The non-poetic end/beginning.

* Lieutenant Preston, author of the journal entries, returned, unharmed and unblooded, to Ontario...30 years later he would participate in the World War. (as with all surviving soldiers, many relatives and descendants)

* On June 3rd, The Battle of Steele Narrows (Loon Lake), the last battle on Canadian soil, was fought. Big Bear escaped and was chased for a month. On July 1st, all soldiers gathered at Fort Pitt, making it temporarily the largest settlement west of Winnipeg. On July 2nd Big Bear surrendered himself at Fort Carlton. (many direct descendants)

* Dumont fled to the US. He worked for the Wild West show, and returned when he was pardoned, and died of old age. He is buried at Batoche, under a large rock within sight of his river crossing. (His wife Madeleine died, and his adopted daughter was, I believe, married in Calgary at some point. No direct descendants, but many relatives.)

* Besides losing their homes and men - Métis Resistance soldiers defending their homes ranged from teenaged boys to old men, and everything in between - the Métis people were forced to turn in their guns, their livestock were looted or killed, and no crops had been planted that spring. (Many deaths, and many direct descendants.)

(Interestingly - according to the online encyclopedia of SK, the prairie farming method of "summer fallowing" was begun in 1885, when farmers from the Indian Head area who fought in the battle had been unable to plant, and noticed the following year of 1886 those fields which had lain "fallow" had yields of up to 20 x greater than those which were planted. And they realized giving the soil time to replenish was good policy.)

* Meanwhile - fleeing possession-less, homeless, and without even a means to hunt or defend themselves, more women and children died of starvation and disease in the year following the Resistance, than were lost by both sides during all battles. (Many deaths, many descendants)

Families were separated and dispersed across the country, and continued to suffer injustice and persecution.

It's still a hard thing to be Métis in this country. Yet the Métis are the first "true marriage" of First Nations and Europeans: the true flesh and blood of the treaties which created and founded this country we call Canada. The Métis people are the sacred trust of our founded and shared country, and 125 years later, all Canadians need to learn, respect, acknowledge this if we can move forward as a sometimes separate but needing to be sometimes united country.

* There were fierce reprisals to the First Nations as well. Leaders were removed and imprisoned, often injustly, and causing their death. Other able-bodied men were hung. An 1885 amendment to the already deplorable Indian Act forbade all First Nations gatherings and religious ceremonies. And destructive policies continued, as bands were essentially imprisoned en masse on small reserves, starved, lacking most essentials and a means of providing for themselves in any manner, while suffering the forcible removal of their children to the residential school system. (Where mortality rates were 25 to 60%, and many healthy children were exposed to tuberculosis. In some cases, deliberately.) (Many deaths, and all surviving First Nations people are 100% direct descendants of Residential School. Find out more about the work of the Truth ahd Reconciliation committee, as it works on a five year mandate to undo 5 to 7 generations of what was, effectively, physical and cultural genocide in this country. Not unlike a slow-moving holocaust, capitalized or otherwise.)

* On July 6th, Riel was formally charged with high treason - something dug out of the British Code of Law and not having been used for a couple hundred years - and never in Canada. (If found guilty, the sentence was death by hanging.)

Louis Riel was, of course, hung. During his trial, he represented himself, refusing an insanity plea, and pointing out that he could not be guilty of treason, since the Government, which had no area representatives, was the aggressor.

Riel's provisional government was legal, and remains unfinished business to this day. Saskatchewan would not be a province for 20 more years.

* Riel's wife lost their unborn baby about a month before he was hung (He was hung on November 16th). She died of tuberculosis, as did their daughter at age 12, and their son was thrown from a horse in his 20's. (No direct descendants but many many many relatives.)

* Before he was hung in November of 1885, Riel said that in 100 years, his people would rise again, and it would be the artists that led the way. (Riel was, among other things, a poet.)

A hundred years later, in November of 1985, I was sitting alone in a school library reading Maria Campbell's "Half-Breed" and though I had been familiar with Louis Riel all my life, having been conceived in St. Boniface, I would not know these particular words of his until I was in my 30's...

See you guys next year...thanks for putting up with some very long (and perhaps uninteresting, to you?) work this year. 125th anniversaries have to be marked, though! Hope I didn't chase all the other poets away, it was a quiet May.
A.

All For Show

Thursday, 28th May Have been having a rather lazy time since our arrival, drilling but for an hour or two. On Monday, the 25th, we celebrated the Queen's Birthday by a review and a general salute, or was it a Royal Salute...

Victoria Day for the victors.
We marched up and down
the slightly muddied grounds
impressing a pair of crows
and a few gophers. The grass
and weeds, downtrodden by our feet,
spring back in the dewy mornings.

The bark of our guns echoed
smartly down the banks, rolled
across the valleys and the water.
I was more impressed by what caught
my eye as it flitted drunkenly by: black
and orange and brown, spring's first butterfly.
***
It would be a comfort if we prisoners
could be together, but isolation is always
the tactic. Divide and conquer. The rustle of
uniforms, canvas, drills called out by day, snoring
of these Easterners by night, all I wish for is my own
family around me. The sight of sky. To be a free man once more.

The smallest things count for my happiness now.
Today, I
saw a mouse.
With my eyes I placed my love for my wife and children
in that tiny body and wished it a speedy
trip south.

Before riding off, our warriors sold
beaded moccasins, tobacco pouches,
horse decorations
to the soldiers from the east,
eager to take mementoes home.

Then they rode south to Eagle Hills - knowing
we would know, despite their unflinching faces
their shrugs that leaving their men, their Chief
behind was of no great consequence or loss

- south is where sorrow is taken. They walk
to the South Wind, Sawan, to release
grief and pray for healing.

My hands are bound so tightly they've lost
all feeling.

The Hostage

On Tuesday evening, the 26th, Chief Poundmaker came in with his band and surrendered. He had a big pow-wow with the General (at which I was lucky enough to be present) and justified his action at Cutknife by a plea of self-defence. Many of his braves too are rather fine-looking men. The General kept the Chief and a few of his principal followers prisoners and sent the rest away.

We have won this thing
cheaply. We sit in forts
accepting terms of peace
from rebels and Indians.

When Poundmaker put his hand out
in peace, Middleton waved it aside
saying he did not shake hands with
rebels. The translator hesitated,
explained in Cree there is no such
word.

Both men expounded at great lengths
words drifting off and away like gulls
or clouds or so much smoke
from a campfire.

I confess, I favoured the Cree.
***
Poundmaker speaks much verbatim, c/o Stan Cuthand
"From the beginning, the Great Spirit created
Indians and white persons.
He put them on separate countries.
He provided us with buffalo.
He provided you with cows and sheep.

We lived in contentment.
We were well off.
The whole country was ours.
From the place of the rising sun,
to the place of the setting sun,
the buffalo roamed in great numbers.

We did not covet your land,
neither did my father.
But the white persons seemed unhappy.
They left their land.
They came across the great waters.

When you came, we treated you well.
What did you do in return?
You stole our land.
You shared a little food with us.
And you said you paid for it.
You killed off our buffalo for no useful purpose for you.
We did not destroy the buffalo. We know they are useful.
Everything we needed came from them. What will you destroy next?

When I was a young man, I often went on a war party.
We rode all day. And all day we passed through herds of buffalo.
The plains were black as far as one could see with herds of buffalo.
We killed one only for food.

After the whites came, the buffalo became fewer and fewer.
We all know that.
We began to hate the white persons.
They were robbing us of our birthright.
We became very poor.
We wandered to the south.
The buffalo were not coming back.
We were told, "the land is not yours anymore."
We were to stay only on our small patches of land that were leftover (iskonikana).

Our grandfathers travelled on these great plains and called it their own.
Why do I now have to live on a small patch like the white persons?
I only want my freedom."

Poundmaker spoke of Aniyen-they-call-Riel, of his own fear
for our people, of me and his other warriors
who hungered to take action against the many
whites, no matter their strengths and numbers.

Then he spoke of Cut Knife and holding
us back. He called it "a gentle war"
and it is true. All their men would have died
but for him. The prisoners also, he treated
like his own children.

"Now I urge you to be gentle,
as I have advocated with my men.
Let all be 'given back' (forgiven).
Let the tribes (Cree and Assiniboine)
be reinstated upon their reserves.
Rations and payments be continued.
That is all I have to say."

As Poundmaker turned around to face his people his wife said, "I also must speak for the women and children."

"Ahaw, tapwe!" was expressed by the warriors.

The Chief Soldier looked confused, replied to Poundmaker,
"You are speaking for all your people."

A quick reply came from the crowd, "You always tell us that the Great White Queen speaks at the Supreme Council."

"Why should not a woman speak?" added Poundmaker.

Middleton laughed, said, "She does not speak in her Parliament. Her men
do all this for her. This is a war conference and we will listen only to warriors."

Poundmaker was a Chief, not a warrior. Middleton
was wrong. And his wife wanted to speak not only
for the women and children, but on behalf
of a mother whose innocent son had been taken prisoner.

The Chief Soldier said we had defied the government
by taking up arms (this is their right alone?)
and that our men must be given over, tried,
and punished. (also their right, alone.)

Poundmaker, as chief, would be taken hostage
and remain a prisoner
for the good behaviour of his people.

All good men, it seems,
go the way of the buffalo.
This is my sorrow.

Rendezvous

Sunday, 24th May ...Went up to the Q.(ueen's) O.(wn) R.(ifles) camp and saw all my old Varsity and Toronto friends, who bombarded me with questions concerning the victory at Batoche.

Reunion so far from home,
knowing much as I missed
the action, there were those
even further removed. Unexpected pocketful
of coins, to have
seen the battlefield, walk
on the ground where we manufactured
our success in warfare, a currency
worth possessing. Easy enough
to imagine ourselves back on campus
but for our surroundings: flapping tents,
well-worn uniforms, issue equipment. And some
years from now, students will discuss us
as part of their class on Canadian warfare.
We are a noble chapter in history.

Some supply wagons were waylaid:
food is scarcer and less palatable
than in college days, even.
The atmosphere: convivial. Some men
showing off souvenirs.
***
We are marching south to Battleford
from the foot of Eagle Hills.
Their Chief Soldier
is camped among them. Unknown:
what our victory at Cut Knife Hill means.

Poundmaker as our leader
must let them know we are not afraid to meet.
He would sooner have gone southwest and away, but
his burden is to carry out
the hopes and wishes of our people.

I saw him at dawn, greeting our day,
trouble on his brow. There are worries
that can't be smudged away.
But his words, when they are brought
to the Queen's Chiefs, will be strong.

Walkabout

Sunday, 24th May ...The village and the Police Barracks are on a level tract of high land between the rivers Battle and North Saskatchewan. This plateau is of considerable area and is a splendid site for a town.

A townsite lofty above the flat prairie.
Medieval castle-builders
could do no better.
And where two rivers cross:
x marks the spot. Grey-weathered
timber encloses the fort,
houses scatter like
jewels or starfish about
this hub, this gentle net
that has drawn them in,
scattered them artfully.

The settlers are guarded,
jumpy, and deserving
of the tranquillity and harmony
this setting must usually mete out.
Cerulean blue sky today: surely
peace is restored beyond doubt.
***
Mon dieu, but my feet are sore.
I am too old to walk this path much more.

We have been walking 12 days
now. I remember as a girl, this was
a way of life. Wandering in our lands,
following the herds. Sometimes settling
a while. Things changed, we began
to settle and farm. Our long narrow lots
to the river, so each homestead
could have access to water,
and the best hunting (even the animals
need that river). Oh, that grasping Dominion:
it tried to chase my grandparents and parents
from Manitoba, claiming the land
again and again from
the East. Trying to put impractical grids over
our systems, from their Ottawa desks where
they must all live close to water.

We tried to negotiate, always. To ask
for a voice. A choice. Our men and leaders
listen to the Elders, to the women,
too. Madame Caron, she sent reinforcements
to battle only weeks ago - flying to Riel,
saying - "I can hear the gunshots, Louis,
those are pointed at my men! Send them help,
now!" Middleton doesn't bring his wife,
does he? These Easterners, they must
dominate. Overwhelm. Berate.

I saw them wrest the bell
from the chapel steeple. I wish them all hell:
cutting out the tongue
from my people.

Scenery

Sunday, 24th May Arrived at Battleford this evening about sunset, one of the most beautiful spots I have seen in the West.

Freed from the boat
at last. Wish I could
walk, maybe towards
that dusky horizon
velveting the land's edge.
Larger hills here,
and green. Some trees.
Rolling fields, beyond.
Sunset bathed the skies,
the ground, in pinks,
oranges, lavenders:
hues I've never seen.
* * *
We are scattering north
and west; I am hard-pressed
to take my children and my troubles
to my aged mother, but where else?
We have nothing. All is lost.
Slow travelling,
walking with the little ones.
Before they'd let us leave,
we had to give over all our weapons.
I have no way to shoot even
a rabbit. Too early for berries.
We chew on grasses sometimes.
Just to chew.

At dusk, two coyotes
followed close. Right now,
there's only one.

Mon Dieu, I wish I had my gun.

Absence in Numbers

Friday, 22nd May. ...the men are much crowded, but the Officers have good quarters, the boat being considerably larger than the old Northcote, although of similar type.

Post-battle pleasure cruise for
soldiers, down the North
Saskatchewan river. Amusing
to think this vessel contains
the largest population for miles
around: a portable town. Floating
ant colony. Wish I was instead
a spider with my own web,
space to spread, spin, scuttle.

Rain, sun, wind - days
stretch and unravel like
a poorly knit sweater. Eternity
is a boat ride on an endless
river. We try to forget
why we came here.
Oh, what I'd give
for clean clothes, uniform
or otherwise.
***
Took me four days
to walk home, always listening
for gunfire or the heedless noise

of soldiers who've won by sheer
number; thought for sure I'd find
maman and the girls.

This, this was not
what I expected. If not
for the tree, the initials still carved

there - how could a life, a house,
a barn, a family
disappear in smoke?

Even the henhouse,
the chickens
were gone

as if our homestead
was sugar dissolved in tea
melting into air and earth

nothing left but fine black residue at the base
the very ashes trying to leave
on a north wind

I kept vigil three
days and three nights; there was
no resurrection.

Now I walk west,
because the endless lines of soldiers
came from the east.

I have 14 years. I fought for my family, my life, my future
and Dumont. Then surrendered my rifle
to the priest.

Adrift

Friday, 22nd May Boarded the steamer "North West" this morning for Battleford, and hope to make it in three days.

More boating
in this landlocked flatscape
than a summer within sight
of the Great Lakes. The riverwater
almost as smooth, mundane
as horizon and domed sky. Grasses
ripple in wind, vast emerald ocean: today
a galloping beaver dashed ungainly
through snapping undergrowth,
dove sleekly silently as a seal
into the water, almost without
ripple. I did not see him
surface.
Enviable his escape, his shape - swift most singular
purpose.
***
I would like to see
the river one more time
the stars at night
my mother's hands
my father's eyes

I would like to know
who I was going to be partnered
with, what it is like
to bear a child.

Instead, these twelve
winters are all
I will ever have. I saw
only three moon-times, never knew
the touch
of a lover.

What entered me
was a bullet, sharp and piercing.
I bled. My hand trying to hold in the red red
river that flowed. Here I lie.
I'm dead.

Of fighting and war and hate and violence
I was completely blameless.
I'm the Dakota girl that died at Batoche:
forgotten, cold.
Nameless.

Pax Aeterna

Wednesday, 20th May Chief Beardy visited camp today and swore eternal peace with the whites, which was the immediate result I suppose of the victory at Batoche.

He was hard
to read, his eyes
gave away nothing. He is
rumoured

to be bold and fierce,
his name from the scattered
grey beard on his chin.

From the frightened way he spoke
it appeared there was little enough
of a man, within.

Eternal peace, easier
to swear
alive
than dead.

They crouched next to the tent
- one private joked they were
waiting
to be fed.
***
Beardy and Okemasis
went to Middleton today.
The Redcoat General
Said had they not come, he would have
Burnt their reserves away:

as it was, he shamed
and scolded them
like an old woman.

Forbade our peoples any gifts of food or meat,
Tea, flour, or the stores promised in times of
Famine and pestilence. We hunkered down on the ground
at their feet.

I acted as interpreter, hard
to walk between these two worlds. Words
and meanings, slippery devils. Like catching
fish from a river with one hand.

They stared and joked
among themselves. Looked
down upon us.

Okemasis said he was trying only
to make a living for his wife and children.

Beardy said his men were frightened for
their lives and he prayed them to keep still:
towards the whites, he wished no man ill.

The clergymen with us
pled for stores for our little ones,
our wives and Elders. Middleton
said Beardy was lucky not to be hung
by his thumbs.

Beardy
Pledged
Eternal peace and left
Empty-handed.
Threatened loss of leadership and land, then stripped
Of his medals - as
The General
Demanded.

Parade

Tuesday 19th May Reached Prince Albert at noon today...The people of Prince Albert have been shut in from the rest of the world for several weeks and they welcomed us with joy as their deliverers.

Poplar, spruce, tamarack
farms tucked in between
dappling glades: a man
could grow roots here,
like the ones that surface
serpentine, twist
and coil along resined
groves. We are
heroes for these
shut-ins, blockaded and
held hostage, separated
from bastions of civility by
the rebels and their
savage uprising.
The occasional sullen
look that I catch
is, confessably,
quite surprising.
* * *

May 10, 1884 1 year earlier, the Prince Albert Times says of the Dominion Government, "Where they get the information which induces them to believe the people are likely to submit much longer , we do not know; but we can answer them that they need not look for their friends among the Canadians, half breeds, or Indians, as they are likely soon to be made aware of in a manner at once startling and unpleasant." The editorial is translated into French and circulated among the Metis communities, too.

The town is filled with
redcoats and despair;
but civility hides
hostility like red hides
the true colours of these
men from the East, drawing
wage to teach us who
calls the shots, who
fires them, too.
Even a borrowed American
complete with the latest
war machine.

Dealing death
efficiently, what else are taxes
for.
Save your breath
in cheering them on, they've won
the battle, not the
war.
***
Poundmaker
resumed control of the
bands today. Fine Day's
war lodge
was taken down. Father
Cochin
has been sent to sue
for peace.
And we ate well five days, from
supply wagons. There is that,
at least.

Northern Lights

Monday 18th May Started for Prince Albert this morning and made one half the distance...it is a small scattered town of about 1,000 people...the centre of a flourishing settlement surrounded by a fine country...one of the finest that could be desired. Excellent for farming purposes; abundance of firewood and timber.

Knifing north, away from
the eye-dulling flats, from riverbumped
hills and gophered grasslands.

Land more like
home. Forest, farmland,
something akin to
civilization. Country
worth fighting for.

***
May 10, 1884 - one year earlier

The Prince Albert Times newspaper taunts the Dominion Government, labeling it, "a greedy, grasping, overbearing bully"

Dictates from the East:
always appearing
like unwelcome weather
blowing in too fast;
an infestation
of grasshoppers.

Pretending they know best
as an honoured dinner guest
at the far end of the table.

Selling our weekday cutlery to buy
their Sunday sable.

Dawn, Dusk

(On the Northcote again) the only sleeping accommodation for junior officers was the cabin floor; and the cabin was, at once, dining room, lounge, and card room, it was impossible to get to bed until a late hour, only to be routed very early in the morning by the boat's employees...the hurricane deck was the most satisfactory bunk of the trip, except that the sun rose rather early in the morning.

From the water
Days are getting longer; the bleak and frigid
pause
before dawn
less cold, less
hard.

I was kept up too late
by the men gambling, laughing,
playing cards.

My eyes half-closed on the hurricane deck,
I imagine myself at sea. The waving grasslands
beyond the banks could be ocean, not desolate
prairie.

The white half-light between four and five
interrupts my dreams. But worth it to see
the sun birth at dawn, colour bursting crazyquilt
the night's dark
seams.

* * *
From the bushes
The old men said for us younger ones
to flee to the banks, beyond range,
while they bought us all some time.

My mistake: to look back.

Macabre jig danced at the end of a rope
behind a slapped and galloping horse:
this is what I see in the blue half-light at dusk.

Only a month past, I fell asleep dreaming
Of my dark-haired love, our plans to be married
summer, next. I have only seen her dead brother these past days,

cannot find my family or hers. Strange
shapes settle in the horizon as twilight
deepens to night. As sunset fades I find I'm straining, searching for

The missed step that twitches me awake
just as I'm falling into a dreamless sleep
on the still trembling earth.

My life: an unstrung fiddle, a loosened bow.

Sowing

May 15th, Friday ...I ought to have mentioned also that we had on board with us Major Howard, US Army, better known as "Gat" Howard, and one of the two Gatling Guns which he had brought over for use in Canada...he occasionally did a little target practice with his gun for our edification. He was a fine chap, but a typical Yankee who believed that the only good Indian was a dead Indian.

We are journeying down
the South Saskatchewan:
monotonous and void.
Broken only by sandbar maroons,
paddlewheel repairs,
and the target practice of Gat
gunning down anything approaching
the river for a drink. A pregnant
doe bullet-strafed in the shallows; a line of goslings
puffed into the air,
dandelions gone to seed. Muttering
murderous incantations over what he'd do
to a Redskin or two.

Seated square-shouldered on the deck behind his gun
as if it were a farm implement to be ridden in summer sun.

Every day, the weather grows hotter.
Drifting down the river I'm reminded:
All things begin and end with water.
***
Gabriel's Last Military Manoeuvre
Nights are still cool
But day by day the land
is greening. Songbirds have
returned, somehow strange they
still sing. I am travelling south,
mostly under the stars. I will arrive
in Montana by tomorrow. I have made all
my farewells. Riel, in the glade, one last
conversation. Leaving Madeleine behind with our
daughter: will I see them again? My brother, nephews,
soldiers: we are all wanted men. On the horizon, the bluing
of the Cypress Hills. Beneath my horse's hooves, homeland. Maybe for
the last time. In other years, it would be time to start ploughing. This
spring, not the crop we'd thought to plant: bodies of our men, seeded with bullets.

Every night my last thought as I offer tobacco
to the Great Mystery: I am
a General
without
an army

Crossing Over

Friday, 15th May Crossed the river today and encamped on the north shore and in the evening learned that Riel had been taken prisoner and brought into camp. We were not invited to view him, however.

I am glad to cross the water
leave the south shore
and its blood-muddied banks.

We have captured the rebel.
They say he's half-mad, disheveled.
They found him wandering, alone.

Hard to believe
he negotiated the province of Manitoba
some 15 years ago.
***
Louis David Riel
is gone from my sight.
I am carrying our third child
but I cough blood each night.

Jean-Louis is but three,
Marie-Angelique, two.
Dumont brought us to safety,
then fled. What more can he do?

Our children are young:
may Louis be spared his life.
We've been married four years,
not so long for a wife.

Jean-Louis says he's now the man of the family:
Big shoes to fill for someone scarcely past three.

Au nom du pére, et du fils, et du sanct esprit
ainsi soit-il. Mais qui
protegéra nos biens nos foyers nos droits
et maintenant qui protegéra nos vies?

Wagon Train

Thursday, 14th May Slept in the trenches last night and today marched to Lepine's Crossing, where we encamped for the night.

Lepine's Crossing is quieter.
Dried grasses from last summer
hiss in the wind, the canvas snaps overhead.

Middleton's zareba
was our bed last night.
Trenches reinforced by wagons
and meal bags, near the silent battlefield. I woke
to a horrific scream
floating down the river - was told
it must be a cornered rabbit.

***
Poundmaker
We heard the news: the Métis defeated.
The same guns and cannons firing on us
at Cut Knife Hill had routed the men of
Batoche. My men were restless, and game
still scarce when a wagon train
appeared from nowhere. It was clearly
a gift from Creator, the strong-spirited said.

My job as their leader - prevent bloodshed.

I stepped in and guaranteed the 21 men
safety. As our bands went through the food:
I saw one prisoner's knife taken
and gave him my own from my pouch, in lieu
of what he'd lost.

Yes, supplies for our people - but we'd soon
pay the cost.

Aftermath

Wednesday May 13th Marched the remainder of the way to Batoche today to join Middleton's command, arriving early afternoon. Field still bears all the marks of battle with some dead half-breeds and Indians. Middleton's men had been fighting practically night and day four days, and when it was over most of them went to sleep and nothing had been done towards clearing the field or burying the dead, which duty devolved on us in large measure on our arrival. We find that the charge which won the day was made, or rather led by...our two Midland companies already here.

Companies A, B, C, and D:
assigned arbitrarily. Two
stayed behind, two went ahead. Seven
wounded, none left dead.

How narrowly I missed the glory,
and am left with cleanup. Grisly, gory:
bodies left broken on a wintered field
the fallen are the Reaper's yield. We leave
the half-breeds to their land and kin
let the earth they fought for take them back in.
***
Moise Ouellette
Mon pére, Jose, he had 93 years, him.
One of the last to leave the rifle pits:
those government militia, no mercy to un vieil homme.

He is dead, we living have scattered, fled.
So many sparrows from a burning bush. Last night
I run into Riel
il dit que sept familles,
already, they are captured. He and Dumont
escaped the battlefield. "already seven
families taken" this is what he said.
Fear, disbelief. For our children, dread.

We gathered at Lafontaine's; most
grim-faced kitchen party, our best
fiddler dead in the field, memories
of better times were on the floor before us. Silence
hummed in our gun-deafened
ears. As we left I said
"The women will freeze, get them back
to their homes" not yet knowing
all our farms were burnt
to the ground.

This morning I got my 12 gauge
(still a few bullets left, and everyone
hungry.) Looking for a deer I saw instead
Francois Fiddler, red-rivered eyes,
a crow-husky voice - calling
for his scattered family.

Shaken beyond a hunt, I returned
empty-handed
to my own wife. Needing
to know she was still
safe; if families were being lost, seized,
separated
was it not best I turn myself in
as hostage?

She cries for me to flee, my
father-in-law Isidore Dumont
says the same. With less shoulder-shaking
and drier eyes. But we have done this
too many times. Red River, Batoche,
where do we go next?

I'm bone-soul-weary. I want an end.
Isidore's wagon rides me the faster
to Middleton, dozing abed
in his tent.

They ask me to take a letter
to Riel.
I ask to see my father, where he lay
on his back. I do not weep
until I see they've taken
his shoes. His body askew, his spirit asleep.

Now I've laid him to rest.
The dreams of our nation enclosed
in the empty hands folded
in prayer on his breast.

What We Missed

Tuesday, 12th May Started early this morning and after marching to Mackintosh's, a distance of about 20 miles, we bivouacked for the night; and just at dark a scout rode in with news that our men that afternoon had charged Batoche and taken it, scattering the rebs. in all directions. The news was good indeed, but we felt we ought to have been there.

Almost two months
since I left home.
Paperwork botches and
lack of arms, equipment.
Train to Port Hope, then
to Kingston for our first
ragged parade. Snowstorm
in Fort Henry, training indoors:
then railing westward on steel tracks, broken
by marches. I'll never forget
sleeping in three feet of snow
when the tracks ended at Dalton,
or the 23 mile march across the ice
of Lake Superior: seven hours in a blinding
blizzard, over soft snow. Frigid sleigh rides,
moonlight marches in 30 below, the luxury
of a Pullman Sleeper. The hell
of prairie exposure; sleepy
steamer ride north on the river.

All this to guard supplies and hay,
and miss the final battle by half a day.
***
What We Saw
when we came out of the caves
blinded by sun and sudden silence:
our village over-run by soldiers.

Near the rifle pits, Damase Carrier, his leg
at right angle to his body, rope around his neck, still tied
to the tail of a horse grazing on a bush. He'd been dragged
around the field - they thought he was
Riel.

Calixte and Elzear:
Mme. Tourond kneeling
beside their broken bodies. Smoothing
their hair, bending soundless
to the ground.

Our grey-haired Elders who should have died
in their sleep, stretched before us bloodied
on the field.
Michel Trottier and Isidore Boyer.

Jose Vandal - 75 years old - both arms
broken when he came forth from the rifle
pit. His shirt bloomed roses from a bayonet.

One of the soldiers gave a salthard biscuit to my toddler.
One of the soldiers raped my dark-haired doe-eyed daughter.

Those who could
grabbed their children, turned to the banks and fled.
Those of us with nothing left
began to tend the dead.

Marching Orders

(The journal doesn't have entries every day, so I've been splitting this one up.)

Monday 11th May ...and tonight, Captain Bonnycastle in command of our two Companies received orders from the General to move forward at once and join the main body.

Family - I write one last letter
after my gear is packed.

At first light
we march towards the battle
we've listened to
three days, steady.

This is why I came.
I'm more than ready.

***

Shooting Stones and Nails

At Tourond's Coulee, we left
when it seemed time.
Too cold, wet, hungry

Started missing shots,
if bullets ran low: we'd go.
But we are dug in at Batoche

Twice they've tried to circle us around
Our families are nearby, hiding underground.
Now if we run out, we run away.

Riel's
miracle of Batoche:
if we live to see another day.
* * *
A mother
The hungry darkness,
close smell of earth.
Wounded join us: we
rarely use our candles
but for their care.

And the children after three days
all eyes become accustomed:
day and night the same color,
symphony of dirt-muffled guns
their lullaby.

Of the fearsome Gatling Gun,
the victim is but one.
Besides the priest's leg,
Jose's little son.
He was inside the house when it began.

Today Middleton's men
came as far as the cemetary: so close.
Then they turned back. I hope the ghosts
of our small village whispered in their ear.
Gave them more than our dying men and emptying guns to fear.

Second Day

Monday 11th May ....From couriers who pass occasionally we learn that our forces are attacking the rebel position at Batoche, but until now with little success.

I chafe to go to war.
Still at the edge - we've come so far.
Those marches through ice and snow
Sledge rides in 35 below
The soldier who jumped off the train
(50 miles from Matawa - evidently insane)
was the only who fled this fight.
The rest prepared: victory or a burial site.

Waiting, imagining, is the worst.

Few soldiers die unrehearsed.
* * *
In Our Defense
Yesterday we rained bullets on the Northcote.
A diversion, while Ferryman Alex Fisher
and Pascal Montour awaited the signal.

(The army had reinforced the sides of the steamer
with choice articles like Gabriel's pool table.)

We knocked the mast and smokestacks loose
By flexing the Batoche ferry cable.

It drifted away like a wing-shot duck.
That was yesterday's good luck.

We shot at their camp through the night.
Every ten minutes, a warning to sleep light.

Today Middleton shells the town.
Still we are dug in, they gain no ground.

In the riverbanks

For three days we have been able to hear the guns at Batoche, about forty miles below us. The sound seems to follow the river banks. ...Our forces are attacking...at Batoche.

The river carries ghostly
reports from rifles. Nerves
are frayed: ears strain
to see if it draws closer.

At night, we sleep but light.
The shooting thins but
does not cease. Sentries
watch, with no release
in sight.

We are useful as one-winged butterflies.
I doze at night, unloaded gun across my thighs.
***
Dans les grottes

The gunfire is muffled
by the dirt.
We only see the men
when they've been hurt.

Batoche is where we make
our last stand.
Rifle pits, caves and graves:
we're held
by our land.