I have also written a short story for socials about 'Louis Riel'; a Canadian hero to some, a villian to others. It is the third-person perspective of Thomas Scott, an Orangemen who was eventually executed by Louis Riel. (Canadian history ftl.)
Beginning = Okayish pace, end = faster than fucking Chuck Norris on Crack.
Why? Because the maximium number of paces for this was four pages, and guess what? This was exactly four pages.
A frosty winter breeze swept across his face, sending shivers up his spine as he tightly gripped the reins of his horse, anticipating what was to come. Around him were 40 other Englishmen on horses in a rectangular formation with rifles slung, and ready to slaughter the delinquents that named themselves “The Métis”.
Thomas despised them. After years of the Canadian government graciously allowing the Métis to live, and build their settlements on Canadian soil, they started denying that the government had any rights over the land and their people. They claimed that they desired to govern themselves. Then the Métis leader Riel, oh how he hated that name, forcefully seized Fort Garry, with his army of 400. Fortunately, Thomas and about ten other colonists found an opportune time and escaped Fort Garry when it was under Métis control. Each one of the ten vowed to take revenge on these aggressors.
Escaping to the nearby settlement, they recruited a number of Englishmen with a common hatred for the Métis, arming them with weapons, and using them in formulating a plan to recapture Fort Garry. Fort Garry was just an ordinary Hudson’s Bay Company trading post, positioned on the Assiniboine that harboured anything from Whisky, furs, to munitions. He assumed that the Métis seized the fort for its plentiful stockpile of weapons, supplying them with enough rifles to terrorize the rest of the country. The man shivered, the cold started to get to him.
“Attacking, or are we not?” Thomas inquired impatiently to the fellow next to him.
“Quiet down Mr. Scott, timing is everything.” Boulton retorted with a slight attitude in his response. Normally, Thomas would fight to get the last word, but Boulton was one of the main recruiters, and he knew that without him, an attack such as this would never have a chance at succeeding.
He irritably slouched forward, cursing under his breath at the indecisive man. The night was dead silent except a distinct rhythmic sound thumping in his ear. Down the hillside from where the men were positioned, the rectangular wooden box parameter that was Fort Garry stood, not a shimmer of a human being showing their presence in the fort. It was actually rather peculiar, a fort that the Métis tactically captured, with no one guarding it?
Other than the rustling of conversation through the ranks, another distinct thumping sound was heard - or actually, many thumping sounds. Was his ear playing tricks on him or was it getting… louder?
Thomas turned his shoulders, keeping his hands tightly gripped on the reins as his eyes squinted, and his mouth scowling at the sight. A whole line of Métis on horses were charging directly at them with their rifles aimed, and presumably, loaded. At the same time, other Englishmen had started reaching behind them for their muskets in reaction to the flanking Métis but were cut off by a distinct voice order in the background.
“Put down your weapons, or every one of you will be shot by every one of mine.” A man ordered from the native side. The line of Métis had stopped a dozen yards in front of them and every Métis had their single target in their sights. No man from either side shifted an inch, before a single Métis on horseback stepped out from behind the line; it was Riel. Thomas fumed on the view of the man.
“Well, what is your decision?” Riel questioned with a moderate accent that most Métis had when speaking a language that was not of their native tongue’s.
Boulton seemed to think in silence for a moment of how to handle this situation before letting out a sigh, realizing that anything other than a total surrender would end in a complete loss. “Drop your weapons men, slowly to the ground.” Englishmen reluctantly brought their hands onto their rifles, pulling the sling off before lowering it to the ground cautiously. Thomas hesitated to do so before earning a glare from Boulton that obviously meant: I care not if you die, but I will not allow my men to die from your reckless actions, now, lower your rifle.
Showing no signs of fear nor concern for his own well being, Thomas reached back and pulled the rifle along with the sling off his back and leaned to the side before dropping it to the ground with a clang.
“I hope you’re proud Boulton, because you just allowed the half-breeds to capture the whole party.” Thomas berated.
The Métis herded the attacking party through the gates and into the confines of Fort Garry before leading them in the fort’s prison cells. The prison building was already occupied with many colonists that were most likely troublemakers in the Métis’ eyes. They actually seemed well off, considering that this was indeed, a prison; the prisoners were all reasonably clothed, a man was just lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling with a dazed facial expression, while another was eating a slice of bread, staring at the line of Englishmen that were herded by.
Thomas scowled with hatred as one of the ruffians pulled out his keys and opened the prison cell lock with a ‘click’ once the bolt unlocked. The metal cell door creaked loudly as it was pulled open before Thomas was forcibly shoved in. The native pulled the door shut with a final clang as the gate hit the metal doorway.
“Hey! You can’t keep me in here you mongrel!” Thomas yelled at the native, who just ignored him and went on his usual business to lock the door. “Are you listening, or are you just an imbecile like the rest of them?”
The native glanced up for a moment with a blank expression before turning around and proceeding down the hallway, not giving any personal interest to what the man said.
Thomas averted his attention back to the pitiful excuse of a room; the floor was grimy with uncleanliness and a filthy brown blanket covered a bare wooden bed. Thomas noticed a small wooden bucket lying near the foot of the bed, for the excrements of waste. The whole room reeked, but this little detail didn’t dampen Thomas Scott’s anger, in fact, it amplified it.
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During the early hours of the morning, the Orangeman was abruptly awakened by the creak of a cell door in the act of being opened. He lazily opened his eyes before propping himself up on his elbows to see if the sound was from his own cell. To his realization, the sound didn’t originate from his door, but from someone else’s in the vicinity. Out of curiosity, Thomas swung his legs over to the side of the bed and slowly made his way to the prison door for a glance. He grabbed hold of the metal bars to steady himself while looking around for the source of the racket to give a good yelling at.
The room three cells down and across from him had two Métis brutes in front of it, each holding a musket rifle. A sudden scream of anguish echoed through the hallway as two additional Métis grabbed what seemed to be a person by the arms outside the cell door. The man was pulled onto his feet before roughly pushed around, allowing Thomas to identify him as… Boulton!
“Get your hands off me!” Boulton resisted, but to no prevail. By then, the whole cell block was at a deafening noise level with complaints and vulgarity, no doubt directed towards the Métis.
A familiar figure shone its presence in the cell block, a man no other than Riel. He walked in nonchalantly with almost a smirk on his face as he stopped in front of Boulton. In a boisterous voice, Riel announced, “This man, bearing the name of Charles Boulton, is tried against for rebellion against the provisional government, and will likely be sentenced to-“
“Stop!” A voice boomed from down the hallway. All eyes, including Riel’s and his men were focused on the source of the outburst. The level of volume in the prison immediately jumped from ear-splitting, to what one might experience in a graveyard, just from this one simple interjection.
“Mr. Riel, I assure you that if you spare this man’s life, I will negotiate terms with you, and to the Canadian government about securing your own administration here in Red River.”
“And who might you be?” Riel asked in a sarcastic tone.
“Donald Smith.”
Thomas had heard of this man before, he was a negotiator sent by the Canadian Government to Red River to attempt to quell the rebellions. He had quite a bit of power and influence in Canada, but would he seriously consider giving these mongrels more power…?
“And how did you enter this fort without getting a bullet implemented in your body?”
“I was brought in to one of your officers, who I assumed, recognized immediately who I was.”
Riel stood silently for a second, his eyes sparking with contemplation. He had heard of a Donald Smith arriving at Red River from the government to quell the rebellions. This was unquestionably not an opportunity to pass up. For now, he thought, he shall play by Smith’s rules until he can test to see how much he could draw from this man.
“Release the Englishman.” Riel ordered in English, gesturing to Boulton.
The two natives lessened their grips, allowing Boulton to forcefully tear from their arms.
“Alright Mr. Smith, I have spared Boulton’s life, now, what will you be negotiating with?”
Riel must also be a weak man, for letting such words alter the course of his actions. Thomas thought of this as a potential flaw in the Riel government, his unwillingness to kill just for a little more power. Thomas seethed at the sight of the scene, he’d had enough.
“Hey, Riel you mongrel! How come such simple words swayed your decisions so swiftly?” Thomas yelled across the hall with open contempt in every word. The hallway was slightly audible with scattered conversations throughout the cells.
One of the Métis whispered into Riel’s ear, significantly out of earshot before Riel swiftly walked over to Thomas’ cell, slightly curious to what this belligerent man wanted. Thomas drooped his head down at Riel’s boot for a moment before a drop of spit flew from the Orangeman’s mouth, to the native’s shoe. Thomas glanced up again, now eye to eye with Riel. Riel showed no signs of fear, anger, nor contempt. The native’s voice finally broke the awkward silence, “So this is Thomas Scott. The man, who I’ve been told, that before his daring escape, caused a disturbance nearly everyday, and from the comforts of his cell as well. You know, Mr. Scott- insubordination, and defying the provisional government is in fact, punishable by han-”
“Now wait just a minute Riel! I-”
“Punishable, by Hanging.” Riel firmly announced, cutting off Smith. “I have done three good things since I have commenced; I have spared Boulton's life at your instance, I pardoned Gaddy, and now I shall shoot Scott.”
Thomas scoffed at Riel’s threat. “I would rather die fighting, than fall subordinate under a delinquent such as yourself Mr. Riel.” He had no regrets. And even if he did die by the hand of this native, at least he died fighting and resistant.
