Blood Upon Our Land Read online

  “Josephine is as well-educated a girl as Batoche has ever seen,” Moushoom boasted, adding that he had given me a diary some months back and that I am an excellent writer. Moushoom and Monsieur Dumont are given to exaggerations, but I smiled anyway.

  Monsieur Riel said that I must be a comfort to my father, that education is a blessing, and that reading and writing are a gift. He said that he sometimes writes poetry, and is even writing a novel, one called Masinahican. It is the Cree word for book, he explained, when Moushoom told him that I speak very little Cree. Monsieur Riel went on to say that he keeps a journal himself, a thing he considers to be a very important activity. As for stories, a story should be written down to pass on, he told me. I am doing a fine thing.

  Not long after this, all the men left the cabin. I could hear them talking outside as I stacked up the bowls, but I could not make out what they were saying. Later Adrian told me that I should be very honoured by Monsieur Riel’s words, that he is a remarkable man. Was I aware that some call him the father of Manitoba?

  Papa said to Adrian that perhaps Louis was a remarkable man — time would tell. He is sure that Monsieur Riel wants the best for the Métis people, just as he wants the best for his children — like any good father.

  I am lucky to have Papa, and I suppose Monsieur Riel’s children are lucky to have him.

  Le 29 janvier 1885

  Still and very cold. I could see a fog of tiny ice needles hanging in the air. So beautiful and peaceful. Unlike the inside of the house, although I am not complaining, since it rings with Armand’s laughter. Only a little boy could laugh so hard at a tiny puppy’s fat belly.

  Le 30 janvier 1885

  Edmond shot a mule deer today when they were out hunting, a large buck that still wore its antlers. Armand was very cross that he missed the excitement. He had been at school. When I teased that learning to read was also quite exciting, he began to pout until Edmond told Armand that he would make him a fine knife handle from part of one of the antlers. Edmond spoils that boy.

  Emma hates to see a kill. She hides her eyes and makes the sound of vomiting. Even I think this is strange. I have always been told that animals give themselves willingly to a hunter if the animal is treated with respect. Papa thinks it may be so, but Moushoom and Edmond truly believe it. I suppose that is because they both lived among the Cree as children, and still cling to Cree ways and beliefs. That is how they see things. Père Moulin does not see it that way, of course.

  What I see is a fine fat mule deer. They will butcher him and share out some of the meat.

  Le 31 janvier 1885

  Moushoom went over to One Arrow today with a haunch of venison. He was quiet for a long while upon his return. I knew why. Times are hard here, but it is far worse for the Cree on that reserve.

  Février 1885

  Le 1 février 1885

  Père Moulin read the first of the banns in church this morning, naming my father and Louise, asking if anyone knew of any reason why these two should not be joined in marriage. I will not write down what my first thought was at that moment. I should have prayed for acceptance, but I could not.

  It was far too windy to linger outside the church very long afterward, but that did not stop people from congratulating Papa and Louise. I was not neglected. All of the girls I know, girls who look forward to their own marriages in time, said that I must be so pleased. A wedding! They loved a wedding! What could I do but agree?

  Le 4 février 1885

  I have been unwell with a cough that has been bothering me now and again, especially at night. Coneflower tea helps a bit, but until now, writing has been beyond me.

  I know it worries Papa greatly when any of us cough. The coughing sickness takes so many people, but I assured him this is only a cough from a cold, not what Emma calls consumption. There is no blood on my handkerchief.

  None of us can forget what Mama’s cough was like near the end. She was so ill, and suffered greatly, but she could not bear to let go of us.

  It was so hard to let her go. I know that I should not dwell on those last days, but there are times when I do. Even in the last hours of her life I could see the love in her eyes. And I cannot help but to think about Madame Riel, who coughs a great deal and has seemed so weary each time I have seen her.

  Le 5 février 1885

  Tonight after supper, Moushoom talked a little about the reserve. It took him a few days to settle his mind about what he had seen, I suppose, as well as to loosen his unwilling tongue. The small glass of brandy that Papa poured for him also helped some.

  Kah-pah-yak-as-to-cum — the English call him Chief One Arrow — had sent his greetings and his congratulations that Papa was taking another wife. He also sent thanks for the venison. He wondered why I had not come to see him in such a long while, but then he supposed I was too busy eyeing the young men of Batoche. It would please him to see me again before he died, not that he was dying soon, but he was an old man, after all. Moushoom seemed to find that very funny. Not the part about dying, but that One Arrow is an old man. He is only seventy and Moushoom is almost eighty.

  Moushoom told us that the people there are nearly broken. There is hunger, of course, but they have lost much more since the buffalo have refused to come. The Cree are willing to farm, even though they are not farmers, and yet that is what Macdonald in Ottawa expects them to be. And with no help!

  Moushoom looked ready to spit at the very thought of it. He often spits when he talks about the prime minister, but he remembered that he was in the house and did not.

  “Lucky Métis,” he went on. “At least we have a little French farmers’ blood in our veins. Unlucky Cree with none. They are not eating their dogs yet, though.”

  Moushoom has sometimes talked about having to eat the dogs and some of the horses in ’25. That was a bad year for the buffalo hunt. It broke his heart to eat his dogs, even though the dogs were willing. He could not do it now, he says, weak old man that he has become.

  I always have to force myself not to smile at those words, since Moushoom is anything but weak.

  When Moushoom and Edmond went back to the cabin, Papa said it was odd how the old days, even the bad ones, can seem so real.

  I think so too.

  Le 6 février 1885

  I baked today, and sent some galet over to the MacLeods with Adrian, who was taking time to visit Emma. It was a good thing that Armand was at school, since he now chants nichimoose at Adrian whenever he learns there is to be a visit. I do think they may be sweethearts, though, if only a little.

  Louise has told us that there is a bakery in Prince Albert where her sister buys all her bread and cakes. There is no galet in that bakery, though, so what use is it? Louise had hoped that her sister Rose would be able to come to Batoche for the wedding. She wrote to her some time ago, but today Louise learned that this will not happen. Madame Montour is again with child, and so is not allowed to travel. This order comes from her doctor.

  I must admit that secretly I feel a little sorry for Louise, but she has only said that one must accept such minor disappointments. The big ones are hard enough to bear. Besides, she has plenty of cousins here.

  Odd. Mama used to say the same sort of thing about disappointment. I wonder how she would feel about Louise.

  Plus tard

  I have been thinking about Mama and Rose Montour. Mama came all the way here with me in her belly, and that was no small thing, since riding in a Red River cart is a bumpy affair. Perhaps Madame Montour is a delicate woman. She must be, if she is unable to travel here, or perhaps it is because of living in the city. I have heard that a city can change a person, make them softer, more needful of easy living.

  Batoche is no city. Life here certainly is not easy, and there is nothing soft about the Bouviers.

  Still, I wonder if I would have the courage and strength to cross a prairie with a bābee inside me. Moushoom thinks I should not worry about things of that nature. There is time enough to find out just how stron
g I am, he says. Life will see to that.

  Le 7 février 1885

  Papa thinks it is a good idea for Louise to send over some of her father-in-law’s household things. I could not see why, but I did not argue. There is room, I suppose, and so today Edmond took the sleigh and brought back a load of objects wrapped in newspaper.

  When we unwrapped the objects we found several stoneware jugs, a few crocks and even a pot for herbs, all of which will be useful, I have to admit.

  What they were wrapped in was better, though, six sheets of newspaper from the Qu’Appelle Vidette. Even though the pages were from last December, they were still of interest. Everyone roared with laughter when I read this aloud to hear what people there take for news.

  LOCAL HAPPENINGS

  “Mr. Fawcett” will appear next week.

  Large amounts of grain are coming in daily, which makes times lively in town.

  Skating is the fashionable amusement in town. The ice is in splendid condition.

  A son of Antoine LaRocque was knocked down by a boar last Sunday and severely hurt.

  During the past week we have been blessed with the most delightful weather.

  The prizes awarded at the agricultural show will be paid at the office of T.W. Jackson, Esq., Fort Qu’Appelle, upon demand.

  About thirty teams have been engaged in this neighborhood to carry Indian supplies to the south branch of the Saskatchewan.

  None of us could think of any fashionable amusement that happened here at Batoche. Maybe mucking out stables, Adrian suggested. Moushoom wondered about a town where the coming in of grain made it lively. And he for one did not ever want to go back to Qu’Appelle again if it meant being trampled by a boar.

  Then his expression changed and he wondered if any of that grain had ever made it to the reserve here. He would ask One Arrow.

  Armand wanted to make up stories about our household. I suggested that since it was Saturday, the stories would be about taking a bath in the washtub. He did not laugh at that. Armand is not fond of bathing.

  Plus tard

  It makes me feel strange to see Louise’s things in this house. They now stand on the shelves in between Mama’s crocks and pots. It is almost as though they are trying to come between Mama and me, somehow.

  Le 8 février 1885

  Papa, Louise and Père Moulin set a date for the wedding last night, and the second of the banns was read this morning. They will be married the day after the last banns are read next Sunday, so that they do not have to wait until the end of Lent. The word spread after Mass, as word will. There were more congratulations. Madame Riel spoke with Louise. She had been absent from Mass last week and so had been unable to give her best wishes until now.

  But the marriage was not the most important topic. There was a rumour that a telegram arrived from the government concerning the petition Monsieur Riel sent in December. But like most rumours it had many faces. Some said the news was very good. Others said nothing good ever came from Ottawa. Papa said that it would be best to just wait and see, nothing was to be gained by guessing.

  Monsieur Riel shook Papa’s hand and said something to him, something I did not hear because of the way the women were laughing and chattering. Men’s talk, I suppose.

  Le 9 février 1885

  It seems the rumours were true. Edmond heard it all today at the forge, how the telegram had been given to Monsieur Nolin, who showed it to Monsieur Riel last night. Monsieur Riel had been furious. So was Adrian as we listened to Edmond’s account. Even Papa, who is always so calm, was uneasy.

  The government will investigate the Métis’ complaints, they say. But what more is there to investigate? They have known of our complaints for years. They know we want title to our river lots, that what we need is proof of ownership. How can they not agree to say that what is ours is ours? Riel is said to have shouted that Ottawa would have his answer in forty days.

  “Sounds like a Métis flood is coming,” Moushoom said under his breath.

  Le 10 février 1885

  This morning as I gathered the eggs — the hens were warm and sleepy, and so pecked little — I heard the sound of horses. There was also the sound of our dogs barking, for they are excellent watchdogs. “Someone must be here,” I shouted to Edmond, who was milking one of our goats.

  “Three men, all mounted,” he answered.

  I always find this sort of comment very amusing. Edmond insists he can tell what is coming from the sound alone, as his Cree grandfather could. “What colour are the horses?” I asked, as I always do. Edmond did not have anything to say about that. He never does.

  When we walked out of the barn, though, a basket of eggs in my arms and a pail of milk in each of Edmond’s hands, there were the three horses tied to our hitching rail. I did not have to look at Edmond to know he was smiling at his own cleverness. I asked if he knew the horses’ names and he said, “Gabriel Dumont.”

  “What an odd name for a horse,” I teased, but of course he meant that one of the horses belonged to Monsieur Dumont.

  “That white left forefoot,” Edmond pointed out. “Gabriel’s horse.” We both could guess at least one of the other owners.

  Gabriel Dumont sat at our kitchen table with my father and grandfather. So did Louis Riel and Charles Nolin. Adrian leaned against the wall. I could smell the kinikinik Moushoom was smoking, the familiar mixture of red willow bark and bearberry leaves. The guests nodded when I asked if they wanted a little barley coffee. I smiled to myself, since their thirst would give me a chance to listen to their conversation. But they spoke only of the weather, and of cattle, and of the expensive English shotguns in Mitchell’s store over at Duck Lake. Two buffalo skulls hang over the door there. Monsieur Dumont wondered who had actually shot those buffalo. He must ask Mitchell how a fancy English shotgun would perform against a buffalo.

  They sipped their coffee in silence, and then Monsieur Riel asked, “You are with us then, Michel?” There was something about the way he asked it, as though it was the most important question in the world.

  Papa looked at me and I could tell he was very close to sending me upstairs. Papa tries to protect me. He did not send me up, though. He glanced at Adrian, who clearly wanted to shout once more that he would follow Monsieur Riel anywhere. As for Moushoom, he sat very still. Only the smoke from his pipe moved around him.

  Then Papa answered that yes, he was with them in expecting justice, in expecting title to the farm, as were his father and son. But none of them were violent men, any more than Louis was. This they must understand.

  It seemed to satisfy the visitors, and so they thanked me for the coffee and went on their way.

  It had not satisfied Adrian, though. I can hear him arguing with Papa.

  Plus tard

  I was unable to sleep. When I went downstairs, Adrian had gone to bed, but Papa and Moushoom were sitting near the stove. Papa was mending harness, while Moushoom worked on a sash he had begun just before Mama died. He insists that it will be his last saencheur flechee, and he often says that he wants to be buried with it wrapped around his waist.

  When he repeated this yet again, Papa told Moushoom not to be so gloomy — he was no more near death than One Arrow was, and besides, we had more important things to talk about than what he would wear at his own funeral.

  Papa told me to sit down, and Moushoom stopped weaving for a moment, letting the wool hang from his fingers. When he said that he had the feeling another story for my book was coming, I had to laugh. He was correct, though, and so I have written Papa’s words here as well as I can recall them:

  “You remember when Gabriel Dumont, Moïse Ouellette and the others went down to Montana to get Louis Riel last summer, to ask him to come up here and speak to the government on our behalf? Louis had been teaching school down there, living a nice quiet life with his wife and children. A good man, loyal to his family and to his people. I think it must have suited him after all that happened in Manitoba fifteen years ago, when we stood up for
what was ours. Louis is a hard one to understand, unlike Gabriel. Gabriel is as easy to read as … as …”

  Here he slowed down, trying for the right words.

  “As easy to read as the track of a bull buffalo?” asked Moushoom helpfully.

  Papa laughed. “Yes. Gabriel is like a bull buffalo, all shaggy, determined and strong. Louis is more like a raven with his black hair and quick mind. You never know with a raven, just how his mood will go. Bring up religion or politics around Gabriel and that is one thing, but bring them up to Louis and — whoa, boy! Like throwing brandy on a fire.”

  “Which,” Moushoom said, “would be a waste of good brandy.”

  “Louis Riel means to act if the government refuses to respect the rights of the Métis people,” Papa went on. “He has the support of many around here, even the English, although I am not so certain of that these days.” Then he looked right at me. “We have to be ready for changes, Josephine. Yes, there is Louise, but she is not what I mean. This marriage means a change that I have brought upon us by my own choice, and it will result in good things for the family.”

  That is when Moushoom spoke up, saying that this other thing though, this matter of title to our land, and what will be done if we are driven to the edge of the cliff, is a different matter. Moushoom shook his fist and cried that it is our land, that no one, especially Macdonald, should think otherwise. Sadly though, Moushoom could not say what was coming.

  “Your brother and grandfather and I are with Louis Riel,” said Papa. “Adrian’s blood is up, but that is Adrian — nothing happens quickly enough for him, and so the arguing. Ignore that, Josephine. What you need to know is that this family stands together, and with God’s blessing and a little patience, we will continue to live peacefully.”

  The thought of peace should make my mind feel easier. Still, Moushoom’s words will not leave my thoughts. He cannot see what is coming, but I fear that peace has nothing to do with it. Papa. He tries so hard to keep me from worrying.