Blood Upon Our Land Read online

  Nothing seemed to help. Perhaps setting my thoughts down on paper will.

  So. Monsieur Riel came to our bal à l’huile last night. He and his wife had been invited of course, as Papa has known Monsieur Riel since they were both boys back in St. Boniface. It was only Monsieur Riel who arrived, however, not Madame Riel. “Marguerite’s cough is plaguing her,” he told us. He seemed to enjoy himself, spending a good deal of time talking about his hopes for the Métis people. It was not all seriousness, though. Monsieur Riel and Papa told funny stories about their boyhoods. Both of them were the oldest of eleven children, and there was plenty of opportunity for mischief! I think Papa was the most mischievous, though. It is easy to understand why Armand sometimes behaves the way he does.

  But Adrian! He could not take his eyes from Monsieur Riel. All he could speak about this morning was the brilliance of Louis Riel, that he is the leader we have needed, that the government in Ottawa cannot ignore us now. Who better to represent us? He went on about Monsieur Riel sending a petition to the government last month on behalf of the people here — the Indians, the English half-breeds, we Métis and even the whites. Adrian is certain that now Ottawa must give us title to the lands on which we have lived all these years.

  Papa agreed. So did I, but then Adrian shouted, “I would follow him anywhere, even if it meant my life.”

  That is when Moushoom told Adrian to take care, that words sometimes take on a life of their own.

  Louis Riel. Some call him our saviour, but I can only imagine what the priests would say to that. Monsieur Riel is quiet and polite, and he is well educated, having studied at a seminary in Montréal, although he decided against becoming a priest. Before he came here to help with our land problems, he was teaching at a mission school down in the Montana Territory. He does seem like a good man.

  I hate to hear Adrian shout. No one shouted that way when Mama was alive. And all over a man he scarcely knows!

  Le 7 janvier 1885

  Moushoom told me that I should write about interesting newspaper stories in this book. It seems to me that it would be much easier to paste them in with a little flour and water, though. He agreed. I wonder if the newspaper stories are true, since I must put the truth here. Moushoom was quiet for a moment and then said that he doubted that much of anything in the newspapers is true. Still, the stories are interesting to hear.

  This is what I decided to paste in. In truth, it was Armand who decided this, because he liked the picture so much. It is easy enough to humour him. Perhaps this schedule is true, although they say the trains cannot ever keep to it. Perhaps they will in time.

  When I told him that it was too bad the railway had not come to Batoche the way we hoped it might, Moushoom made that sound he makes. He believes that trains are nothing but trouble, with their black smoke and noisy engines.

  Moushoom has said many times that people who travel on trains have no sense, that a good horse or a Red River cart is the way Métis travel. One time I reminded Moushoom that his cart and all other Red River carts had to be as noisy as a train, what with the way the wheels squealed so loudly. Moushoom made his sound that time as well.

  “The squealing is not noise, Josephine,” he said. “It is music!” And I believe he is correct.

  Le 8 janvier 1885

  Tonight Moushoom told me that he had a story for my diary, one about Louis Riel and our family. It seems that all the talk of travel made him think of it.

  He insisted that I write it down exactly as he told it, since there is nothing so important as our family’s history. It is part of the Métis history, as closely woven into it as a perfectly worked saencheur flechee. Now I will try to do as he asked.

  This is what he said:

  Les Bouviers in St. Boniface

  Told by Moushoom Thompson Bouvier

  We came here in ’73, as you know. Six head of cattle, we had, five cows and one tough bull. You do not remember riding in the cart though, because you were still in your mother’s belly. It was a long sad journey from St. Boniface on the Red River, one we never expected to make, but the government was cutting the land into squares, you see. Surveying for the new white settlers, they said, and there would be no more river lots. All we wanted was title to our land, but a man had to have a piece of paper to prove he owned what was his in the first place. That did it for the Bouviers, and the Pepins and so many others, I will tell you. We are Otipemisiwak, and no one tells free people how they will live.

  Louis Riel spoke for the Métis there, as he is trying to do here now, and some stayed, but not us. In the end, it was not all bad, I suppose. Because of Louis’s efforts, the government gave the place a new name. Manitoba. Made it part of Canada. We would keep our Catholic schools for the Métis children, and the Catholic churches were to be left alone. Not so bad maybe — except for the squares of land, which are unnatural. A farm should stretch right on down to the river in a long strip.

  Louis, though. He was elected to serve in the Ottawa government three times. He never took his seat, although he did sneak into that parliament building once, and signed the register. And him with a bounty of $5000 on his head to keep him out! Mafway jeu, but that must have taken some nerve, all right! Louis went to the States when it was all over. Exile, they called it. I have always thought it was a slap in the face, but on the other hand, I think Louis probably made the correct decision. A wise man always knows when it is a good time to run.

  Anyway, we left St. Boniface. You, Josephine, you kicked your mother all the way. When we arrived here in Batoche, you stopped kicking and the next day you were born. Your mother said it was a relief. We claimed a lot along the river, made a home, saw the seasons go by, watched our cattle herd increase.

  I watched Moushoom shake his head. “You listen behind doors and through holes in floors while your elders discuss serious matters, Josephine. You want to know everything, but what you may not know is that it is all happening again. Three years ago when those men came with their telescopes? They were surveyors. Mafway jeu! Those cursed squares again! They want to cut the land — the Métis land — into squares. This will draw even more settlers, like a skinned buffalo carcass draws flies. Not appetizing, but true. I could tell you stories about flies in the old days of the buffalo hunts.”

  “I know much of this,” I told Moushoom.

  “Maybe so,” he said, “but there is one thing you do not know.” When I asked what that thing was, he said, “This time I am certain that Louis Riel will not run.”

  For some reason those words made me feel uneasy, although I cannot say why.

  Le 10 janvier 1885

  Madame Brulé is another widow that Papa probably danced with at the Boyers’ home that night. She visited this afternoon. Madame did not stay long when I told her that Papa, Moushoom and the boys were out ice fishing. She drank the cup of tea I offered, and then since there is no word for good-bye in Michif, she only said that she would see me again. Cluck, cluck, I nearly answered as I watched her walk away.

  Madame Brulé did not leave a tart de vyawnd, which is really too bad. Hers are nearly as good as mine.

  Le 11 janvier 1885

  We stood outside the church and talked after Mass. The widows Laframboise and Brulé would have stood with Papa, I think, except that he was in deep conversation with young Madame Pepin, who came back from Prince Albert last fall for the funeral of her father-in-law. His farm is hers now, although everyone was surprised when she decided to stay, instead of selling the land. She is a Pepin and the Pepins have been in Batoche as long as the Bouviers, but Louise Pepin left Batoche when her husband drowned four years ago. I remember that sad day. Moushoom says, once a Métis from Batoche, always a Métis from Batoche, so that is that.

  I cannot imagine running a farm alone. I cannot imagine living away from Batoche for four years, either. True, Madame Pepin did stay with her sister Madame Rose Montour, and I am sure she was a great help in the household, but what would it be like to not have the warmth and comfort
of your own kitchen? I pray I never learn that.

  Le 12 janvier 1885

  We said the rosary together tonight as we almost always do. Later when Armand was ready for bed and I tucked him in, he told me that I must stop the tucking — only a tiny bābee is tucked in and he is now six. He no longer believes that googoosh — what Emma calls the boogeyman — lives under his bed. Besides, he is starting school for the first time tomorrow. It will be very quiet with him gone, I think.

  Le 13 janvier 1885

  Papa and Adrian are cutting wood this morning. I mended clothing, mostly Armand’s — he tears something almost every day. That same boy who is now too big to be tucked in was also too big to be walked to school by me, I learned. He was just the right size, though, to be walked by Moushoom, with Willow following behind them.

  The other dogs stayed in the barn, Bone since she is growing big with puppies and prefers the comfort of her nest, and Moon, perhaps because he is growing old. That he is likely the father of the puppies may also be the reason. Who can understand the mind of a dog?

  I am pleased that Armand knows his letters well enough to write his name with chalk on a slate. He is even able to read a little, although the only things he has to read are what I write for him, since we have no books.

  I cried to see him go off, but I did it in the quiet of the barn as I collected the eggs. The hens do not care if I cry, after all. Mama, though, would have been so very proud, and that thought is a comfort.

  Le soir

  It made me smile to hear Armand’s stories about school. Père Moulin is strict — they say the nuns who teach downriver in St. Laurent are even stricter — but he is also very kind. Our priest is busy with seeing to our souls, running the post office and teaching children, so I understand why he is strict, what with having to deal with boys like Armand. Yet he is very patient with them. He does not even mind when the boys call him Père Caribou, Armand told us, which is the name many have for him. Papa found this quite funny. Adrian did not, since he believes that a priest deserves much respect. Adrian scowled until Armand announced that he would become a great scholar like Monsieur Riel.

  Last year Armand said he wanted to be a buffalo hunter like Moushoom and Papa. Little boys. They are as changeable as the weather.

  Le 14 janvier 1885

  Today is laundry day. Washing clothing is tedious, but it gives your mind time to think freely. Today I thought about Armand at school and what it would be like to teach. They say that Monsieur Riel’s sister Sarah, who was a Grey Nun, taught until she died a year ago. I am not as clever as Père Moulin or Monsieur Riel, but I taught Armand his letters, did I not? Perhaps I will be a teacher one day, although I have no wish to be a nun. I say my prayers faithfully, but I do not think I could pray as often as a nun has to.

  Then my soapy hands, working away, made me think about Madame Dumont, and how lucky she is with regard to her laundry. Madame’s hands are rough from work just as mine are, but not from washing clothes. She has a washing machine, a most remarkable thing that surely eases her work. Imagine pushing a bar to make one scrub board move across another, scrubbing the clothing that lies between them. Her hands barely touch the water, and to me that would be wonderful. But I should not give in to that sort of envy.

  In time, Madame will have a big new house for that washing machine, since Monsieur Dumont is building her one. Perhaps it will be even grander than the Letendres’ house, now the finest home in Batoche — two and a half stories tall and with pillars at the front. Gabriel Dumont will have to work very hard to build something grander.

  Moushoom thinks grand houses are a waste of wood and time. He also thinks that Madame Dumont’s washing machine is strange. He says when he first saw it, the machine made him think of a story, one that had been told to his grandfather by a trapper from Montréal who had wintered at his grandfather’s village when Moushoom was a boy. It seems that the trapper’s grandmother — it was a very old story — had been washing sheets. She wrung them out and then spread them on the grass for the sun to bleach the linen. They did such things then, the old Kanayaens back when Montréal was a new town.

  Anyway, she spread the sheets and went back into the house. When she came out later, every sheet had been chewed. How she screamed! Perhaps a bear had attacked the sheets. Her husband must get his gun and shoot it! But then she saw the family goat and noticed a small piece of linen hanging from her mouth. Naturally, the husband did not shoot the goat. The milk was too valuable, even though from that day on it tasted a little of soap.

  “What does a goat have to do with Madame Dumont’s washing machine?” I once asked Moushoom when he told this story.

  “Madeleine Dumont had better watch out,” he said. “If that machine chews up Gabriel’s breeches, he may shoot it!”

  Even now, the thought of that makes me feel like laughing.

  Le 15 janvier 1885

  Papa and the others went out to hunt this morning with mo nook Pierre and mo nook Gerard. Both my uncles are very good trackers. Later, when I saw that Papa was not walking home with them, I was afraid, until Edmond told me that Papa had stopped by Madame Pepin’s farm. It seems her roof has a leak. I suppose Papa was only being helpful, but it did seem odd that he and no one else offered to patch it.

  During supper, I said to Papa that it would not be easy to run a farm alone, or keep house, especially one with a leaky roof. No one had anything to say about that except for Adrian, who remarked that Madame Pepin would not have to worry now. Moushoom began to choke and cough. Papa had to hit him on the back quite a few times. Moushoom eats too fast.

  Le 16 janvier 1885

  This afternoon I walked to Monsieur Letendre’s store with Moon at my side. It was cold and the snow crunched under my boots, but there was no noise from Moon’s feet, although he is a big heavy dog. Perhaps it is because he seems so much like a wolf.

  When Emma first moved here, she was surprised at how many merchants we have in Batoche. Such a mixture of people. Monsieur Letendre, the Fisher brothers Joseph and Georges, and most of the other merchants are Métis, but Monsieur Garnot is from Quebec, and the Kerr brothers are li Blawn from Ottawa. I think it is because they are English that the Kerrs have not done so well. It takes people here a long time to get used to something new, and to trust it. Monsieur Letendre is trusted. He is also the most prosperous merchant, and because he is sometimes Papa’s employer, Papa insists that I shop there. It seems fair to me. It is the least I can do, since Papa works so hard at freighting whenever Monsieur Letendre needs him.

  I passed Monsieur Garnot’s stopping place. Emma had never heard of such a thing as a stopping place before she came here. When I said that surely in Toronto they had houses where men may stop and take a little drink, where travellers might rest or play billiards and smoke their pipes, Emma put her nose in the air. She told me that in Toronto they are not called stopping places. They are called saloons. I think that stopping place sounds better.

  The door was open when I passed, and I could smell tobacco smoke from the men’s pipes. Someone called out that Monsieur Garnot needed new felt on his billiard table. That someone was Monsieur Riel. What could anyone expect of a Kanayah from Quebec, teased another voice. That one was William Jackson, Monsieur Riel’s secretary. Philippe Garnot answered that if they did not like his table, they could play on Georges Fisher’s table or maybe on Gabriel Dumont’s. Perhaps Métis felt was better. Monsieur Riel laughed at the joke, and I have to admit, it made me laugh as well.

  My laughter caused the men to notice me. Someone wondered aloud where my father had been lately. Too busy with other matters to play billiards these days, someone else shouted. Too busy patching leaky roofs. Everyone laughed and poked one another with their elbows. Everyone except Monsieur Riel, who has very nice manners. Now that I think on it, maybe some of them had taken more than a little drink. It was all very odd, and if I hear anything more about a leaky roof, I think that —

  Papa is calling me. I will finish l
ater.

  Très tard

  Papa has asked Louise Pepin to marry him. She agreed. It makes sense, he told me. Her farm lot is next to ours. The house can be rented out in time, once she is living here with us. As well as the income from that, her farm will provide an excellent dowry. Papa has known her for many years and she is a good woman. While he and Adrian are away freighting for Monsieur Letendre, Madame Pepin will be good company for Armand and me. She will be coming to supper tomorrow evening so that we can all welcome her.

  I knew Papa would marry again in time, but it is — I must write this — it is too soon. I smiled sweetly and said that it did make sense, that I was sure she was a good woman, and how convenient that her farm was next to ours. I did not add that her roof no longer leaks.

  I held in my tears until I was upstairs, but now I have cried until I can cry no more. Not for my brothers, who all seem pleased by the announcement, or even for myself. I cried for Mama.

  No. That is a lie. I did cry for myself. How can I bear another woman in my kitchen, in the kitchen where my mother cooked? How can I bear the presence of a woman who will not be a guest, but who will claim the kitchen as her own? I know I cannot.

  Encore plus tard

  Moushoom knocked on my door an hour ago. He had another story for my book, he explained when I was settled in bed with a shawl around my shoulders. But then he reconsidered and said that maybe this was not the best time for a story. Maybe right now was just a good time to listen.

  A man needs a wife, I was told. This I suppose is true, for in the old days, the buffalo-hunt days, a man could not easily hunt without a woman to skin the animals and cut up the meat. True, sometimes the arrangement was à la façon du pays until a priest could be found and a proper marriage performed. It was so with my parents, who lived together in the country way until Père André married them. There is no shame in it.