Belle of Batoche (7 page)

Belle was astounded! This wasn't what she had expected! The old woman seemed friendly and the raisin cake she handed Belle smelled delicious.

“I, I need to talk to you about a very important matter,” Belle stammered. She took the cup of steaming tea she was offered. “It concerns the embroidered cloth Sarah Johnson had.”

“Yes, yes, what about it?” the old woman asked, pouring herself a cup.

“I need to know if you helped Sarah embroider that cloth.” Belle waited.

“Me? Help her embroider the cloth?” She shook her head. “No, I didn't help her.”

Belle's spirits sank. Sarah had won fair and square and Belle had been wrong.

“I embroidered the entire thing my-self.”

“What?” Belle sat up straight.

“Yes, I did. Sarah asked me to embroider a birthday present for her aunt who is ailing. I was only too glad to help. I used to love to sew, but now …” She shrugged. “I have no reason. Was there a problem with the piece?”

Belle had no choice but to tell Madame Coteau what Sarah had really done with
the cloth. “Actually, the embroidery was perfect. In fact, it was so perfect that Sarah won a contest with it. A contest where she said she had done the sewing herself.”

A frown creased the old woman's already wrinkled forehead. “Oh dear! That will never do!” She shook her head. “No, that will not do at all! Tell me about this contest.”

“It was a contest to see who would get to be the bell ringer at the church. Two girls wanted the job, so Father Moulin decided to have an altar-cloth embroidery contest with the winner being the new bell ringer. Sarah's cloth was so beautiful and perfect.” Belle looked a little uneasy. “Who would have expected the judges to look at both sides of the cloth. The back was just as beautiful as the front! It was amazing, and …, ” her voice trailed off, “Sarah was chosen.”

A knowing look came into Madame Coteau's sparkling brown eyes. “I'm guessing the other girl in the contest was you.” She glanced at Belle's hands and chuckled.
They were rough and callused and could have easily belonged to a boy. “And I'd say needlework is not your favorite thing to do.”

Belle blushed furiously. “I tried my best. My mother thought I had done a very good job considering I didn't know the difference between a French knot and a satin stitch before this all began.”

“And now?” Madame Coteau refilled Belle's cup.

“And now I know at least a dozen stitches, their names and how to use them properly to make my flowers come to life!” She grinned, realizing as she spoke how much she had enjoyed the project. “I've been thinking of trying my hand at a pillowcase to go with the new quilt my mama is making for my bed.” She heard the enthusiasm in her voice and suddenly felt a little shy.

“And this Sarah? Does she sew?” The gray-haired woman rose and went to the fire, adding another log to the blaze.

“Sarah doesn't believe she should have to do menial tasks like cleaning and sewing. That's what made me suspicious in the first
place. She says she wouldn't be caught dead grubbing around doing domestic chores, then she hands in a cloth so perfect that the angels could find no mistakes.”

“Thank you for the compliment, my child. I think what Sarah did was unfair. I will write you a note to take to Father Moulin explaining everything.” She went to an old wooden table and took out a pen and ink. In an elegant hand, she wrote a letter explaining what had happened.

“Congratulations!” she said, handing Belle the folded note. “I believe you are now the winner of the contest. One day, I hope to come back and perhaps see your work on display at the church.”

“Come back?” It was then that Belle noticed the trunks and bags piled around the room. “Are you leaving Batoche?” she asked.

“Yes. I'm afraid with all the troubles, my family has decided it is too dangerous for me to live out here alone. My son is coming this morning and I will go to live with him in Regina.” She shuffled over to a well-worn trunk and opened the lid.

Reaching inside she removed the most beautiful thing Belle had ever seen. It was a fabulously embroidered red silk bag. She held it out to Belle.

“Take it, child! I want you to have it.” The old lady chuckled. “A parting gift from the witch who lives in the haunted house.”

Belle reached for the braided cord from which the extraordinary bag was suspended. The scenes looked like pictures Belle had seen once in a book from China. Clouds swirled around the peaks of lofty mountains and strange looking houses with curved roofs nestled in valleys. Delicate ladies wore long dresses with wide sleeves. The details were so exact that Belle could see the exotic tilt of the ladies' eyes as they hid their faces behind decorative fans.

“Did you make this?” she asked in a whisper.

“Yes, a long time ago. I think someone who is just learning to sew should understand that embroidery is not just a chore, but an art. If you look inside, there is a set of tools to help you.” Madame Coteau nodded for Belle to look.

Belle reached into the silken bag and withdrew a small pair of scissors shaped like a tall bird, a magnifying glass set in silver and an ornate silver needle case with five golden needles. She drew in her breath. “Oh, Madame! I couldn't!” Belle protested.

“Nonsense, child! Now run along. I must finish my packing.” Madame Coteau escorted Belle to the door.

“Merci beaucoup, thank you, Madame, and bonne chance, good luck!” Belle tucked the note she'd been given into the beautiful bag, slung the strap over her shoulder and waved good-bye to the fragile old woman framed in the doorway.

Belle had nearly reached the canoe when she thought of how surprised her mother would be when she saw the beautiful bag!

Her mother! Belle looked up at the sun, now well above the horizon. It was late! She hadn't meant to stay so long. It must be after eight o'clock, way past breakfast, and her mother must know by now that she had slipped out. How was she going to explain?

Belle stopped, listening intently as an unfamiliar sound drifted to her on the early morning breeze.

Gunfire!

Batoche was under attack!

11
Attack on Batoche!

Belle's breath caught in her chest. She looked across the river to the south. There, far in the distance, columns of mounted men and foot soldiers moved toward Batoche. It was happening, just as everyone had feared. Batoche was under attack!

But those soldiers were still far away and the gunfire she'd heard was close by. Where was it coming from? As she broke through the willows at the river's edge, she saw it.

A massive steamboat with
Northcote
painted on its prow was heading toward Batoche. The large boat's two decks were fortified to protect the soldiers who were firing at the Metis on the riverbank. Black
clouds billowed from its twin smokestacks as it churned up the river.

The Metis fired at the floating fortress. Puffs of smoke rose from the bushes along the shoreline where the defenders were hidden.

Ducking back into the willows, Belle waited until the boat passed, then with shaking hands she pushed her canoe into the water. She must get across the river before the soldiers on the boat spotted her.

The sound of gunfire from the big boat was louder as it came to her over the water. Her mother would be frantic with worry!

The shortest distance was to paddle straight across the river, but when she pointed her canoe at the opposite shore, the current's pull grew much stronger. She focused on paddling, fighting the current with every stroke. She felt rather than saw the canoe tipping. Water splashed over the edge and soaked her dress and the beautiful embroidered bag.

Belle tried to steady her craft. If it were swamped now, she would be an easy target as she struggled to get to shore. She angled
the bow slightly, which would take her dangerously close to the stern of the steamboat, but made it easier to control the canoe.

A sudden shriek of tearing metal and yelling from the big boat made her look up. She couldn't believe her eyes.

As the
Northcote
moved upstream, the Metis had lowered the cable that pulled the ferry across the river. The cable had sheared off the twin smokestacks, which had fallen to the deck below. Smoke billowed out of the stricken boat as men ran here and there.

Without the smokestacks, the engines had no power, and the big boat listed and turned out of control as the current tore at the hull, pushing it back downstream.

Belle gasped. The huge boat was heading straight for her!

She paddled frantically as the
Northcote
loomed over her. Pointing the canoe directly across the path of the steamboat, Belle pulled on the paddle with all her might.

Her back ached with the strain. The disabled steamboat drew closer and closer, pushed by the force of the river on its broad
hull. With less than a paddle's length separating them, Belle propelled the canoe forward and out of the path of the lumbering giant.

A stray bullet whizzed past her as she reached the shore. She leapt out of the canoe and ran for the cover of the bushes. The shooting was fierce. She had to work her way down the riverbank away from the fighting.

Taking care to keep under the cover of the dense willows, Belle scrambled through the brush, branches tearing at her face and hair. Fear drove her on. Her friends and family were back there fighting, or hurt, or worse.

Belle forced her mind to go blank.

She worked her way south along the river- bank and started to make a wide circle back to Batoche. The column of soldiers was much closer now, and Belle decided to let them pass by before she made her break.

She was astonished at how many men there were. Hundreds and hundreds of soldiers were coming to fight the Metis.
Through the dust rising from their horses, she glimpsed a strange looking weapon that was so large it was mounted on two wheels. The barrel wasn't a single metal tube, but many all joined together in a group and it had a tall rod sticking out of the top filled with bullets. On the side was a crank, which Belle realized would be used to fire the deadly bullets. This was the terrible Gatling gun she had heard about. It could shoot many rounds per minute, and there was no defense against it.

As she made her way to the top of a sharp rise, Belle was surprised to hear voices coming from the other side. Dropping to her knees, she crawled to the edge and peered over.

Below her, three soldiers stood with their horses. One was tightening the cinch on the saddle as his mount skittered nervously. They were all smoking cigars. The smell made Belle think of burning manure.

“McCorry, hurry up! We're falling behind!” growled a tall soldier with a drooping moustache.

“Don't worry, Nattras. When they start firing that nine-pound cannon, there'll be so much confusion, we'll have no trouble taking the bell.” He kneed his horse in the belly to get the big mare to blow out her breath, then pulled the cinch tight.

The third man remounted his tall black horse. “Quit jawin' and mount up! We might not be the only ones who know about the silver waiting in that bell tower.”

“Who made you boss, Stainthorp?” The one called McCorry laughed, climbing back on his horse. “When we melt that bell down, even split three ways, we'll have more money than we could make in a year in this stinking army.”

The three men moved off at a canter as Belle watched, wide-eyed. They could only have been talking about one thing: Marie-Antoinette!

They were going to steal the bell from the church!

12
Hide Out!

Belle looked back toward the river. She could still hear the gunfire, but she had no choice. She would have to go into the heart of the fighting to warn Father Moulin what was going to happen.

Belle scrambled to her feet and ran as fast as she could for Batoche!

Her breath came in ragged gasps as she topped the last hill on the outskirts of the town. She stared in disbelief at the scene below.

Women and children were running everywhere, fleeing the echoing gunfire. The cannon boomed. Where the shells struck, houses exploded as though they were made of matchsticks.