The Canadian Highland

Two days later, there were boats and canoes waiting for us by the river. It was another hot day, too hot to be travelling against the current. We were all loaded down with as much as we could lift. Calum was even expected to carry as much as he could without complaint. As we slowly made our way to the boats, Metis horsemen could be seen in the distance, torches held high in the air. No sooner did people leave than their sheds and homes were set on fire. Multiple ribbons of smoke filled the sky, choking the air and making the tears sting all the more as they painfully slid down my cheeks.

  It took some time to load up the boats with the supplies we had. All the women and children among us were crying, while the men held their gazes to the ground, too ashamed to look upon their loved ones. This was an utter defeat, pure and simple.

  When I looked back at our settlement, at the wisps of smoke that cut across a bright blue sky, I am reminded of a story Papa heard from Great Uncle Donnan. There was another group of people, The Acadians, who were forced to leave their homes to start their lives all over again. They had been living for generations on their land, and the British expelled them in order to give their lands to someone else. To make sure no Acadian would come back to reclaim their homes, they were burned to the ground without a trace. Many of them died as they tried, and failed, to make a new life somewhere else. We are not the Acadians. Certainly, our situation is much worse. At least they had the opportunity to live in a home they could call their own. From the crofts in Scotland to the soddies here in the North West, we have never had claim to anything, even when it was promised to us.