Page 1 of The Lady of Red River Valley (Ladies of the Wilderness #2)
Chapter One
S moke rose from the barrel of the rusted cannon as Arran MacLean, deputy governor of Assiniboia, stared in utter disbelief at the burning cabins in Colony Gardens.
The settlers’ homes and property were being destroyed and looted by employees of the North West Company and by members of the Bois-Br?lés , mixed-race men filled with anger and righteous indignation.
The destruction of three years of hard work was being committed right before Arran’s eyes, and there was nothing he could do to stop them.
Sweat dripped from his brow and gunpowder stained his scarred hands.
His muscles were weak with exhaustion and his head pounded from the hours of cannon fire.
After months of fighting, the last of the two hundred colonists were rushing downriver in canoes toward Lake Winnipeg, while Arran and three other employees from the Hudson’s Bay Company defended Fort Douglas from their enemies.
The only weapon they could find was a forgotten cannon, and the only ammunition they had were the bits and pieces of broken chains from the carts left in the smithy.
“Aim the cannon toward the gardens,” Archie Currie yelled out to his comrades manning the weapon.
“No.” Arran’s voice was hoarse as he tore his gaze from the gardens and took several deep breaths, trying to focus his thoughts.
“They’re too far away now. We canna waste our ammunition on our anger.
” There were dozens of men marauding the settlement to the north of Fort Douglas.
When they were done destroying the gristmill and burning all the cabins and barns, they’d turn their sights on the last men standing at the fort.
They would need all the ammunition they could spare.
“We’ll keep it to defend the fort. That’s all we can hope to save now. ”
“How long do you think we can last?” James McIntosh, the chief factor in charge of the Hudson’s Bay Company post at Fort Douglas, breathed heavily.
His brown hair and beard were interwoven with gray strands, and the lines around his eyes gave testament to the hard life he’d lived, but it was the fire in his eyes that showed he was not yet defeated.
“We’ll have to last as long as possible,” Arran said. “It could be weeks before reinforcements arrive.”
After Governor Macdonell had surrendered to the Nor’westers eleven days ago, and been taken away to Montreal for trial, Arran had been put in charge of the colony.
He had sent word to the Hudson’s Bay Company men at Jack River House, some three hundred miles away.
They would send voyageurs to help hold the fort, but it would be a long while before they arrived.
Old John McLeod, the third employee of the Hudson’s Bay Company who had remained behind to defend Fort Douglas, stared toward the river where the colonists had just disappeared.
“Reinforcements willna get to us in time.” His thick Scottish brogue was tight with emotion. “’Tis done. The colony is dead.”
Arran refused to give in to despair. He couldn’t.
He had worked too long and too hard to give up now.
“We’re still here.” He put his hand on Old John’s shoulder and forced the man to look him in the eyes.
“I willna leave this colony of my own free will. I will fight until I dinna have a breath left in my body. As long as one man remains, Assiniboia is still alive. You have my word.”
“And mine,” Archie said from his place near the cannon.
“Aye.” James put his hand on Old John’s other shoulder. “And mine.”
They were only four men against at least fifty others, but they would not let the North West Company win.
Dusk settled over the vast prairie as smoke rose from the burning buildings in Colony Gardens. Shouting could be heard over the roar of the fires and the cries of the animals being chased from barns and corrals. Dogs barked and cows mooed in a haunting lament.
Arran’s stomach turned at the sight before him.
Three years of toil going up in smoke. Since arriving in Assiniboia, the seat of the Red River Colony at the base of Lake Winnipeg, the settlers had faced nothing but hardship.
Thomas Douglas, the 5 th Earl of Selkirk, had first envisioned the colony in the heart of the Northwestern Wilderness as a home for his destitute Scottish kinsmen.
In 1811, he’d managed to purchase almost 120,000 acres from the Hudson’s Bay Company in what was known as Rupert’s Land.
From the start, the North West Company had seen the settlers as a hindrance to their trade and done everything in their power to annihilate the colony.
The first group of one hundred and twenty colonists, led by Arran and a few other seasoned fur traders, had arrived in Assiniboia in 1812.
But hunger, disease, and the North West Company chased the settlers away.
Every year, Selkirk sent more desperate colonists, each hoping to make a fresh start in a new land, but none had lasted.
Arran was the only colonist who had remained steadfast and faithful to Lord Selkirk and his vision.
He’d been promised a thousand acres of land, and a sizeable sum of money, if he could keep the colony alive for five years.
And though he’d told himself it had nothing to do with Eleanor, he wanted to prove to himself that he was worthy of being a gentleman landowner.
No matter what it took, he would not abandon the colony.
He only wished he could have found a way to prevent the others from leaving.
The departure of the colonists felt like a heavy weight upon his shoulders.
His respect and admiration for Lord Selkirk, his vision for Assiniboia, and his desire to be a landowner, drove the passion Arran had for this colony.
He had cast his lot with them and there was no turning back.
“At least Fort Douglas is standing,” Archie said, his bright red hair dulled by the dust and grime of fighting. “For that we can praise God.”
“Aye.” Arran ran his sleeve over his forehead. “And she’ll stay standing. James and I will keep watch in the western tower and you and Old John can watch from the eastern tower. If anyone approaches, we’ll send a volley of warning.”
The fort was large, housing several commodious buildings, but its position on Point Douglas, a high peninsula jutting into the Red River, gave it a perfect view of the surrounding area. It would be impossible to approach the fort without being seen.
Old John, as he’d been called for at least a decade, stood from the log he’d been sitting on, his gaze returning to the river where the colonists had departed.
His worn clothes were stained, and his whiskered face hadn’t been shaved in days, but it was his eyes, which were clouded with regret, that made him appear ancient.
His sweetheart was one of the widows who had been forced to abandon the colony.
He had spoken to Arran about proposing to her weeks ago, but he’d never found the courage. And now, he might never get the chance.
“I curse Governor Macdonell,” Old John said as he spat on the ground. “’Tis all his fault.”
The men inside Fort Douglas didn’t deny the charges, though there was nothing they could do to change the outcome.
Governor Macdonell, seeing the need for food for the colony, had posted an edict the previous year declaring that anyone who dealt in furs could not remove flesh, fish, grain, or vegetables from the district.
For fur traders and mixed-race people who considered themselves above the English law, and made their living by exporting those very things, the proclamation had meant war.
Before, the colony had been a hindrance. After the Pemmican Proclamation, as it had become known, it had turned into a liability. Now, the Nor’westers and Bois-Br?lés were doing everything in their power to remove the settlers and destroy the colony.
As the evening wore on and the sun fell behind the horizon, Arran climbed into the western tower and could do nothing but watch the fires blaze into embers in the settlement.
The Bois-Br?lés had tried to approach the fort one last time, but the cannon had kept them away.
Eventually, they had ridden toward their home in Qu’Appelle, several hundred miles to the west, hollering their victory calls, leaving nothing but destruction in their wake.
The land was quiet now. Even Fort Gibraltar, the North West Company’s fur post positioned upriver at The Forks where the Assiniboine River emptied into the Red, was eerily silent.
But Arran and the others would not sleep tonight. The calm did not mean the battle had ended.
Neither James nor Arran spoke as the stars filled the vast sky, and the sounds of the night danced in the cool air.
Crickets chirped their evening song and wind whispered through the oak, elm, poplar, and maple trees on the riverbank.
Out on the prairie, all was dark and still.
The world went on as if nothing had happened.
But inside the fort, Arran’s heart still pounded from the aftermath of the battle. Anger and frustration burned in his chest and blurred his vision.
His gaze slipped toward the heavens and the questions he’d wrestled with for years began to churn inside his spirit.
He’d been certain he had heard God’s call when he agreed to Lord Selkirk’s invitation to lead the settlers into Assiniboia.
It was a good calling. A noble purpose, with an honorable reward.
They were making a new home for displaced Highlanders still reeling from the effects of the battle at Culloden, and others suffering from the Napoleon Wars.
They were not trying to become rich or famous, but to make a difference while they could, and to give their fellow kinsmen a new start.
With Selkirk’s backing, and Arran’s leadership, they had been sure of success.