Series

  Batoche,

  District of Saskatchewan,

  1885

  Décembre 1884

  Le 31 décembre 1884

  Before he went back to his cabin tonight, Moushoom gave me this diary. It is as colourful as Mama’s most beautiful saencheur flechee, the one I will wear over my shoulder at tomorrow night’s party. He is so dear, my grandfather. He said that if Mama were here she would have given me a diary much like this one. I think he is correct, since Mama was the one who taught me to read and write, after all. “Your mother kept a diary herself,” Moushoom reminded me. He was certain it contained many interesting stories.

  Then he insisted that I must pass on my stories in these pages, since if stories were not told, they would surely disappear. “And if the stories do disappear,” he said, “so might our language and Métis way of life, for all are connected.”

  When I protested that I was not a storyteller as he is, and that I had no idea what I should write, Moushoom only laughed. “Write it all,” he told me, “but it must be the truth, always the truth.” I smiled when he said that I was not to worry. He will help me if I have no ideas.

  Vers minuit

  In a few minutes, a new year will be upon us. It will find we Bouviers as well and as happy as can be, although Mama’s passing still saddens us. Even after almost two years, I still miss her so.

  Earlier, Moushoom blessed our family as he does each year on this night, reminding us to keep our faith, our customs and our Michif language safe. In that way we would be true to our ancestors.

  There. Papa has just fired his rifle, a shot to the west out the back door to see the old year out. And again, a shot to the east out the front door to welcome in this new year.

  What will happen here in the months to come? There will be changes. Always there are changes, although I find I do not care for them much these days. Familiar things seem best. Nothing of much importance will ever take place here though, I suppose. Batoche is such a quiet place.

  Janvier 1885

  Le 1 janvier 1885

  My day began with a good deal of cheerful fuss. “Not a book for her to write in,” Adrian shouted when he saw this diary, insisting that all I would do now would be to write, write, write. Armand wondered how Moushoom could have done such a thing. (Armand is probably worried about who will cook his breakfast after Mass. He thinks too much about his belly.) I do not believe he even knew what he was asking, though. He is just a little boy who likes to copy his older brother. With both of them shouting there was quite a noise, but then that is often the case at our house. It is still a noisy happy home, in spite of our loss. Mama would be pleased about that.

  The boys’ words were nothing but nonsense, since I had already started the galet, the same way I do each morning, mixing the flour, lard, water and baking powder so that the balls of dough are ready to go onto the griddle later. It is Mama’s recipe, but I will not try to write it down. She always said that, like common sense, making galet is one of those things you carry in your head.

  Back to the fuss. Moushoom picked up the diary and shook it at them, saying they were rascals, that no other man in Batoche had such an educated granddaughter, one who had been reading almost since birth!

  Here I must write that my grandfather sometimes pulls at facts until they are long and stretched. True, I have been reading and writing words since I was quite young, but not almost from the day I was born — almost thirteen years ago now. Papa sighed and shook his head, playing along with the boys. It was only the usual silliness and teasing, but I have to wonder what a stranger would think of us.

  Besides, my brothers are proud of me, especially Adrian — perhaps because he is older and understands the importance of learning. I heard him saying so while I dressed for the party this evening. He went on about how wonderful it was that his sister could even read a newspaper to Moushoom when we are lucky enough to get one. Adrian also bragged to Papa and Moushoom how few young girls here could write and read so skillfully, and how I barely struggled with the printed English words. It was hard for me just then not to become puffed up with pride like a toad that has eaten too many crickets, but modesty is important.

  Adrian did not say any of this to my face, of course. But if I am very quiet, and I can be very quiet, I can hear perfectly from my bedroom above the kitchen. That is because Mama insisted that Papa cut a hole in the floor so that the warmth from the stove would rise to me. Voices rise as well. Mársee, Mama!

  Très tard

  It was a wonderful Zhour di Lāh celebration, one that I will describe exactly, so that when I read it months from now, it will bring the evening back to me. And the next time I am able to meet with Emma, we will remind each other of what a fine evening we had. Emma. It would be so much easier for us to talk together if she spoke Michif, and I had less trouble saying the English words correctly. We manage well enough in French, though.

  Emma said that it was as fine as any party she could ever remember back in Toronto, where her parents’ families still live. Perhaps she exaggerated a little, since they say that Toronto is a very grand place. In the English way, of course. On the other hand, Moushoom has told me that he once saw some English North-West Mounted Police having a party at Fort Carlton. The police drank tea. It must have been a very quiet party.

  This one was not quiet. I could hear the sound of the fiddle music coming from Henri Baptiste Boyer’s house even before we left in our sleigh, and it made me feel so light and so very happy. The air was still and cold, yet it carried the smells of the food that I, like others, had been preparing for days. I decided not to remind my brothers of my part in this once they began to gorge themselves. How saintly I felt at that moment, and how splendid, for under my good rabbit-skin coat I wore the new dress I made for myself last month. Mama’s silver pocket watch hung around my neck on a red ribbon, and her sash lay over my shoulder.

  Papa had brought his fiddle and as soon as we went into the house, people began to call out to him, “Vylōōn! Vylōōn! Play for us!” Almost no one here calls him Michel. Instead, he is known as Vylōōn because he plays the fiddle so well. Papa joined the other players. He began with a tune called “Whiskey Before Breakfast,” Moushoom’s favourite. Tonight I believe Papa played that tune more wonderfully than ever.

  Emma I spied at once, since with her blond hair and cheerful laugh she is easy to find in any crowd. As are her parents — I think they are as fair as she is. Emma took me aside and whispered that she hoped my brother would ask her to dance. This did not surprise me at all, since Adrian is a very handsome young man, with his green eyes so much like Papa’s. I know she admires him, and I am certain that Adrian likes her very much, although I would not say so to either of them. I could not help myself, though, and I asked Emma if she knew that we Métis call the first day in janvier Kissing Day, since we greet each other with handshakes and kisses. How she blushed. I can tease as well as my brothers when I decide to.

  Adrian danced once with me as Papa played the “Big John MacNeil Hornpipe,” which is one of my favourite tunes. The
n he danced many times with Emma. She and my brother make a fine couple, Adrian with his dark hair and brown skin and Emma as sunny as a flower, even though she stumbled through the Red River jigs. Emma says people do not dance the Red River jig back in Ontario. Poor things, is what I say about those people. I also danced many times, but with no one in particular unless you count Edmond Swift Fox. We are not a couple. As for Moushoom, he sat with his old friend Joseph Ouellette and called out encouragement to the young dancers.

  I am sure I counted more than a hundred people in Monsieur Boyer’s house, and I vow that I could feel friendship in the air. Père André and Père Moulin stood together, no doubt discussing the state of our souls. There were babies in their mothers’ arms, old men and women, and all the ages in between, eating and talking and dancing. All of my aunts and uncles and cousins were there — too many to list here, for we are a large family. I saw our neighbours the Ouellettes, the Fishers, the Dumonts, the young widow Pepin, the Letendres and others. People came from miles away.

  The Riel family was there, of course. Like many men, Monsieur Riel wore a fine sash around his waist, one woven using many colours of wool. Near him stood William Jackson, who lives with them in a cabin on Moïse Ouellette’s farm. The Riels’ children ran about happily with the other young ones, Jean-Louis leading the way with little Marie-Angelique behind him, while their mama and Monsieur Riel’s cousin Monsieur Nolin watched. As for Louis Riel, he was the hero of the evening!

  He was given a gift of money presented to him in an octopus bag, its four pairs of dangling legs all beautifully embroidered. Then a letter for Monsieur Riel from the settlement of St. Louis was read aloud. All I could hear was that the people did not want to let the New Year go by without expressing their respect and gratitude to him, because Armand was whining to be taken outside. He had eaten too many bengs. As usual. He should know by now that so much fried bread does not agree with him, but he cannot seem to resist the sweetness of it. He was sure he was going to be sick on the floor and shame himself, so I offered to take him home. Papa and the others could then enjoy the rest of the evening. Monsieur Riel was toasting all the Métis women in the room as I helped Armand into his capot. Then, just as we walked out the door, I heard Emma’s parents join in as some people toasted Queen Victoria.

  Moushoom says he saw a picture of Queen Victoria once, and she did not look as though she would enjoy much of anything. Still, I have to wonder what she would have thought of our party.

  Le 2 janvier 1885

  Mild weather. Madame Laframboise, a widow Papa probably danced with at the Boyers’ home last night, came by this morning. She had brought us a tart de vyawnd made from venison and a bit of pork. I knew it would be only a bit of pork, since it is hard to come by this winter. Papa and our men were hunting, so I accepted the pie graciously.

  It reminded me of the days just after Mama’s passing, and the kindness of our neighbours and relatives. Madame Laframboise sometimes brings food to the house the way she did then, even though everyone knows I now prepare the meals for our family. My mother instructed me well. And Madame is not alone in bringing food either, as there are other widows keen to show Papa what fine cooks they are. Abain, they are like a flock of hens all chasing after the same rooster. I will try not to think about them. Besides, my tart de vyawnd is much tastier.

  Le 3 janvier 1885

  I would not bother to write that Edmond Swift Fox accompanied me

  I should scratch that out. He accompanied us home the other night. I would never write it had the fact not caused such a fuss with Armand. How my little brother carried on about us being more than just friends! Nichimoose, nichimoose, he boldly chanted, though Edmond is not my sweetheart! It is hard to say who had the redder face, Edmond or me. Moushoom, though, laughed until he cried and even Papa joked about it a little. Still, it was all in good fun until Adrian, who sometimes sees humour in very little, I fear, said to Papa that he of all men should not make jokes about such a serious undertaking as marriage. Sometimes Adrian is impossible to understand.

  Plus tard

  I have been thinking about Edmond tonight, which I suppose is no surprise after the tormenting we both suffered. I have also been thinking about Emma. When she and her family first came here, she thought that Edmond was one of my brothers. I explained how he came to live with us, and how he came to have his name. That was when she told me about a place in Toronto called the orphanage. I believe that is the word, and to me it is a sad and ugly one. It is not the way of Métis people to send away children to live with strangers.

  I remember that tears rose to Emma’s eyes when I told her how Edmond’s father had been caught in a blizzard and had frozen to death. When that happened, Edmond — he was called Edmond Sauvé, then, I explained — Edmond and his mother returned to her family at the One Arrow Reserve. I think the returning must have been a great comfort to them both.

  I cannot actually recall when all of Edmond’s family except him died of fevers one terrible winter. It was Mama who told me, and it brought tears to my eyes as it did to Emma’s. I have lost my own mother, but even today, I cannot imagine losing everyone.

  It makes sense that Edmond lives with Moushoom. After all, Moushoom was like a brother to Edmond’s grandfather, back in the days when Gabriel Dumont led the big buffalo hunts. No orphanage for Edmond! Moushoom says that Edmond is excellent company and not nearly as noisy as certain people in the big house. I suppose that is why they prefer Moushoom’s cabin near the river at the end of our farm. It is so quiet there, what with the trees that shelter it.

  Mama loved Edmond, and I know he loved her in turn. It was she, after all, who insisted he come to us. Edmond visits her grave sometimes — I have seen him doing this — although he says nothing about the visiting. Yes, Edmond is a good friend.

  Le 4 janvier 1885

  It remains bitterly cold and the river is frozen over. That means people are able to cross the South Saskatchewan in sleighs. This is good, since neither the ferry that Monsieur Letendre has here, or the one down the way at Gabriel’s Crossing, are running these days. Even though Monsieur Dumont no longer owns the ferry, the crossing is still named after him. Moushoom says that good names stick like pine gum to birchbark.

  The Northcote is unable to carry goods up and down the river now, of course, though it brought all the poles and wire for the telegraph at Clarke’s Crossing last fall. It is exciting to have a telegraph office fairly close to us. So many modern changes happening!

  I have not heard the Northcote’s whistle since that time, but I do hear Marie-Antoinette sing each Sunday. I have often thought I should write about her singing, since the words sound so amusing. And there. Now I have. Marie-Antoinette is not a woman, of course, but a bell, our beautiful silver-plated bell that hangs in the tower of St. Antoine de Padoue church here at Batoche. The day that Bishop Grandin baptized her, on le 2 septembre, giving Marie-Antoinette her name, was so exciting! It was such an important event that Père Fourmond, Père André, Père Touze and other priests came as guests. I felt very proud for Batoche that day.

  Plus tard

  Marie-Antoinette has made me remember something else. The date and the bishop’s name — Vital-Justin Grandin, Eveque de St. Albert — are engraved upon the bell. A shield is also engraved there. Père Moulin says that the shield is the bishop’s coat of arms, and that the images on it, a cross and a bent reed, mean that the bishop yields to the will of God. If that is so, then I have to say that I envy the bishop a little. Yielding to God’s will is very hard for me at times.

  Moushoom says that if the Bouviers had such a shield, there would have to be a buffalo on it. Armand thinks it should have a beng. Papa, though, has said that the Bouviers need nothing to show what we are. Our family’s actions and honour are enough.

  As for Marie-Antoinette, Père Moulin has told us that she was once a queen of France. I wonder if she was as well liked as Queen Victoria.

  Le 5 janvier 1885

  As has
been planned, we are going to have a bal à l’huile. If someone read this diary, it would sound as though all we do is make merry, but a bal à l’huile means a great deal of work. Since the dance is held by lamplight, all the lamps — I have borrowed a number from Madame Letendre and Madame Pepin — had to be polished, the wicks trimmed and the lamps filled with oil.

  Then there was the floor to sweep, the furniture to be moved out of the way for dancing, barn cats to shoo out. The cats do like to sleep under the stove. I washed and polished the glass in the windows, glass that Papa bought for Mama to replace the parchment they used at first. Some houses here still have parchment windows. I can remember Mama saying that the skin of a young deer lets in a good deal of light if it is properly scraped and stretched. She enjoyed her window glass more, though, poor Mama. But I must not dwell on that.

  Moushoom helped with the cleaning, brushing the floorboards with the wing of a Canada goose. He took both the braided rugs and the hooked rugs outside to beat any dust out of them. He wound the clock, and then he put fresh cedar twigs in all the corners as well as over the windows and doors, for protection against evil. Some would say it is a strange thing that a man, such an old old man, would work inside the home, but Moushoom lived all those years alone after the last of his wives died. Of all the men in this house, he is the tidiest.

  Baking, dusting. To work, Josephine! Make the house sparkle just as Mama would have.

  Le 6 janvier 1885

  Zhour de Rwāy

  How I prayed at Mass on this holy feast day of the Three Kings. One decade of my rosary for patience, one decade for understanding, three for peace of mind. Moushoom, who still does not attend Mass — I had hoped that the new year would bring him closer to practising our faith with more devotion, but so far my prayers have not been answered — told me that he could feel my restless spirit from his cabin. Moushoom says things like that.