Part 6

One day a gentleman came and asked me if I wished to leave and go to my friends. I replied that I did. After inquiring if I had the means to carry me to them, and finding I was nearly destitute, he offered to give me a pass. He left, and, shortly after, sent me a pass to Otomy, a distance of fifty miles. But this was of no account, for I wanted a pass to go to Ohio. The next day I took a journey to St. Peter, to see the man who gave me the pass, and try to get one that would carry me farther; but, on arriving there, I found he had returned to St. Paul. I then returned to Mankato, and back to South Bend, to see Judge Flandreau. He could only give me a pass to the State line. He finally gave me a pass to St. Paul, and told me to go to Gen. Pope, who would, if possible, give me a pass to Ohio. I took a letter of introduction to Gen. Pope, and on Monday morning took the stage for Shakopee, thence went by boat to the city of St. Paul. After considerable search and inquiry, I found Gen. Pope’s head-quarters in a very large brick building. Here I was directed up a flight of stairs, into a long hall, where sat a man by the door of one of the rooms. On making known my wants, I was told that I could not see the General, but that if I had any business with him, I could send it in by him. I told him I wished for a pass that would carry me to Ohio, and gave him Judge Flandreau’s letter of introduction to carry in. He was gone but a few moments, when he returned, saying, that Pope could not give me a pass, but would do what he could for me, by way of subscription, and advised me to go to Gov. Ramsey. I turned away in great disappointment, but concluded to try once more, so I went to the Capitol, in search of the Governor. One gentleman, among the crowd who were there, offered me a chair, which I was very glad to accept, for, by this time, I was suffering much from weariness and lameness. I stated that I wished to see the Governor, and learned that I would have to wait about an hour, so I sent Merton back to the boat, to have my baggage put on shore. At last, after long waiting, a man came and told me that I could then have an opportunity to see the Governor. There were a great many others waiting, and I improved the chance at once. On entering the room, Mr. Ramsey spoke very kindly to me, and I seemed to know, by intuition and by the sight of his open countenance, that he would do all in his power to assist me. “What can I do for you, madam?” he asked. I replied that I wished for a pass to leave the State. He then inquired my name, circumstances, and where I was from. So I related something of my story. “Ah!” said he, “are you the mother of the little boy who carried his brother such a great distance?” He became much interested, found out all the circumstances, and had about an hour’s conversation with me. He said that he would give me the pass, which I wanted, and hoped Merton would return in time so that he could see the little hero, that he had read so much about, but that he could spend no more time with me, for there were a number of men wishing to see him upon business. He said that no boats would leave until next morning: then gave a gentleman directions to go with me to a photograph artist, and have pictures taken of myself and children, for he said he wanted them very much. We did as he requested, and sat for three different pictures. The artist made me a present of two dollars and requested me to leave my address, in order that he might afterwards send me one of the pictures, when finished. I received the photograph, in due season. The next morning the same gentleman, whose name I have forgotten, came and paid my hotel bill, attended us on board the steamboat, Northern Belle, paid my fare as far as Winona, and gave me fifteen dollars, saying that Gov. Ramsey thought the money would be better for me than a pass, as I wanted to stop in several places, on my way: having done all he could to assist me, he returned to the Governor. Next morning we landed at Winona; as I was just going to step ashore, the lady passengers gave me some money, for which I stopped to thank them, but there was no time, and I was hurried on shore. Hardly had I left the boat, when a hotel runner took us and our trunk to the Franklin House, where I left my children and started out to see if I could find a team going to St. Charles, hoping to get a ride that far on my way. I was directed to Mr. Bauder’s hotel, where the teamsters from that direction usually staid. I went into the bar-room and made my inquiries of the landlord, who told me that the teams from that way were all gone, but more would arrive, that night. He asked if I lived at St. Charles. I told him I had lived three miles south of that place, but that the autumn before I had moved to Lake Shetak. A gentleman, sitting there, having inquired and found out my name, said that he had been acquainted with my husband, but had heard that the settlers at Lake Shetak were all murdered. I told him some particulars about the massacre, in which he took a deep interest. “Where are you stopping?” asked Mr. Bauder. “At the Franklin House,” I replied. “Well,” said he, “you had better get your children, and come here to put up, and go out on the stage to-morrow.” “But,” said I, “if I go with some teamster, it will cost me less than by stage, and I must economise in every possible way.” “Well,” said the landlord, “you shall come here to stay and welcome; and if the stage agent won’t give you a ticket on the stage, I’ll pay your fare myself.” This was too good an offer to be disregarded, so I returned to the Franklin House, and offered to pay for my ride up from the river. The landlord asked if I was going, and had found a team; “I have found no team,” said I, “but I am going to the Bauder House.” “You had better stay here,” said he, “we are running opposition to Bauder, and will do as well by you as he will.” I then got him to state the lowest terms on which he would keep me, considering my poverty. As a special favor, he agreed to give us one day’s board for a dollar. “Then,” said I, “I think I will go to Mr. Bauder’s, as he will keep us free and pay my stage-fare to St. Charles.” This being a degree of generosity beyond his conception, he charged me a quarter for my ride to his house, and, having paid him, I went to Mr. Bauder’s. In the evening, Mr. Bauder brought me twenty-five cents which he said was sent me by a blacksmith, who also promised that when I came again to Winona he would pay my fare. I do not know the man’s name, but I know he has a kind heart.

Next morning Mr. Bauder handed me a small sum of money which he and others had contributed, and the stage agent gave me a ticket to St. Charles, so I was soon on my way. On the stage was a man named John Stevens, an artist by profession: he had learned of my misfortune, and asked me a great many questions. He had a panorama of the war nearly completed, and offered, if I would stay with him until he had painted some additional scenes of the Indian massacres, to give me the benefit of the first exhibition at Winona. He thought it would pay me well for staying, and said it would be about four weeks before its completion. I concluded to stay until that time, among my old neighbors, who, when I reached my old home, gave me a hearty welcome. While stopping near St. Charles, I was delighted to receive a visit from one of my old neighbors from Lake Shetak: namely, Mrs. Cook, who, I heard, had been taken prisoner by the Indians, and afterwards, released, with a great many other women and children. I was so glad to see her alive once more, that I threw my arms around her, and wept for joy. She related how she had escaped from her captors, and, though rather a long story, it may not be uninteresting here. She was taken, with the rest of the prisoners, to Mr. Ireland’s house, where a great many Indians were encamped for the night. The Indian who claimed her, told her to stay in the “teepe” or the Indians would kill her. They had a great dance that night notwithstanding the storm. Some one of them would jump into the ring, declare that he had that day killed a pale-face, and then proceeded to represent in pantomime the manner in which his victim had died. He would jump as though struck by a bullet, stagger around till he fell, groan a few times, and lie as though he were dead, while the rest joined in a demoniac dance with yells, whoops, and songs, around him. Then another would spring out and boast of his exploits, acting out the sufferings of the victims, and thus they spent the whole night, perfectly intoxicated over their banquet of blood. Their chief had been killed that day, so this night they chose old “Pawn” chief. Next morning they brought Lily Everett into their camp, so chilled and wet that she could hardly speak. Mrs. Cook and Mrs. Duly took compassion on her, wrapped her in a shawl and set her close by the fire. But the savages, not liking to see any one showing mercy or pity to a child, instantly took aim at them, and fired. One ball went through the skirt of Mrs. Duly’s dress, and another pierced the shawl worn by Mrs. Cook, just below her shoulders, cutting a slit through the shawl, about half a yard in length, but, fortunately, neither of them were hurt. The Indians staid at the lake till Friday morning, when they decamped, taking away all the cattle, and several wagons loaded with plunder. They compelled the women to drive the oxen that drew the wagons, and also the loose cattle, which spread out over the prairie in quite a drove. While on their way to the house of Mr. Ireland, Mrs. Cook was leading little Belle Duly, aged five years, when the same old squaw who had murdered my poor Freddy came along, snatched the child away and began to torture her. First she whipped her over the face, with a raw-hide; then took her up by one arm and one leg, and beat the ground with her, till the breath was nearly driven from her body; next, tied her to a bush, stepped back a few paces, and threw knives at her, sometimes hitting her in various parts of the body. In this brutal manner, she caused the poor thing’s death, while the mother was forced to behold the sight. She then told me about a band of Indians who had found my boy, Frank. This was the first I had heard about him, and for a long time I thought, as she did, that he had died at the house where they left him. She was seven weeks with the Indians; the first half of the time she had plenty to eat, but was then sold to an old chap who was very good to her sometimes, and at other times very cruel. One day he announced to her that he was going to another band of Indians, at some distance, and some of the squaws told her, that where they were going, there was hardly anything to eat. Next morning he started off, compelling her to go with him: she made no resistance, but, after going some five miles, she offered to carry his gun for him. He gave it to her, probably thinking her a remarkably good squaw, and she soon, while walking behind him, took off the percussion cap, threw it away, and spit in the tube, to make sure that it would not go off. She then told him she should go no farther. He seized his gun and told her to go on, or he would shoot her, and pointed the muzzle at her breast. She boldly told him to shoot, then, for she was determined to go no further, and bared her breast before the muzzle, as if to receive her death-shot. But he did not do it; he dropped the butt of his musket upon the ground and looked at her in amazement. She was probably the bravest squaw he had ever seen. At last he agreed to go back with her. That night she intended to escape with a squaw, who had married a white man, and was also a prisoner. But their plan was defeated by the sickness of the squaw’s child. The next morning, however, the child was better, and the Indians all went away, save the one who owned Mrs. Cook. This was a splendid opportunity. Mrs. Cook stole away to the river, unperceived; the squaw rode a pony the same way, pretending to be going to water him; but let him go, at the river, and joined Mrs. Cook. They traveled all day, crossing the Minnesota river ten times, in order to hide their trail, if followed. They walked, they thought, about thirty miles, when they came to “Red Iron’s” band of Indians, whom they joined. After being in their possession three days, with a great many other prisoners, they were all surrendered by “Red Iron” to Gen. Sibley.

Mrs. Cook urged me hard to go back to Mankato with her, for they had taken some three hundred and eighty Indians prisoners, and, if I knew any of them, to appear as a witness against them. I told her that she could go on to Rochester, where she was to stop a few days, and I would join her there. I thought it advisable to return and see about the claim which I had put in, like a great many others, claiming to be reimbursed by the Government, for all my property which was taken from me by public enemies. I had made out a list of the items, and employed a lawyer, named Buck, to prosecute my claim, not knowing what he intended to charge. So I concluded to return, and find how the matter stood. On the Saturday after Mrs. Cook left, I went to Rochester, where I staid a week, with a German family named Kolb, and went to see my artist friend, Mr. Stevens. His panorama was not yet completed, and would not be, for three weeks. On my telling him I could not wait that long, he said he would exhibit what he then had of the panorama, for my benefit. Accordingly, he had an exhibition and donated to me the proceeds, twelve dollars, together with some more money which he had collected for me. He was a man of great generosity.

Then I returned to Mankato, and staid at Mr. Thayer’s. Called to see Mr. Everett at the hospital; he was now gaining fast. I met Mr. Tyner, who invited me to his house to dinner, and insisted on my staying there. Next day he sent a man, with a carriage, to take me to see the prisoners. The prison was in the midst, of Gen. Sibley’s camp. We found the prisoners seemingly enjoying life much better than they deserved; some sleeping, some smoking, some eating, and some playing cards. It made my blood boil, to see them so merry, after their hellish deeds. I felt as if I could see them butchered, one and all; and no one, who has suffered what we settlers have, from their ferocity, can entertain any milder feelings toward them. I returned to the house of a friend, named Wilcox, where I staid three days. I called on Mr. Buck, at his office, to ascertain what his charge was to be, for attending to my claim. His reply was, that he should demand twenty-five per cent. I mentioned the subject at the house of Mr. Wilcox, and was told that it was very little trouble to prosecute any of these claims; that the usual charge was ten per cent., and that Mr. Wilcox, who was an attorney, would attend to it for that, or that I might give him what I chose. Next day I again called on Buck, and got back the schedule of my property. He said he was glad I had taken it, for he could hardly afford to collect the claim for twenty-five per cent. as there would have to be an administrator appointed, and the expense would be heavy. I told him if he was satisfied, that I was much more so. I left the list with Mr. Wilcox, in whom I felt I could trust, for he and his lady had proved themselves to be my friends in time of need. Thus far, in prosecuting my claim he has given me good satisfaction. While I had been gone from Mankato, a party of men had been up to Lake Shetak, to bury the dead. They found and brought back my husband’s rifles, one of which was in good condition, and the other much broken to pieces. I went to the person who had them in charge, and claimed them. He delivered them up, as soon as convinced that I knew and owned them. The best one I lent to poor Uncle Tommy, but the broken one I took with me, as a memento of the departed, for it was my husband’s favorite weapon, and he loved it with feelings that every true hunter will appreciate.

I had now arranged my business satisfactorily, and, on Monday, I started once more for my friends, at four o’clock, a. m. At about twenty-four hours from that time, I reached Rochester very much fatigued. I went to the house of Mr. Stevens, as soon as light, intending to proceed to St. Charles that day, but his kind-hearted wife urged me to stay with them and rest myself, till next day. I gladly accepted the invitation. Mr. Stevens told me that if I would leave Merton with him, he would afterwards bring him to me, at my sister’s in Wisconsin. Accordingly, I left him, and, two months afterwards, he brought him to me, in much better condition, having bought and given him a full and very comfortable suit of clothes. Merton had become much attached to his kind benefactor, and, on the day that Mr. Stevens left him, to go farther east, he wept for nearly an hour. Well, I left Rochester, and staid at St. Charles a few days. While here, I met with another of my Lake Shetak neighbors, Mr. Myers. From him I learned the manner in which himself and family had fled the country, which was as follows: After the Indians had gone and left his place unharmed, in consequence of his being a “good man,” and been gone about an hour, he sent his oldest son, ten or eleven years of age, to the house of Mr. Hurd, to get some bread for his sick and helpless wife. But the boy, finding Mr. Vought dead in the yard, the house ravaged, and the family gone, brought home only the story of what he had seen. Myers then, thinking that Vought must have provoked a quarrel with the Indians, went to Mr. Cook’s to tell him what had taken place, but, on finding Cook shot through and lying on the ground, he saw the danger they were in, ran home, and prepared for instant flight. He sent his boy to the inlet after the oxen, and, after a long hunt, they were found, and driven home. He took them over to Hurd’s, yoked them to a wagon, and drove back, hearing the continual yell and the report of guns, that came to him from the lower end of the lake. After putting in the wagon some bedding and provisions, and placing on the bed his poor sick wife and the children, he started, and got away unnoticed by the Indians. But the dreadful news of the morning had thrown his wife into a dangerous fit. After traveling a great distance upon a circuitous route to shun the savages, they reached Mankato, but, on the same night, the poor woman died, leaving five children to mourn her loss.

It was now getting quite late and cold, and winter was fast approaching; I was anxious to be once more upon my way to my friends. On the next Monday I started, bidding good-bye to my kind neighbors. I took the stage about a mile from St. Charles. When we came to the village, the stage agent, whose name, I think, was Hall, demanded my fare to Winona. I told him that a blacksmith at Winona had promised to pay my stage-fare when next I came there, and I wished him to wait till I got there; and, if the blacksmith did not pay it, I would. I knew I had not money sufficient to carry me through, and hoped to economise it so as to have no trouble when I got among total strangers. But it was of no use; I could not go unless I paid in advance, so I gave him the necessary amount.