The Riel Rebellion
When the Metis rebellion broke out in 1885, Ned Farrer, then editor of the Toronto Mail, wired me at Winnipeg, to secure a man to represent his paper at the front. My efforts were unavailing and I dropped into the telegraph office to send him a message to that effect, when who should walk in but Davis, of the Toronto Globe, who told me he was getting a team of horses and a buckboard and the Lord only knows what else, and intended joining the troops at Qu’Appelle. There was nothing private about the conversation, and I wired his programme to Ned. Quickly came back the characteristic reply:
“Go thou and do likewise.”
I went, but before I did I engaged Alex. Berard, a Fort Rouge Metis, whom I knew well, to accompany me. I agreed to give him $300 if he got me into Riel’s camp before the troops at Batoche, and as a pledge of good faith gave his wife $18, on the distinct understanding that if I were killed, I wouldn’t pay the $300 and would get my $18 back. Aleck and I, with a lot of provisions, went out to Qu’Appelle where General Middleton and his forces were preparing for the northern movement. Unfortunately, like the parrot who got its neck twisted, I talked too much and disclosed my plan to a comrade, who told it to some one else and finally it reached the ears of the General, who at once sent Aleck home. Thus what might possibly have been one of the greatest newspaper scoops of the day was frustrated and the ultimate decision arrived at by myself was that whenever a blooming idiot was missing I could assuredly find him by gazing into a mirror.
In no cheerful frame of mind I strolled out along the beautiful valley of the Qu’Apelle, which in English means “Who calls?”—and I heard a voice “Hey there, George” calling me—the sweet dulcet voice of Col. Allan Macdonald, the Indian agent at Qu’Appelle.
“Hop in here, old man, and take a drive,” he said.
So I got into his buckboard and innocently asked where he thought his destination might be.
“Oh, just over to the File Hills,” he said. “There’s a report that Nicol, the farm instructor, and his wife have been killed by the Indians and I’m going out to see.”
We passed an Indian on a load of straw en route, and I never realized till then how much better poor Lo looks on a load of straw than he does on the war path. We reached the Superintendent’s house just before dark to find that the report of his death was a little premature, and also ascertained that the File Hill Indians were not in the most beautiful frame of mind. After supper, beds were made for us on the floor, and the Colonel cautioned me to sleep with one eye open and to have my gun ready, which I did by promptly falling sound asleep.
Next morning a band of the Crees appeared in war paint and well-armed. We had a pow-wow in a little shack about 12 feet square, in which there was a large stone chimney. I’ve been to grand opera and five o’clock teas, but I never spent such a delightfully uncomfortable half hour as I did in the ensuing thirty minutes. There were Rosebud, Sparrow Hawk and Star Blanket, brother-in-law of Frank Hunt, an old friend of mine, who must have been an all nighter, for his full name was “The man who has a Star for a Blanket,” and they were all dressed in their war paint and feathers. Their demands were many and urgent, but the sturdy old colonel never blinked an eye. He gave his opinion of them individually and collectively in the most classic of all classical languages. All the while I was gazing up the chimney, and wondering how far I could climb before something or other might happen to me. But nothing did, for the colonel bravely browbeat them so that they skulked out and “we” had a glorious victory.
I’m not going to tell the story of the uprising—that’s too old a story. But I just want to record another adventure—remember these are personal experiences—of a little unpleasantness. At Clarke’s Crossing the General one evening, when there was a stiff breeze blowing, rode out of camp all alone. I rustled up a horse, and without saddle or bridle followed him. Catching up to him, a few miles from camp he hailed me: “Hello, what are you doing here.” I explained I was hunting Indians. He began to admonish the weather. “This beastly wind, you know—why I came out here for a smoke, and I’ll be hanged if I can light my pipe.” “Is that all, General?” I remarked. “That’s no trouble. Just get a little to leeward.” He drew up beside me, I scratched a match, lighted his pipe unconcernedly and he said: “Well, you westerners are a most remarkable people; you can do anything.” And I thanked Providence he didn’t ask me to light his pipe a second time, for it was a thousand to one shot. But it made me his friend for life—and when he was appointed Constable of the Tower of London, he invited me over to see him. Which was not accepted for fear he might want me to strike another match for him.