During this day, the 23rd August, vague rumours reached us of terrible things to be done by the warlike President.  He would suddenly appear with his guns from the woods? he would blow up the fort when the troops had taken possession—­he would die in the ruins.  These and many other schemes of a similar description were to be enacted by the Dictator in the last extremity of his despair.  I had spent the day in the saddle, scouring the woods on the right bank of the river in advance of the fleet, while on the left shore a company of the 60th, partly mounted, moved on also in advance of the leading boats.  But neither Riel nor his followers appeared to dispute-the upward passage of the flotilla, and the woods through which I rode were silent and deserted.  Early in the morning a horse had been lent to me by an individual rejoicing in the classical name of Tacitus Struthers.  Tacitus had also assisted me to swim the steed across the Red River in order to gain the right shore, and, having done so, took leave of me with oft-repeated injunctions to preserve from harm the horse and his accoutrements, “For,” said Tacitus, “that horse is a racer.”  Well, I suppose it must have been that fact that made the horse race all day through the thickets and oak woods of the right shore, but I rather fancy my spurs had something to say to it too.

When night again fell, the whole force had reached a spot six-miles from the rebel fort, and camp was formed for the last time on the west bank of the river.  And what a night and storm then broke upon the Red River Expedition! till the tents flapped and fell and the drenched soldiers shiv’ered shelterless, waiting for the dawn.  The occupants of tents which stood the pelting of the pitiless storm were no better off than those outside; the surface of the ground became ankle-deep in mud and water, and the men lay in pools during the last hours of the night.  At length a dismal daylight dawned over the dreary scene, and the upward course was resumed.  Still the rain came down in torrents, and, with water above, below, and around, the Expedition neared its destination.  If the steed of Tacitus had had a hard day, the night had been less severe upon him than upon his rider.  I had procured him an excellent stable at the other side of the river, and upon recrossing again in the morning I found him as ready to race as his owner could desire.  Poor beast, he was a most miserable-looking animal, though belying his attenuated appearance by his performance.  The only race which his generally forlorn aspect justified one in believing him capable of running was a race, and a hard one, for existence; but for all that he went well, and Tacitus himself might have envied the classical outline of his Roman nose.