On his notepad he drew a circle linking all the surface exits from the underground mall. If I can seize the Union Tower, he thought, I can control the intersection and that troublesome car garage easily. Just a few snipers in the high windows of the Bank of Montreal give me the crossfire I need. But the key is the underground – with that in my hands, my people can move rapidly under cover from various parts of the square. I’ll need a few commanders in high buildings to control the action and direct traffic.
But if the police want to fight it out at close quarters underground, so be it. Let’s see who has the stomach for knife fighting in the dark. And anyway, win or lose, it would take hours for them to clear the area, and that would serve my aim just fine. I’m sure I can “hold until relieved,” even in a messy cat-and-mouse fight in the underground mall and in the cellars of the buildings. Especially if I can keep my people off the street and tempt the army and the police into the killing grounds.
Much relieved, Alex set off westwards in the underground passageway along Portage Avenue towards his next major objective, the Hudson’s Bay store at Portage and Memorial Boulevard. Obviously they would need to block the western approach to Lombard Square and the crossing routes north and south from the Bay. But that would be comparatively easy. Block the streets with buses again, and the Bay would provide a ready-made fort – a Hollywood Western cliché, Alex smiled, but this time the Indians would be on the inside. Plus, the Winnipeg Art Gallery across Memorial Boulevard would provide an excellent high shooting post, as would the open balcony of the Canada Centre on the north side of Portage.
It was all falling into place now. Alex spied a bonus feature, and his notebook acquired a new entry: the glassed-in walkways that pass over Portage Avenue at Vaughan Street. They would provide a handy gallery, letting his riflemen control long stretches of both streets and giving them a free run building to building under cover. Once the warriors were in place, the police would have a miserable time gaining control of the area. Trying to manoeuvre around the outside of the occupied buildings and clear them from exposed positions while the native forces moved easily under cover inside would create lots of vacancies for promotion in the city force in a hurry. The classic advantage, Alex noted instinctively, of interior over exterior lines.
As he turned towards the government offices a few blocks down the Memorial Boulevard, he saw in the distance the “Golden Boy” shining in the sunlight atop the big prize, the Legislative Building.
The Legislative Building and its surrounding grounds insulted the native community every day that they remained. It hurt Alex even to look at them. They fouled the traditional grounds where for centuries the people had walked, talked, traded, travelled, and lived. Government House, set off to the side of the Legislative Building, housed the defining human symbol of the people’s defeat, the lieutenant governor, the “white mother” personified. The Legislative Building, constructed of massive Tyndall stones taken from the people’s land, sat on sacred land, and was sited there purposefully to taunt the people and to remind them every day of their defeat. Tourists marvelled at the fossils captured in the stone, symbols of the ancient land. But where were the true symbols of the land, the natives? Nowhere.
The building, designed by a French architect, was a majestic monument to Western mythology and prejudice, and was decorated with the white man’s superstitions, including, as with the Union Tower downtown, scores of weird Masonic symbols.
Even the one nod to the New World was, for natives, filled with bitter irony. Two giant bison guarded the grand inside staircase. Two giant bison, designed by Europeans and built in the United States, emblematic of the mindless greed and destruction Europeans brought to the prairies. Did these treasonous metal beasts now guard the settlers against the ghosts of their kin, slaughtered without reason or mercy? Were they here to guard the whites against the return of the native? Or were they secretly waiting for us to come and right the wrongs done to them as well as us? Alex wondered. And then there were the sphinxes. What were symbols of Egypt’s ancient culture doing here? Were they put there deliberately to offend us?
His eyes drifted upward to the Golden Boy, the crowning insult. Another European disgrace, designed and forged in France, the pride of the local worthies, it depicted an idealized white man who gazed serenely over the grasslands and the meeting place of the peoples, dismissive of their spirits and traditions. Gold, Alex thought. What more telling symbol of white settler values could one imagine? The people had not scraped away the fertile land for shiny metal of no value except that given to it by Western money-lenders and, today, advertising moguls. This statue was the perfect symbol of the three C’s of European conquest – Commerce, Civilization, and Christianity – cast in metal, coated in gold, imported from a bastard foreign culture, raised up high, alone, dominating the skyline. Nothing bragged so loudly of the white settlers’ pride and values. Nothing stood so high out of reach, a striking symbol of the people’s unending defeat everywhere. But we’re coming for you, Golden Boy, warned Alex.
A recce of the legislative grounds would be, Alex suspected, a tricky affair. He was sure he could get away with simply walking the perimeter; a scruffy native wandering along Broadway or the riverside walk wouldn’t be noticed. But touring the interior of the building in these shabby clothes might tempt a guard to let loose the dogs and possibly compromise the entire operation. Unfortunately, time was in command here. Alex needed information and details and he needed them now.
He stopped in a bus shelter to straighten his shirt, comb his thick black hair with his fingers, and tuck in his shirt; he stuck the tractor hat in his pocket. He pondered his map and notebook for a moment, then arranged them into a neat bundle held in scholarly fashion, right hand angled upwards across on his chest. I’m a student, he thought, dressing on a budget but with a perfect right to the legislature, not some shambling, confused street bum. Here his habitual military bearing was a distinct asset. Back straight, eyes forward, he strolled deliberately to the front, north-facing entrance.
On his way in, contemplating Queen Victoria on her throne outside the grand entrance, he automatically recorded the completely open approach to the doorway. Even a light truck could drive directly in from Broadway without reducing speed too much; that would allow it to keep up momentum to get up the grassy embankment and onto the wide staircase. In any case, the short curved driveway presented no obstacle to crashing up the entrance staircase in vehicles. Now, he told himself, let’s test the interior security.
He walked up the staircase, pushed open the tall glass door, and stepped into the deserted foyer. The whole building seemed quiet, nearly empty. A bored custodian glanced up from behind his curved, polished desk. “Is the legislature open for tourists?” asked Alex, wishing he’d thought to bring wide-rimmed glasses. “Actually, I’m a history student, not a tourist, and I’d like to take a look at the architecture and decoration.”
The little grey-haired man behind the desk mechanically thrust a clipboard at Alex. “Sign here. There’s no tours till later, but you can walk about if you want. Just don’t touch anything.”
Alex signed in as “Dagwood Bumstead” and walked through the open door to the base of the main staircase. Maybe I shouldn’t have done that, he thought. No time to get cute. But the custodian returned to the sports page of the Free Press without a further look at the form or the man who’d signed it.
For the next forty minutes, Alex walked freely about the building, covertly measuring key distances by counting footsteps and recording the numbers and their tactical consequences in his little book, periodically adding a sketch of some carving or vista to maintain his cover just in case someone checked. No one did. He walked up the grand staircase past the great bronze bison – a security measure at least as effective as the old man at the desk – and right up to the doors of the legislative chamber, unchallenged. The massive doors were locked now. But someday soon, he mused, one of my people will stride through those doors and take control