This etext was produced by Gardner Buchanan.
THE RISING OF THE RED MAN
A Romance of the Louis Riel Rebellion
by JOHN MACKIE
Author of "The Heart of the Prairie," "Tales of the Trenches,"
"The Cannibal Island," "Daring Deeds in Far Off Lands,"
"The Prodigal's Brother," "The Man Who Forgot," etc.
TO E.M. DAVY.
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
I. IN THE GREAT LONE LAND
II. TIDINGS OF ILL
III. THE STORM BREAKS
IV. HARD PRESSED
V. TO BATTLEFORD
VI. THE GRIM BLOCKADE
VII. DETECTED
VIII. IN THE JUDGMENT HALL
IX. THE DWARF AND THE BEAR
X. THE UNEXPECTED
XI. THE RETREAT
XII. A MYSTERIOUS STAMPEDE
XIII. ROOFED
XIV. A THREE-CORNERED GAME
XV. CHECKMATED
XVI. THE FATE OF SERGEANT PASMORE
XVII. A CLOSE CALL
XVIII. ACROSS THE ICE
XIX. CAPTURED BY POUNDMAKER
XX. THE BATTLE OF CUT-KNIFE
XXI. BACK TO CAPTIVITY
XXII. ANTOINE IN TROUBLE
XXIII. THE DEPARTURE OF PEPIN
xxiv. THE INDIANS' AWAKENING
XXV. A PROPOSAL FROM PEPIN
XXVI. A BOLD BID FOR LIBERTY
XXVII. AN ONLY WAY
XXVIII. THROUGH THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW
PROLOGUE
The 16th of March, 1885, was a charming day, and Louis
David Riel, fanatic and rebellion-maker, was addressing
a great general meeting of the half-breeds and Indians
near Batoche on the Saskatchewan river in British North
America. There were representatives from nearly every
tribe; Poundmaker and his Stonies, who were always spoiling
for trouble, being particularly well represented. Round
the arch malcontent were a score of other harpies almost
as wicked if less dangerous than himself. Among them were
Gabriel Dumont, Jackson, Maxime, Garnot and Lepine. Riel's
emissaries had been at work for months, and as the time
was now ripe for a rising he had called them together to
decide upon some definite course of action.
The weather was comparatively mild, and the Indians sat
around on the snow that before many days was to disappear
before the sudden spring thaw. Their red, white, and grey
blankets against the dull-hued tepees [Footnote: Wigwams.]
and the white wintry landscape, gave colour and relief
to the scene. Two o'clock in the afternoon and the sun
shone brightly down as he always does in these latitudes.
Riel knew exactly how long it would continue to shine,
for had not the almanac told him and all the world--with
the exception of the ignorant half-breeds and Indians
whom he was addressing--that there was to be an eclipse
that day. The arch rebel knew how strongly dramatic effect
appealed to his audience, so he was prepared to indulge
them to the full in this respect, and turn the matter to
account. Being an educated man there was a good deal of
method in his madness.
The red-bearded, self-constituted prophet of the _metis_
[Footnote: Half-breeds.] stood on a Red River cart and
spun out his pleasant prognostications concerning that
happy coming era in which unlimited food, tobacco and
fire-water would make merry the hearts of all from the
Missouri in the south, to the Kissaskatchewan in the
north, if only they would do as he told them. As for Pere
Andre and his fulminations against him, what did they
want with the Church of Rome!--he, Louis David Riel, was
going to start a church of his own! Yes, St. Peter had
appeared to him in a vision, and told him that the Popes
had been on the wrong tack long enough, and that
he--Riel--was to be the new head of all things spiritual
and temporal. He promised them a good all-round time when
this came about, as it certainly would before long.
He wiped the perspiration from his forehead, and looked
anxiously at the sun. What if, after all, the compilers
of the almanac, or he himself, had made a mistake, and
he had called this his most vital meeting on the wrong
day? The bare idea was too terrible. But, no, his keen
eyes detected a dark line on the outer edge of the great
orb, and he knew that the modern astrologers had not
erred. His grand opportunity had come, and he must seize
it. He stretched out his hands and dramatically asked--
"But O, my people, tell me, how can I make manifest to
you that these things shall be as I say? Shall I beg of
the Manitou, the Great Spirit, to give to you a sign that
He approves of the words his servant speaketh, and that
these things shall come to pass?"
From the great crowd of half-breeds and Indians there
went up a hoarse, guttural cry for confirmation.
Yes, if the Manitou would give a sign then no one in the
land would doubt, and those who were feeble of heart
would take courage.
Riel bowed his head, lifted off his beaver-skin cap,
rolled his eyes about, and by his melodramatic movements
claimed the attention of all. He, however, found, time
to shoot a quick glance at the sun. Those almanac people
were wonderfully accurate, but he must hurry up, for in
another minute the eclipse would begin. In a loud voice
he cried--
"You have asked for a sign, and it shall be given unto
you; but woe unto those to whom a sign is given and who
shall pay no heed to the same. Their days shall be cut
short in the land, and their bodies shall burn for ever
in the pit of everlasting fire. The Great Spirit will
darken the face of the sun for a token, and a shadow,
that of the finger of the Manitou Himself, shall sweep
the land."
The knavish fanatic closed his eyes and raised his face
heavenwards. There was a rapturous look on it, and his
lips moved. He was calling upon the Almighty to give them
the sign which he obligingly indicated. The new head of
the church was already distinguishing himself. As for
the half-breeds and Indians, they sat around with
incredulity and awe alternately showing upon their faces.
It was something new in their experiences for the Manitou
to interest himself personally in their affairs. A great
silence fell upon them; the prophet mumbled inarticulately
and proceeded with his hanky-panky.
Then a great murmur and chorus of "Ough! Ough's!" and
"me-was-sins!" [Footnote: Meaning good or approval.]
arose from the Indians, while many of the half-breeds
crossed themselves. Incredulity changed to belief and
fear, and the simple ones raised their voices in wondering
accents to testify to the potency of the "big medicine"
that was being wrought before their eyes. The hand of
the Manitou was slowly but surely passing over the face
of the sun and darkening it. The shadow of that same hand
was already creeping up from the east. The rapt prophet
never once opened his eyes, but he knew from the great
hoarse roar of voices around him that the almanac had
not erred. And then the clamour subsided, as the face of
the sun was darkened, and the ominous shadow fell like
a chill over them ere passing westward. The Indians
shivered in their blankets and were thrilled by this
gratuitous and wonderful proof of their new leader's
intimacy with the Great Spirit. But what if the Great
Spirit should take it into His head to darken the face
of the light-giver for ever! It was a most alarming
prospect truly. Louis David Riel opened his eyes, glanced
at the sun, and said--
"The Manitou is pleased to remove His hand and to give
us light again."
Then, as it seemed more quickly than it had been darkened,
the blackness was removed from the sun's face, and the
shadow passed.
The murmur and the shout that went up from the wondering
throng must have been as music in the ears of the arrant
fraud. He looked down upon the deluded ones with triumph
and a new sense of power.
"The Great Spirit has spoken!" he said with commendable
dramatic brevity.
"Big is the Medicine of Riel!" cried the people. "We
are ready to do his bidding when the time comes."
"The time has come," said Riel.
Never perhaps in the history of impostors from Mahomet
to the Mahdi had an almanac proved so useful.
CHAPTER I
IN THE GREAT LONE LAND
It was the finest old log house on the banks of the mighty
Saskatchewan river, and the kitchen with its old-fashioned
furniture and ample space was the best room in it. On
the long winter nights when the ice cracked on the river,
when the stars twinkled coldly in the blue, and Nature
slept under the snows, it was the general meeting-place
of the Douglas household.
Henry Douglas, widower and rancher, was perhaps, one of
the best-to-do men between Battleford and Prince Albert.
The number of his cattle and horses ran into four figures,
and no one who knew him begrudged his success. He was an
upright, cheery man, who only aired his opinions round
his own fireside, and these were always charitable. But
to-night he did not speak much; he was gazing thoughtfully
into the flames that sprang in gusty jets from the logs,
dancing fantastically and making strange noises. At length
he lifted his head and looked at that great good-natured
French Canadian giant, Jacques St Arnaud, who sat opposite
him, and said--
"I tell you, Jacques, I don't like it. There's trouble
brewing oh the Saskatchewan, and if the half-breeds get
the Indians to rise, there'll be--" he glanced sideways
at his daughter, and hesitated--"well, considerable
unpleasantness."
"That's so," said Jacques, also looking at the fair girl
with the strangely dark eyes. "It is all so queer. You
warned the Government two, three months ago, did you not,
that there was likely to be trouble, but still they did
not heed? Is not that so?"
"I did, but I've heard no more about it. And now the
Police are beginning to get uneasy. They're a mighty fine
body of men, but if the half-breeds and Indians get on
the war-path, they'll swamp the lot, and--"
"Shoo!" interrupted the giant, again looking at the girl,
but this time with unmistakable alarm on his face. "Them
Injuns ain't going to eat us. You've been a good friend
to them and to the metis. So!"
Jacques St. Arnaud had been in the rancher's service
since before the latter's child had been born down in
Ontario, some eighteen years ago, and followed him into
the great North-West to help conquer the wilderness and
establish his new home. He had a big heart in a large
body, and his great ambition was to be considered a rather
terrible and knowing fellow, while, as a matter of fact,
he was the most inoffensive of mortals, and as simple in
some ways as a child.
"Bah!" he continued after a pause, "the metis are
ungrateful dogs, and the Indians, they are mad also. I
would like to take them one by one and wring their
necks--so!"
The rancher tried to conceal the concern he felt. His
fifty odd years sat lightly upon him, although his hair
was grey. His daughter had only been back from Ontario
for two years, but in that time she had bulked so largely
in his life that he wondered now how he could ever have
got along without her. She reminded him of that helpmate
and wife who had gone hence a few years after her daughter
was born, and whose name was now a sacred memory. He had
sent the girl down East to those whom he knew would look
after her properly, and there, amid congenial surroundings,
she grew and quickened into a new life. But the spell of
the vast, broad prairie lands was upon her, and the love
for her father was stronger still, so she went, back to
both, and there her mind broadened, and her spirit grew
in harmony with the lessons that an unconventional life
was for ever working out for itself in those great,
unfettered spaces where Nature was in the rough and the
world was still young. She grew and blossomed into a
beautiful womanhood, as blossoms the vigorous wild-flower
of the prairies. When she smiled there was the light and
the glamour of the morning star in her dark hazel eyes,
and when her soul communed with itself, it was as if one
gazed into the shadow of the stream. There was a gleam
of gold in her hair that was in keeping with the freshness
of her nature, and the hue of perfect health was upon
her cheeks. Her eighteen years had brought with them all
the promise of the May. That she had inherited the
adventure-loving spirit of the old pioneers, as well as
the keen appreciation of the humorous side of things,
was obvious from the amount of entertainment she seemed
to find in the company of Old Rory. He was an old-timer
of Irish descent, who had been everywhere from the Red
River in the east to the Fraser in the west, and from
Pah-ogh-kee Lake in the south to the Great Slave Lake in
the north. He had been _voyageur_, trapper, cowboy,
farm-hand in the Great North-West for years, and nothing
came amiss to him. Now he was the hired servant of her
father, doing what was required of him, and that well.
He was spare and wrinkled as an old Indian, and there
was hardly an unscarred inch in his body, having been
charged by buffaloes, clawed by bears and otherwise
resented by wild animals.
"Rory," said the girl after a pause, and the softness of
her voice was something to conjure with, "what do you
think? Are the half-breeds and Indians going to interfere
with us if they do rise?"
"Thar be good Injuns and bad Injuns," said Rory doggedly,"
but more bad nor good. The Injun's a queer animile when
he's on the war-path; he's like Pepin Quesnelle's tame
b'ar at Medicine Hat that one day chawed up Pepin, who
had been like a father to 'im, 'cos he wouldn't go stares
wid a dose of castor-oil he was a-swallerin' for the good
of his health. You see, the b'ar an' Pepin used allus
to go whacks like."
The girl laughed, but still she was uneasy in her mind.
She mechanically watched the tidy half-breed woman and
the elderly Scotchwoman who had been her mother's servant
in the old Ontario days, as the two silently went on, at
the far end of the long room, with the folding and putting
away of linen. Her eyes wandered with an unwonted
wistfulness over the picturesque brown slabs of pine that
constituted the walls, the heavy, rudely-dressed tie-beams
of the roof over which were stacked various trim bundles
of dried herbs, roots and furs, and from which hung
substantial hams of bacon and bear's meat. As she looked
over the heads of the little group on the broad benches
round the fire, she saw the firelight and lamplight glint
cheerfully on the old-fashioned muskets and flintlock
pistols that decorated the walls--relics of the old
romantic days when the two companies of French and English
adventurers traded into Hudson's Bay.
She had an idea. She would ask the sergeant of Mounted
Police in charge of the detachment of four men, whose
little post was within half-a-mile of the homestead, what
he thought of the situation, and he would have to tell
her. Sergeant Pasmore was one of those men of few words
who somehow seemed to know everything. A man of rare
courage she knew him to be, for had he not gained his
promotion by capturing the dangerous renegade Indian,
Thunder-child, single-handed? She knew that Thunderchild
had lately broken prison, and was somewhere in the
neighbourhood waiting to have his revenge upon the
sergeant. Sergeant Pasmore was a man both feared and
respected by all with whom he came in contact. He was
the embodiment of the law; he carried it, in fact, on
the horn of his saddle in the shape of his Winchester
rifle; a man who was supposed to be utterly devoid of
sentiment, but who had been known to perform more than
one kindly action. Her father liked him, and many a time
he had spent a long evening by the rancher's great
fireside.
As she thought of these things, she was suddenly startled
by three firm knocks at the door. Jacques rose from his
seat, and opening it a few inches, looked out into the
clear moonlight. He paused a moment, then asked--
"Who are you, and what you want?"
"How!" [Footnote: Form of salutation in common use among
the Indians and half-breeds.] responded a strange-voice.
"Aha! Child-of-Light!" exclaimed Jacques.
And into the room strode a splendid specimen of a red
man in all the glory of war paint and feathers.