Yet the question of justice, from the position of the conquered, may be still worth considering. One of the half-breeds most zealous to the cause spoke thus in the echoing valley[1] before his priest,—
'Why did I fight, my Father? I, who have the blood of the white men in me. It was for that reason that I fought, and that I killed. The white man came into a country which was not his, which had belonged to others for many hundreds of years, and he saw that the country was good, and full of animals. Also he perceived that the women were beautiful. So he said, I will make this place my home, and call my friends to come here also. These men came, and brought with them guns and fire-water. Then they took the women, first one and then another, and had children by them. So was I born, and I have brothers and sisters of many different mothers. Yet the father was the same. But what could the Indians do against the white man's guns? They said, give us back our wives and our daughters, also our land and our buffalo. But the white man only laughed, and gave them fire-water, which ate away their manhood and their courage. So they said at length, we will rise up and reclaim our own. We have now nothing to lose, for the white man has taken all from us, except life. Let him take that also, or give us back that which makes it happy. That is why I fought, my Father.'
It is a strange fact in modern times, and one so far unrecognised, that the Rebellion should have been crushed by the power of the Roman Catholic Church. Standing merely upon the path of duty, Archbishop Taché, with his band of gallant priests, amongst whom Father Lecompte must stand predominant, succeeded in quenching the flame of human passion entirely by means of that extraordinary devotion entertained by these ignorant children of the Rebellion for their kindly teachers.
Actuated the Archbishop certainly was by a high sense of duty, yet it was also right that he should subsequently look for that reward which the Government had promised, as some slight return for the salvation of a country. It is notorious that such reward was never paid. It is, or should be, universally known that there was but one care which distressed 'the man of the great heart,' as his 'children' affectionately named him, upon the deathbed at peaceful St Boniface,[2] still a care heavy enough to almost break that generous heart The Government had steadily refused to redeem their promise, or to grant to Manitoban Catholics that separate school system which is their right and their due, which above all has been solemnly assured them. Still, it may not yet be too late to perform a tardy justice, which, on the side of the Government, is a duty.
Now the days of the bloody scalping knife have sunk into history. The nondescript individual, who to-day answers to the title of Red Indian, is a very different being from the noble prairie trackers of the olden days, before the introduction of whisky and vice. Up in northern districts, far from the damning pollution of traders and treasure seekers, may still be found at long intervals the haughty heathen warrior with his paint and feathers of liberty. But in all other parts the immorality of the white man has done its work too successfully. Is proof required? Then listen. It may be doubted whether there is at the present time a single full-blooded Indian alive on the Canadian prairies!
Should such types of humanity—Longfellow's 'Hiawatha' accurately depicts them—be utterly extinguished? Look at the Menotah, the Muskwah, of this work. These are true life studies, which may hardly be found to-day, never until civilisation, with all its attending evils, has been left far from sight. Is the taciturn, morose half-breed, heavy in feature, abnormally dull in intellect, an efficient substitute for such? At that particular spot on the Great Saskatchewan where the scene of this narrative is for the most part laid, any at this day might well blush at owning affinity with white men. That once noble race, the origin of which is beyond all conjecture, who possess secrets, powers and occult arts beyond all our discoveries, must be blotted out during the lives of most. Riel made an effort to save it, not an unselfish effort, still he did his best. Where he failed, none may succeed.
But to return to narrative.
One of the two figures on the Red River bank to the north of the fort was Lamont. His companion was a young girl of French extraction, named Marie Larivière. She spoke the English with a pretty accent, and hung to the arm of the handsome young man with clinging tenderness.
The gates of Garry were now thrown open wide. Any might go forth upon the surrounding prairies or enter the young city. All danger of hostility was past, and the land was at peace.
'But talking about being constant,' the girl was saying; 'it is such an easy thing when the one we love is present.'