SEVEN OAKS!!

Written By: Roy Pogorzelski

Date: November 29, 2011

Title: Seven Oaks!!

                                                            Cuthbert Grant

This is a short story about the first organized Metis leader Cuthbert Grant, during the days of the fur trade wars.  The Metis predominantely worked for the Northwest Company and competed against the Hudson Bay Company for complete monopoly over the fur trade in Canada.  I have submitted this for a cmpetition with Glimmer Press.  Hoping it does well, your comments and feedback would be much appreciated.  Most of this was worked on at the Emerging Writers Residency at the Banff Centre, and eventually will be turned into a book.  Enjoy!!!

SEVEN OAKS!!

JUNE 19, 1816

Cuthbert Grant gazed sharply across the lush green grove, taking notice of the swaying branches of the Oak trees.  The whirling wind swooshed by his ears, drowning out distractions.  Perched a top his trusted steed, he identified the ant like bodies in the distance, as those of the rival fur trading company.

Engaging his thoughts, he pondered; why would this birdbrain, Semple, decide to block the passage way?  Burning lava was building in the pit of his stomach, melting through his ribs, blazing the lining of his interior. There was a need for the furs to be delivered, later this evening to the fort. 

Wondering how to relieve this awful gut wrenching hatred for Governor Semple, he adjusted his sash, wrapped tightly around his waist, as if loosening it was the answer to counselling out this feeling.  Slightly turning his head, he scoured the faces of his most trusted men.

He fixated his eyes on Joseph Aubichon, a short, stocky, simple, grungy, but strong as a mule trader.  Envisioning Joseph in an exchange with Semple, was like sending whisky to an alcoholic, he would be consumed in a matter of seconds.

Beside Joseph, was Cyprien Morin, a comedian, inherent with the gift of gab, a real ladies man, always the life of the party, but their was one problem; he had an itchy trigger finger, both in actuality and metaphorically.  A simple dumfounded glare, a comment under the breath, this man would spiral into a fit of rage compared to that of Poseidon angrily tossing a ship and eventually swallowing it at sea.

Ahhh, Albert Gernault, an intelligent, well spoken, respected gentleman, who strongly conceived that laughter was the supreme medicine for avoiding expressing other emotions.  One problem, Gernault loathed Governor Semple, being chased, followed, scared by these British fur trading men.  Grant knew, if the opportunity arose, Gernault would grasp at the chance to terminate him.

Grant grew increasingly frustrated as he surveyed his patriots, cupping the bone of his chin, with a thoughtful stroke; he immediately waved off the idea of sending “Big Jean”.  Jean Baptistse Aubichon, brother of Joseph, was an enormous man-beast in stature, resembling a mythical Centaur, with powerful legs, broad shoulders and a silent, yet confrontational demeanour.  When Jean decided it was a whisky night, seats immediately opened up at the local watering hole.

Grant required an individual with a calm disposition, who was able to deliver a peaceful message, without sparking conflict.  Not wanting to damage the furs, lose the furs, or worse, one of his men’s lives. 

AH HUH, directing his attention at the youngest man in their party, Francois Bouvier.  He was an eighteen year old, charismatic, charming, bi-lingual and well groomed.  His calming attitude; quite cultivated, but on rare occasion his immaturity shone through like a sun fighting the clouds to appear noticeable.  Francois prompted memories of Grant as a young man.

Grants throat tightened as a shrill sound quivered his tonsils, as he strained the soreness from his eyes, challenging the wind, “FRANCOIS”.

Francois perked up on his horse, the familiarity of this voice, baffled, curious; he sat their eyeballing Grant like a perplexed child that had just been unwillingly selected by their teacher to answer a question.

Grant, summoned Francois, with a hand gesture to advance closer, so that he did not have to continue to strain his vocal muscles. 

Francois apprehensively approached, wondering why Grant was interested in speaking with him.

“Come here François”, Grant fanned his hand faster, attempting to motivate a quicker pace. 

“Yes, Mister Grant?”, he said inquisitively.

“I need you to negotiate with Governor Semple a safe passage through Seven Oaks” a task, Grant was knocking on wood, would create an opportunity, not a problem.

“What should I say?” eyes wide, eyebrows lifted, sweat starting to bead just under his hairline, startled by this request.

“To report that we have commercial property from the Northwest Company and we need his men to withdraw and allow us to pass peacefully”, Grant emphasizing that peace rather then fight was the objective.

Grant observed Francois closely, assuming he grasped the expectations of this request.  Hoping, wishing, waiting for a response; finally Francois with a hesitant nod of his head, took a relaxing breath and understood the responsibility that had been bestowed upon him. 

Grant still a bit leery gave a short nod. 

Francois’, veins visible, as he gripped the reigns, commanded his horse to turn his head and leaving a cloud of dust, raced off towards Semple.

Semple, slumped atop his horse, distracted by the nervous chit chat of the settlers, “GOVERNOR SEMPLE!!” shook the inside of his right ear drum, his neck crackled as he swung to the direction of the sound. 

“WHAT!” annoyingly, he hollered at the volunteer as his voice sliced through the wind. 

“Sir, there is a rider approaching”, the volunteer swung his arm; pointing in the direction from which Francois was advancing.

He squinted through the wind to see a man on horseback approaching at a quick speed, the shadow moving faster then the actual figure.  The man came to a halt twenty yards from where Semple and his men were positioned.

Semple, straining his eyes, recognized this young man.  He was that young trouble maker that enjoyed his whisky, and in some occasions would harass the Scottish settlers in the area.  Semple snapped the reigns, kicking his horse in the side, sped off to meet face to face with this young delinquent. 

Francois’ chest inflated as he took a deep nervous breath, swallowing the cool air and then re-releasing it to the wind.  Semple, overjoyed that Grant would choose a youngster, who could barely grow facial hair, approached alone with his chest puffed high, his shoulders elevated forward and a very stern and unforgiving authoritative look to his face.

“What is it that you want” quite irritated, while staring Francois in the face.

Francois responded “Mister Grant wants to know, what the purpose of blocking us from our destination is?  We would like to peacefully pass, without any confrontation”.

Semple furrowed his brow in a thought provoking way, as he studied this request from the young man “What is your business, passing the Fort” he inquired.

Francois attempting to hide his nervousness remarked with a building poise, “we have commercial property from the Northwest Company that needs to be delivered to the Northwest trading Fort by tonight”.

Semple laughed so hard, he almost fell off of his horse.  He retorted “over my dead body, I have the right mind to arrest you in front of your half-breed friends”.

Meanwhile, Grant fumbled in his pocket, searched for his eye scope and slowly transferred it to his right eye and with his right hand; he pulled on the scope to define his field of focus.  He observed through his enhanced field of vision, Semple and Francois engaging in discussion. 

The lava in his gut started to boil again, but was mixed with a queasy nervous feeling, anticipating that the stubborn Semple, was not going to make things easy on Francois.  

The bubbling feeling of lava in his stomach was immediately halted when his adrenaline froze the insides of his body and he spotted from the distance, Semple clutch the arm of Francois. 

Grant lowered his scope and sped off, in record breaking time towards the skirmish, his men alarmed, shocked and excited, followed at a quick pace behind their leader.

Francois continued to attempt to wiggle his arm free from the firm grasp of Semple.  The Hudson Bay Company Governor was always willing to exert his self-induced authority on any mixed blood supporters of the French trade.  Detecting the riders approaching, red sashes flapping in the wind, a blue flag accompanying the traders, led by Grant; Semple was interested in taking this opportunity to crush these traders and have them all arrested for trespassing.

Semple without turning his head brought his hand up and with his index finger, moved it in one fluid motion summoning the settlers, volunteers and his traders to approach the inevitable standoff. 

Francois, his face a disappointed red colour, responded with rage and a new found assurance, “with what authority Semple, you are not the rule of this land, this here is God’s land, you are simply a trespasser, besides with an army like that, you’re either a brave man or a very stupid man”.

Semple observed the sudden change of emotion in the young man and realized he had triggered some sort of deep anger, but he also attributed this to the forming semi-circle that accompanied Grant, surrounding Bouvier.

This did not alarm Semple, being Governor of the Red River did not come at an easy price.  He had been face to face with Indians, he had dealt with Half-Breeds for many years and had survived on this land for decades, he new his authority and was not afraid to implement his will, even if it meant endangering the lives of the men that had raced out to form a straight military line behind him.

Semple still having a handful of arm, tugged Francois closer “You are under arrest by the order of the Hudson Bay Company”, he affirmed. 

Bouvier hastily ripped his arm away, almost jerking Semple off his horse.  Guns were cocked, pointing at one another, daring, wondering, who would succumb to the pressure and fire the first shot. 

Grant gawked at Semple, who was cockily smirking at him, daring him to fight.  Just at that moment, a young settler, anxious and nervous, accidentally with a deafening sound fired his weapon.  This created an orchestra of bangs, as shot after shot rang out of their guns, only hesitating a moment to reload. 

Grant’s heart punched, beat and pounded the inside of his chest.  Bang, the kick back of the gun sent a vibrating jolt of electricity through his arms.  Bang, with every shot, a silent calmness resonated, his chest deflated, his heart slowed as if he was envisioning shapes in the clouds.  Feeling sedated, the battle in slow motion, his peripherals distracted by the circus of cluttered bodies surrounding him.  CRACK, his body went limp, as the force of the blow turned his frame, crackling ribs lead into weightlessness, as gravity floated his body in slow motion towards a bed of green.

Face down, groggy; Grant clenched a handful of grass with his right hand.  His eyelids half open, he examined this insignificant piece of grass and acknowledged the land he protected intimately.  Dazed, confused, believing this must be a nightmare.  A large rock pinned his stomach to the ground as he turned his head slightly, blood trickled off his forehead bypassing his eye.  He noticed a shadowy figure standing over him, breathing deeply, in his blackness this man resembled death. 

With one last inch of energy, Grant`s shoulder blade crackled as he turned his head, to catch a glimpse of the man who would forever be known in history books as the `BUTCHER OF GRANT`.  Meeting the old man`s eye, memories of his time in Red River, glimpsed through his mind, flashing scenes from his life.

As Grant had finally succumbed to the fierce blow he had received, a calming darkness resonated through his body, creating lightness in weight, waiting for the last breath to escape his body. 

BANG!!  Grant clenched, holding tighter the grass that provided much needed support.  Continued darkness, no pain vibrated through his body, his own assumptions of the discomfort of death shattered.  Continuing to lay there, the silence of a deafened ear evident, Grant managed to send a message to his brain to open his eyes.

Groggy, light entering his retinas, pain pounded the inside of his forehead like it was being used as a drum in a parade.  With his hands underneath his chest, he lifted with all the strength his biceps could muster.  Feeling a tight grab under both armpits, he was suddenly flung like a stuffed doll to a standing position, but resting his arms around the shoulders of two large burly pillars.

With squinted eyes, still adjusting to the brightness, he saw one of his men; sash in one hand, blue flag rippling in the wind in the other with arms outstretched.  Unsure, of what was happening, Grant slightly turning his head, felt the blood flow increase to his wobbly legs and requested his supports set him on the ground.

Grant scoured the men’s bodies that rested in the deep green grass.  His eyes fixated on the waist of the men, hoping not to see a tightly tied sash associated with death.  Bodies littered the ground, as Grant untied his sash, relieving pressure on his stomach and touched it to the bloody spot of his forehead.  Still searching the men, he noticed the furs were all gathered, what was salvaged and piled together.

The wind whipping his eyes, Grant slowly moved towards the isolated middle ground, where, what would be forever known in the history books as the “Battle of Seven Oaks” began.  Stumbling, he noticed two bodies laying across form one another, both had plummeted off their horses after taking a lead ball.

Shockingly, Grant recognized one of the bodies as Governor Semple’s, curled up, motionless, lifeless, in this moment he was no longer an enemy, but a fallen soldier.  Grant stood over Semple’s body; this tyrant of the Metis, now ancient history, he new that this battle would not go unnoticed.

Turning slowly, with a relieved feeling of a Mother who just realized all her children were safe, captured a disturbing image.  Stumbling, he knelt down beside a limp body, the redness of the sash, loosened off his waist, noticeable.

Grant began furiously shaking the shoulder of the body, hoping, preying to solicit a response.  Nothing, the soul had left this body and ventured to another world.  Reluctant to turn the body, as he swivelled his head to the men starting to gather around him, hoping to catch a glimpse and take attendance of who was still breathing.

Turning his attention back to the body, he slowly turned the shoulder as the body rolled to reveal, what Grant feared, it was the face of Francois Bouvier.  A tear building in the corner of his eye, fell and descended down his cheek at a quickened pace, straight to the jaw, held there for a moment and then continued it’s journey, as it blended in with the sleeve of Grant’s coat.

His brigade of sharp shooting Métis snipers, loyal, obedient, strong, knew they had gained a rather important victory, but this single moment, single battle, single hour, single day, single summer would resonate in Grant’s memory for the rest of his life.