The next day, orders were to start the steamer at 8 o’clock sharp and steam down the river. I was on the upper deck, indulging in a fragrant five cent cigar when I read a funny paragraph in a newspaper I had brought along. I went down to the barricaded lower deck to show it to Major Bedson, when the rebels opened fire upon us. That part of the _Northcote_ was barricaded with bags of flour so arranged as to make port holes. My old friend, Hugh John Macdonald, was seriously ill, and I grabbed his gun and shoving it through the porthole, banged away, only to set fire to the bags. Quickly extinguishing the burning bags, I hastened to another porthole in the bow of the boat, not barricaded, and fired away, until a lot of splinters struck me in the face—the splinters being the outcome of a fairly well directed rebel shot. Discretion being the better part of valor, just then, I moved to another porthole, and a soldier came up and with his fingers easily picked a bullet from the tendrils of the wood, and quietly remarked, “Pretty close shave.” It was pointing straight for my heart. Then we struck the ferry cable which had been lowered for our especial benefit, and to avoid a rock, Capt. Jim Sheets, an experienced old Missouri steamboat man, in command of the _Northcote_, let the craft swing around, and we went down stream, stern foremost, with the current. In the meantime the Canadian forces engaged the enemy, an hour late according to schedule. The _Northcote_ stopped a few miles below Batoche, where, ensconced behind a pile of mail-bags which made a splendid barricade, I kept up a steady fire at something unknown. I don’t know whether I hit any clouds or not, but I am assured of one thing: if any lead mines are ever discovered on the banks of the Saskatchewan, I should have a prior claim over anybody in their ownership. This was the first naval battle in the Canadian Northwest, and I imagine it will be the last. At any rate, it will be as far as yours truly is concerned. Rescuing the Maclean Family When I was a kid, the favorite literature amongst the youngsters was Beadle’s Dime Novels—long ago discontinued and almost forgotten. There was a remarkable similarity in the different books issued. The same old story was of a lovely heroine who was captured by the wild Indians and rescued by a gallant, brave and loving hero, after no end of miraculous escapes, in which he did many unheard-of feats. I never thought then that I would ever be chasing Indians or be chased by them. The romantic days of fiction had passed. But one fine June morning at Fort Pitt, I found they hadn’t. While I was strolling along the river bank, trying my best to smoke a real bang-up ten-center, Major Bedson, master of transportation of General Middleton’s column, drove up in a carriage and yelled at me: “Get in, old man.”