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Charlotte Ouisconsin Van Cleve
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Title: 'Three Score Years and Ten'
Life-Long Memories of Fort Snelling, Minnesota, and Other
Parts of the West
Author: Charlotte Ouisconsin Van Cleve
Release Date: December 30, 2006 [EBook #20232]
Language: English
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Three Score Years
and Ten.
[Illustration]
"THREE SCORE YEARS AND TEN,"
LIFE-LONG MEMORIES
OF
_FORT SNELLING, MINNESOTA_,
AND
OTHER PARTS OF THE WEST,
BY
CHARLOTTE OUISCONSIN VAN CLEVE.
1888.
COPYRIGHTED 1888.
PRINTING HOUSE
HARRISON & SMITH,
257 AND 259 FIRST AVENUE SOUTH,
MINNEAPOLIS, MINN.
_DEDICATION._
"_To the husband of my youth, by whose side I have journeyed more than
half a century, and whose tender love has brightened my whole life,
this book is dedicated._"
ST. PAUL, MINNESOTA,
_515 Portland Avenue_.
March 14, 1888.
MY DEAR MRS. VAN CLEVE:
_Whenever there is growth in any community the desire arises to know
something of what was in the beginning. It was with no weariness I
read in manuscript the "Reminiscences" from your pen. Each chapter
contains something in connection with the dawn of civilization in the
west, which is worthy of being preserved. The incidents related are
stirring, and the style is graphic. When I finished the perusal I felt
the force of the adage, that "Truth is Stranger than Fiction." As the
diary of John Evelyn, throwing light upon the days of Charles the
Second, is still read, so I think, if printed, your unaffected
narrative will always find a place in the private and public libraries
of Minnesota and the Western States._
_Believe me_,
_Sincerely_,
EDWARD D. NEILL.
* * * * *
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. 7
II. 16
III. 24
IV. 32
V. 38
VI. A COINCIDENCE. 45
VII. ANDREW TULLY. 49
VIII. A WOLF STORY. 62
IX. RED RIVER OR SELKIRK SETTLEMENT. 68
X. RUNNING THE GAUNTLET. 74
XI. 80
XII. CINCINNATI. 91
XIII. NEW HOME--SCHOOL DAYS. 99
XIV. FATHER'S DEATH, ETC. 105
XV. 110
XVI. 125
XVII. 131
XVIII. MALCOLM CLARK. 148
XIX. 157
XX. 161
XXI. 167
XXII. THE GOLDEN WEDDING. 173
* * * * *
"Three Score Years and Ten."
_CHAPTER I._
One evening long ago, when this wonderful century, now in a vigorous
old age, had just passed its nineteenth birthday, in a bright,
cheerful sitting-room in the good old city of Hartford, Conn., sat a
fair young matron beside a cradle in which lay sleeping a beautiful
boy a year and a half old. The gentle motion of her little slippered
foot on the rocker, keeping time with the soft humming of a cradle
hymn; the work-basket near by; and the dainty needle work in her hand;
the table tastefully spread for two, and the clear wood fire in the
old-fashioned fireplace, formed as restful a picture of domestic peace
and content as one could wish to see.
But the expectant look in the bright blue eyes, uplifted at each
sound, clearly indicated that some one was coming who should round out
this little circle and make it complete.
And now the familiar footstep draws near and the husband and father
enters; she rises joyfully to meet him, but seeing in his face a look
of grief or pain, exclaims, "What is it, dear husband?" He holds her
very close, but cannot find words to tell her that which will cross
all their cherished plans of a year's quiet resting in her native
city; and handing her an official document, with its ominous red seal
newly broken, he watches her anxiously as she reads:
_Lieutenant Nathan Clark, U. S. Fifth Infantry_: You are
hereby appointed Assistant Commissary of Subsistence, and
will forthwith join your regiment at Detroit, which is under
orders to move to the Mississippi river and establish a
military post at the mouth of the St. Peters river.
With respect and esteem,
GEORGE GIBSON,
Com. Gen. of Subsistence.
Twice she reads this order, and then, looking up with a smile, says,
with a slight tremor in her voice: "Is this all, beloved? Why should
it so distress you? You surely do not flinch from duty?" With a
perceptible start at such a suggestion, the gallant young soldier
replies: "No, no, my precious wife; but this means separation from you
and our boy, for you cannot venture on so long and perilous a journey
as that, and our separation is not for days and months, it may be for
years; how can I endure it? And we were so happy here in our snug
little cottage--you in the midst of early friends and beloved
relatives, your childhood companions and associations all about you;
and I with my duties as recruiting officer. We had reason to hope and
expect at least a year longer of this life, and this sudden blasting
of our hopes seems cruel. Oh, Charlotte! how can you bear the
thought?" As he thus poured out his heart, her eyes regarded him with
wonder, and when he ceased she drew him to his favorite chair, and,
seating herself on a low stool beside him, took his hand in hers, and,
looking up at him through her tears, said with ineffable tenderness:
"My own dear husband; how could you for a moment imagine that this
order means separation? Could you believe that I would remain here in
comfort, and suffer you to go alone to that far-off region where, if
ever, you will need me to cheer and aid you? If my marriage vows mean
anything, they mean that I am not to forsake you at such a time as
this. What would the comforts of this dear home, what the society of
relatives and friends be to me, with you in a wild country, in the
midst of a savage people, deprived of almost everything that makes
life dear? No, no, my beloved; where thou goest I will go; thy people
shall be my people; entreat me not to leave thee, or to refrain from
following after thee, for naught but death shall part thee and me."
The young soldier took his true, brave wife to his heart, and, holding
her close, exclaimed: "How deep and sacred is the love of woman! who
can comprehend its entire unselfishness?" and both found relief in
blessed tears of love and thankfulness which cleared away all doubts
and anxieties and filled them with hope and happiness. Over the
evening meal future plans were cheerfully discussed, dangers and
difficulties were looked bravely in the face, and feeling that, with
undying love for each other and entire trust in God, they could meet
and conquer whatever lay in their way, these young people rested
peacefully during that night, which had shown them how firm was the
bond which held them to each other, and were strengthened to meet the
storm of opposition that broke upon them in the morning from the
relatives and friends of the young wife and mother.
Preparations were rapidly made; household goods disposed of; all
things necessary for a long, toilsome journey packed; heart-breaking
"good-byes" were spoken, and the faces of the travelers were turned
westward.
A wearisome stage journey of many days brought them to Buffalo, where,
after resting a short time, they embarked in schooners for Detroit on
the 1st of May, which city they reached in time to move forward with
the regiment by water to Green Bay; thence in batteaux they ascended
the Fox river to Lake Winnebago. Col. Leavenworth, then in command of
the regiment, having received instructions to conciliate the Indians,
and avoid everything which might arouse the opposition of these owners
of the soil, determined to stop at this point to hold a council with
them, and crave permission to proceed on their journey. This being
announced to the chiefs of the tribe, they assembled to hear what the
"white brother" had to say. The day was beautiful; the troops, all in
full uniform, "with bayonets glancing in the sun," made an imposing
display, and everything was done to render it a memorable and
impressive occasion. The ladies of the party--Mrs. Leavenworth, Mrs.
Gooding, with their young daughters, and Mrs. Clark, with her baby boy
were seated on the turf enjoying the novelty and beauty of the scene,
when some Indian women, attracted by the unusual sight, drew timidly
near and gazed in wonder at what they saw. One of the officers, Major
Marston, the wag of the party, learning that one of them was the head
chief's wife, desired to show her some distinguishing mark of respect,
and, leading her into the group of ladies, said, with due ceremony,
"This is the Queen, ladies; make room for the Queen;" but as this
specimen of royalty was almost too highly perfumed with a mingled odor
of fish and musk-rat to suit the cultivated taste of her entertainers,
they did not hail her advent with any marked enthusiasm.
When all was in order, Colonel Leavenworth stepped forth, and, through
an interpreter, formally requested of the Chief permission to pass
peaceably through their country. The Chief, a very handsome young
brave, advanced, and, with his right arm uncovered, said, with most
expressive gestures: "My brother, do you see the calm, blue sky above
us? Do you see the lake that lies so peacefully at our feet? So calm,
so peaceful are our hearts towards you. Pass on!" With this full
permission so gracefully bestowed, after resting and refreshing
themselves among their newly-made friends, the troops left among them
a liberal supply of beads and trinkets and passed on to that point on
the river, least distant from the Ouisconsin, where they made a
portage, transporting their boats and supplies, by the aid of Indians
hired for the purpose, a distance of a mile and a half. This was a
tedious process, but was at last successfully accomplished, and the
boats were again afloat on the stream, called by the Indians the
"Nee-na-hoo-na-nink-a," (beautiful little river), and by the whites
"Ouisconsin," the French orthography for what we now write
"Wisconsin." The place of transit from one river to the other was
known for years as the Portage. At the point where the troops made
preparations for crossing it was afterwards built Fort Winnebago, and
directly opposite the fort, on a pretty knoll, stood for many years
the Indian agency occupied for a long time by John Kinzie, agent,
afterwards better known as one of the first owners of Chicago, and
Mrs. Kinzie's "Waubun," or early day, gives a very pleasant and
reliable account of that locality and the surrounding country. The
point on the Wisconsin where the re-embarkation of the troops took
place has grown into Portage City.
In spite of heavy rains and other discouraging circumstances, the
tedious descent of the Ouisconsin was at length successfully
accomplished, and at its mouth stood old Fort Crawford and a
settlement of French and half-breeds called "Prairie du Chien." This
fort was simply a rude barracks, and far from comfortable. The two
months' journey from Buffalo had been very trying, serious obstacles
and hindrances had been encountered and barely overcome, but instead
of reaching their final destination in June, as they confidently
expected to do, the troops arrived at Fort Crawford on the morning of
the first day of July, worn out and exhausted. It was therefore
determined to remain at this point some weeks for rest and renewal of
strength, before making the final plunge into the unknown wilderness,
into the very midst of savages, who might resist their progress and
cause them much trouble.
The transportation of their supplies had been attended with so much
difficulty that, notwithstanding all possible care, the pork barrels
leaked badly and the contents were rusty; the flour had been so
exposed to dampness that for the depth of three inches or more it was
solid blue mould, and there was no choice between this wretched fare
and starvation, for the miserable country about the fort afforded no
supplies.
Just at this juncture, scarcely an hour after her arrival, Mrs.
Clark's second child was born, and named Charlotte, for her mother, to
which was added by the officers "Ouisconsin." When one calls to mind
all the care and comforts and luxuries demanded at the present time on
such occasions, it is difficult to realize how my mother endured her
hardships, and when I add that almost immediately both she and my
brother were seized with fever and ague, which soon exhausted their
strength and made them very helpless, it would seem almost beyond
belief that she should survive.
The new-born infant was entirely deprived of the nourishment nature
kindly provides for incipient humanity, thus complicating to a great
degree the trials of that dreadful time. My dear father could never
speak of that experience without a shudder, and has told me, with much
emotion, how he scoured the whole country to find suitable nourishment
for mother and children, with wretched success; adding that, but for
the dear mother's unfailing courage, her wonderfully hopeful
disposition and her firm trust in God, he could hardly have endured
these heavy trials. The surgeon of the regiment at that time (I think
his name was Burns) was a man of science and great skill in his
profession, but an inveterate drunkard, and it was no uncommon
occurrence, when his services were needed, to find him so stupefied
with liquor that nothing but a liberal sousing in cold water would fit
him for duty, and I imagine that "_soaking the doctor_" became a
source of merriment which may have diverted their minds from heavier
trials.
So long a time must have elapsed before the provisions could have been
officially condemned and fresh supplies sent from St. Louis, the
nearest base of supplies, for red tape was more perplexing and
entangling then than now, when it is sent back and forth by lightning,
that it was concluded to continue the journey with what they had, and
so the troops moved on, and the feeble mother, the sick child and the
little "Daughter of the Regiment" went with them.
By reference to "Neill's History of Minnesota," I see mention made
there of the arrival of ordnance, provisions and recruits from St.
Louis before the departure from Prairie du Chien, but am inclined to
believe that the additions to the commissariat could not have been
adequate to the needs, as there was much suffering for want of proper
supplies.
When all was in readiness the expedition finally began the ascent of
the Mississippi. The flotilla was made up of batteaux and keel-boats,
the latter having been fitted up as comfortably as possible for the
women and children, and my father has told me that, notwithstanding
the inconveniences and annoyances of such a mode of traveling, the
hope that the change might benefit all, and the fact that they were
making the last stage of a very wearisome journey, inspired them with
fresh courage, and a general cheerfulness prevailed throughout the
command.
_CHAPTER II._
Of the difficulties and delays of that eventful journey up the
Mississippi, few at the present day can form a clear conception. The
keel-boats, similar in construction to a canal-boat, were propelled by
poles all that three hundred miles, in the following manner: Several
men stood on each side of the boat on what was called a running-board,
with their faces to the stern, and, placing their long poles on the
river bottom, braced them against their shoulders and pushed hard,
walking towards the stern. Then, detaching the poles, they walked back
to the bow, and repeated this operation hour after hour, being
relieved at intervals for rest.
The perfect safety of this mode of travel commends itself to those who
are in no hurry, and desire to learn all about the windings of the
river and the geological and floral attractions along its banks.
At night the boats were tied up, camp-fires were lighted, tents
pitched, sentinels posted and everything made ready, in case of an
irruption of Indians.
Arriving at Lake Pepin, a few days were spent on its beautiful shores,
resting, during which time the stores were overhauled and rearranged
and the boats regulated and put in perfect order. The sick were
growing stronger, and the little baby who was living on pap made of
musty flour and sweetened water, tied up in a rag, which did duty for
a patent nursing bottle, grew wonderfully, and bade fair to be a
marvel of size and strength.
Sometime in September the pioneer regiment arrived in pretty good
condition at--where? No fort, no settlement, no regular landing even;
simply at the mouth of the St. Peters river, where we had been ordered
to halt, and our long march was ended.
For many weeks the boats were our only shelter, and the sense of
entire isolation, the thought that the nearest white neighbors were
three hundred miles away, and that months must elapse before they
could hope to hear a syllable from _home_, proved, at times,
exceedingly depressing to these first settlers in Minnesota. I record,
with pleasure, what has been often told me, that in that trying time
the courage of the ladies of the party did not fail them, and that
their cheerful way of taking things as they came and making the best
of them, was a constant blessing and source of strength to that little
community.
Without loss of time a space was cleared very near the site of
Mendota, trees were cut down, a stockade built enclosing log houses
erected for the accommodation of the garrison; everything being made
as comfortable and secure as the facilities permitted. The Indians
proved friendly and peaceable, and the command entered upon their
life at "St. Peters," as it was first called, cheerfully and
hopefully. A few days after their arrival Colonel Leavenworth, Major
Vose, Surgeon Purcell, Mrs. Captain Gooding and my father made a
keel-boat trip to the "Falls of St. Anthony," and were amazed at the
beauty and grandeur of the scene.
A prediction at that time that some then living would see these mighty
falls turn the machinery of the greatest mills in the world, and a
great and beautiful city arise on the adjacent shores, would have been
called a visionary and impossible dream by those early visitors who
saw this amazing water power in its primeval glory.
That first winter of '19 and '20, like all winters in this latitude,
was very cold, with heavy snows and fierce winds, but there were many
sunshiny days, and there was little or no complaining.
The quarters, having been put up hastily, were not calculated to
resist the severe storms which at times raged with great violence.
Once during that memorable six months the roof of our cabin blew off,
and the walls seemed about to fall in. My father, sending my mother
and brother to a place of safety, held up the chimney to prevent a
total downfall; while the baby, who had been pushed under the bed in
her cradle, lay there, as "Sairey Gamp" would express it, "smiling
unbeknowns," until the wind subsided, when, upon being drawn out from
her hiding-place, she evinced great pleasure at the commotion, and
seemed to take it all as something designed especially for her
amusement.
By the prompt aid of a large number of soldiers the necessary repairs
were rapidly made, and soon all was comfortable as before. But late in
the winter, owing to the lack of proper food, scurvy broke out among
the soldiers, and forty of them died of this dreadful disease. Many
more were affected with it, and far removed as we were from all relief
in the way of change of diet or suitable remedies, it was a matter of
great uneasiness and alarm, as in the absence of necessary preventives
or restoratives medical skill availed nothing.
However, as soon as the frost was sufficiently out of the ground to
enable them to dig it, the Indians brought in quantities of the
spignot root, assuring the surgeon that would cure the sick. This
proved entirely efficacious. The scourge was removed, and after that
trial passed away the command was peculiarly exempt from sickness of
any kind.
As soon as possible gardens were made. Everything grew rapidly, and a
sufficient supply of vegetables was secured to prevent any recurrence
of the evil.
More permanent and comfortable quarters were built during the spring
at the beautiful spring on the fort side of the river, and named by
the officers "Camp Coldwater;" but before moving into the new camp
Colonel Leavenworth was relieved from the command by Colonel Josiah
Snelling, who, with his well-known energy and promptitude, immediately
began preparations for building the fort, the site of which had been
selected by Colonel Leavenworth. The saw-mill at "St. Anthony's
Falls," so long known and remembered as the "Old Government Mill," was
started as soon as practicable. Quarries were opened, and everything
was done to facilitate the work, Colonel Snelling proving himself well
fitted for the duty assigned him, and the spring of 1820 was a very
busy one for the old Fifth Regiment.
MRS. SNELLING'S LIFE.
Mrs. Abigal Hunt Snelling was born at Watertown, Mass., January 23d,
1797. Her father's name was Thomas Hunt, Colonel of the First Regiment
of Infantry, U. S. A., stationed then at Fort Wayne, Indiana, to which
place his little daughter was taken when only six weeks old. The
journey was performed on horseback, and the little baby was carried on
a pillow, a long, rough trip for so young a traveler, and clearly
indicative of her subsequent experience. She tells in her old age of a
coincidence in her life which impressed her forcibly. Her father died
and was buried at Bellefontaine, Ohio, and some years afterward
Colonel Snelling was at this place with his family waiting orders,
when their youngest child, an infant, named Thomas Hunt, sickened and
died, and was buried by the side of his grandfather. An incident in
her eventful life well worthy of mention in a record of the early
days of our State is that she gave birth to the first white child born
in Minnesota sixty-six years ago, and at the advanced age of ninety
years she is alive to tell of it. Her ninetieth birthday was
celebrated a few months ago in Newport, Kentucky, where, with the
husband and children of a beloved daughter, who died some years ago,
she is "only waiting till the shadows are a little longer grown."
She has been blind for many years, but otherwise her faculties are
unimpaired and her health is excellent. I should like to have seen my
old friend on that occasion, but could only send a congratulatory
letter, recalling the memories of old Fort Snelling, with which she
and I am so thoroughly identified. I am told she looked very lovely,
and was much gratified at the pleasant surprise her friends had
prepared for her, but was somewhat excited, and was carefully watched
by her granddaughter, Miss Abby Hazard, who takes the most tender care
of her precious grandmother.
It is somewhat remarkable that just about that time I learned through
Hon. Fletcher Williams, who has a special gift for finding
antiquities, that an old lady who had been a member of Mrs. Snelling's
family at the fort was visiting her grandchildren at West St. Paul. I
lost no time in calling on her, and found that she was one of the
Swiss refugees who came to Fort Snelling from the Red River country.
Her maiden name was Schadiker. She had married Sergeant Adams, of the
Ordnance Department, whom I remembered well as a most faithful and
highly respected man. After serving in the army many years at
different posts, he resigned and took up land not far from Chicago,
near which city he made a home and lived a long while very happily,
dying only a year or two ago at a very advanced age. Mrs. Adams and I
had a most enjoyable visit together. She is in very comfortable
circumstances, and bears her age so bravely that it is hard to realize
that she is seventy-seven years old. She told me, among other things,
of a voyage Colonel Snelling and family made up the Mississippi,
returning from a visit to the East. The weather was very rough, and at
Lake Pepin, their boat having been wrecked, of course their provisions
and many things were lost. With what was left of the craft they hugged
the shore, and the crew made every effort to go forward, but, in their
dismantled condition and with little or nothing to eat, it was very
discouraging work. She tells me that in this extremity the men caught
hold of the branches of trees which hung over the water and propelled
the boat forward by inches, and Mrs. Snelling said to her: "Hannah,
let us take hold of the willows, too, and pull. We may help, if it is
ever so little," and they did so, pulling with all their might. She
says she shall never forget their arrival at the fort at last. My
father was in temporary command, and, learning in some way of their
approach, sent help to them. He had had the fort illuminated and a
Colonel's salute fired in honor of the return, and finally the weary
ones reached the old headquarters, where my mother had provided for
them a bountiful repast, and where they received so hearty a welcome
that they soon forgot their weariness and the hardships and perils
through which they had passed.
NOTE.--Since this account was written, my dear old friend has
gone to her rest; she died at the home of her son-in-law, Mr.
Hazard, in Newport, Kentucky, September 6th, 1888, aged 91
years and seven months. She lived to hear the "Life-long
memories of Fort Snelling" read to her by her loving
relatives and enjoyed it exceedingly.
_CHAPTER III._
It seems proper to record here the names of the officers at the post
at this time. They are as follows:
Josiah Snelling, Colonel Fifth Infantry, commanding.
S. Burbank, Brevet Major.
David Perry, Captain.
D. Gooding, Brevet Captain.
R. A. McCabe, Lieutenant.
N. Clark, Lieutenant.
Joseph Hare, Lieutenant.
P. R. Green, Lieutenant Acting Adjutant.
W. G. Camp, Lieutenant Quartermaster.
H. Wilkins, Lieutenant.
Edward Purcell, Surgeon.
In addition to these I give the names of some who came afterward. All
of them are among my earliest recollections, and I can remember each
by some peculiarity of speech or characteristic anecdote. In my old
age I find myself dwelling upon these recollections of my early years
with pleasure, till the flight of time is forgotten, and in fancy I am
back again at the old fort, a happy, light-hearted, petted child:
Major Hamilton.
Captains Russell, Garland, Baxley and Martin Scott.
Lieutenants Alexander, Hunter, Harris, St. Clair Denny and
Johnston.
Major Laurence Taliaferro, Indian Agent.
Captain Leonard and Mr. Ortley, Sutlers.
Lieutenant Alexander was very popular, very kind-hearted and genial. A
reply of his, when cornered in a discussion at one time, caused much
merriment. The subject was bald-headed men. Some one remarked that
those who became gray were seldom bald. Alexander replied with
considerable warmth: "I know better than that, for my father is as
gray as a badger, and hasn't a hair on his head."
Lieutenant Hunter was a great favorite, and in his way a model man,
always courteous and attentive to ladies, and especially kind and
considerate to the little ones, but wonderfully firm and unyielding in
his views, which peculiarity on more than one occasion caused him
serious trouble. As an instance of his persistence: at one time he and
Captain Scott determined to find out by actual experiment which could
hold out the longest without eating anything whatever. As both were
very firm in their determinations, the affair was watched with great
interest. However, after two days Captain Scott surrendered
unconditionally, and it was generally admitted that Lieutenant Hunter
would have perished rather than yield.
Lieutenant St. Clair Denny was an exceedingly estimable young man, a
native of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, a Christian gentleman in the
highest sense of the term. My recollection of him is of one better
calculated to inspire awe and respect than confidence. A memorable
event in his life was his marriage with Miss Caroline Hamilton, a
beautiful girl of fifteen, as full of fun and lady-like mirth as he
was of dignity and reserve. I can barely recall their going in sleighs
on the ice to Prairie du Chien accompanied by Lieutenant Hunter and
one of the ladies, to be married, that being the nearest point where
the ceremony could be performed, for we had neither Chaplain nor
Justice of the Peace at the new fort. I have dim recollections of the
preparation of the trousseau by the nimble fingers of the officers'
wives, of the pleasureable excitement and merry chat over the unusual
event, and of the starting off of the excursion on that long, cold
ride, the "good-byes," the tears, the smiles and the blushes, and of
the hearty welcome home of the beautiful, happy bride, and the proud
but dignified bridegroom, and I there and then yielded my fealty to
the sweet child-wife, and always loved her as a dear relative. She was
a most loving wife and mother, and some who read these records will
call to mind her lovely, interesting daughter, the wife of Mr.
Corcoran, for some time Postmaster at St. Paul, and her son Brooke
Denny, whose home, when the dear mother passed away, was with his
sister in that city, and whose gentlemanly manners and kindness of
heart won for him the love and confidence of his associates. An
anecdote of Lieutenant Denny, characteristic of his precision of
speech, his perfect self-control under the most exciting
circumstances, and his strict regard to military etiquette, may be
related here:
At one of the frontier stations, where he was doing duty as
Quartermaster, he was in his office one day during a fearful thunder
storm, accompanied with high wind and pouring rain, which threatened
to demolish the building. Every one was alarmed for its safety, and
the whole garrison was in a high state of excitement. After the storm
had subsided, a group of officers were talking it over, and Lieutenant
Denny, speaking of it in his peculiarly measured tones, ended his
remarks with this climax: "I was standing in the door of my office
when the storm was at its height, and it was so terrible that I was
forced to turn and say, even in the presence of my clerk, 'Bless me!
how the wind blows!'"
Any member of the old Fifth Regiment can recall that remark, for it
became a household word; but alas! who are now living of that gallant
old regiment? Of all the names recorded in these annals, I know of not
one left to answer to roll-call, the last survivor, General David
Hunter, having passed away at an advanced age only a few months ago.
The old Mexican war decimated the regiment, which was always placed in
positions of danger, requiring brave, cool, determined men, and it
was then that Captain Martin Scott poured out his heart's blood in
defense of his country. Who has not heard of him and his indomitable
courage? Some of the most pleasant recollections of my childhood are
associated with that brave, true man, who was a member of our family
for many years, and was dearly beloved by us all. His eccentricities
were numerous, but did no one any harm, while his fondness for
hunting, his love for his dogs (of which I can clearly recall by name
eight or ten), his almost incredible skill as a marksman, and his
unvarying success as a hunter, made him the hero of our childish
admiration, and won for him the reputation of a veritable Nimrod. I
remember very clearly his habit of asking my mother what and how much
game she would like for the table, and invariably bringing her just
what she named. He was an admirable purveyor, and we lived on the fat
of the land, for there was no delicacy in the way of wild game which
he did not, in its proper season, bring from the forest and wild-wood
to make savory meat which, like old Isaac, we all loved. He had the
reputation at one time of being parsimonious, and some were inclined
to treat him coldly on that account; but in time it was found that out
of his small pay he maintained his widowed mother and a lame sister in
their New England home, and that while niggard in regard to his own
personal wants, the dear ones at the old home were generously provided
for. So, although at first the West Point graduates were disposed to
treat with contempt the Green Mountain boy who had entered the army as
a volunteer in the war of 1812, and had been retained in the service,
his sterling qualities and his dignified self-respect won for him
finally the regard of all who knew him. Indeed, it was found out very
soon that it would not do to slight or insult "Scott," and he gave
some practical lessons on that point that were never forgotten. He was
a thorough-going total abstinence man, a "rara avis" in those days. He
seldom drank even of "the cup that cheers and not inebriates," never
anything stronger; and my impression is that one great reason for his
extreme temperance was that his aim as a marksman might be perfect and
unerring. He did not marry till somewhat late in life, owing to his
inability to support a wife in addition to the care of his mother and
sister, although I have heard my father say to him, jokingly, "Scott,
it would not cost you so much to keep a wife as it does to keep all
these dogs; she'd save more than she'd cost. Try it now, and take the
word of one who knows." The lady whom he finally chose was a Miss
McCracken, of Rochester, New York, with whom he lived happily for some
years. At the battle of Cerro Gordo he was warned to be more careful
of the bullets, but he replied, "Never fear; the bullet is not run
that is to kill Martin Scott," and almost immediately fell from his
horse pierced to the heart by a Mexican bullet. Knowing that his wound
was mortal, he, with his usual presence of mind, took from his pocket
his purse, containing quite a large sum of money, and, handing it to a
soldier who stood near, said: "Give that to my wife." And the brave,
true heart was still forever.
Major Laurence Taliaferro was for many years a member of our
household, and we all loved and honored him. He was very entertaining
in conversation and full of anecdotes of Virginia, which was his
boyhood's home. His father owned many slaves, and when he, as a
student in an Eastern college, was home for vacation, he delighted to
amaze the negro boys with his knowledge and excite their admiration.
On one occasion he had been using some pretty big words in a speech
for their edification, branching out now and then into Greek and Latin
quotations, when one of them, overcome by his young master's
proficiency, exclaimed: "Oh, Massa Laurence; you larn so much since
you done been to college, you clar fool." He liked to tell this story
of himself, and admitted that the boy had good ground for his sweeping
conclusion. Dear Major Taliaferro, our happy-hearted, beloved and
trusted friend, the faithful servant of the government, and humble
follower of Christ. His picture and an accompanying letter, sent me
from his home in Bedford, Pennsylvania, when he was eighty-two years
old, are before me, and as I look on the well-known features, I repeat
from my heart the testimony of his biographer: "For more than twenty
years an Indian Agent, _and yet_ an honest man."
A few years ago, in an interview with Major Joseph Brown, so well
known to the early settlers of Minnesota, he reminded me of Colonel
McNeil's short stay at "Fort St. Anthony," as it was first called,
previous to the arrival of Colonel Snelling, and of Mrs. McNeil, a
sister of Franklin Pierce, a most estimable woman, of whom he spoke in
the most affectionate, grateful terms, saying that her kindness to
him, a mere boy, and her wise counsels had had a beneficial influence
on his whole life. He spoke most gratefully of all the ladies at the
post, and remembered our Sabbath school, established somewhat later,
with real pleasure. He went up the river with the regiment as
drummer-boy, and was always considered a faithful, well-behaved
soldier.
His whole life was passed in the Northwest. He was at one time
Representative in the Wisconsin Legislature, and was afterwards
appointed Secretary of the First Legislative Assembly of the Territory
of Minnesota. He died only a few years ago at an advanced age.
_CHAPTER IV._
In 1821 the regiment moved into the beautiful new fort, although it
was by no means completed. The outside wall was up on three sides
only, and a heavy guard was stationed on the fourth, not only to
prevent desertions, but to keep the Indians, our only neighbors, at a
respectful distance. The occupation of the new and comfortable
quarters was made an occasion of great rejoicing, an event never
forgotten by those who took part in it. Then began our regular fort
life, the flag-staff was raised in front of headquarters, the stars
and stripes were run up at the roll of the drum at "guard mounting"
and lowered with the same accompaniment at retreat day after day, and
we children learned to love its graceful folds as it floated on the
breeze and to feel no harm could come to us under the "Star Spangled
Banner."
The only white people within three hundred miles were shut within that
hollow square, a community, dependent largely on each other for all
the little every-day kindnesses and amenities which make life
enjoyable, having no regular intercourse with the civilized world,
except by mail, which at first was received semi-annually, after a
while quarterly, and for many years not more frequently than
bi-monthly. For a long while it was brought from Prairie du Chien by
an Indian on a pony, and there is no record of any unfaithfulness on
the part of our dusky carrier. But those who enjoy daily mails know
little of the excitement and tearful gratitude of those pioneers at
Fort Snelling when the announcement was made, "The mail has arrived."
Isolated as we were from the privileges and recreations and
distractions of town or city, we were drawn very closely together,
were, in fact, like one large family, and news for one was news for
all. We really "shared each other's pleasures and wept each other's
tears," and there was great rejoicing in the fort over news from
"home." I have in my possession a collection of letters from General
Gibson, Commissary General of Subsistence, received by my father,
which are interesting relics of those eventful years of privation and
hardship, of which the soldier of the present day can have but a faint
conception.
The first few letters are directed to St. Louis, to be forwarded to
the Fifth Regiment, wherever it might be; one or two are in regard to
furnishing rations to Indians who may visit the agencies of the United
States on business or otherwise, and authorizing the Commissary to
issue rations to them on the requisition of the Indian agents. I find
here a letter of instruction from the War Department to General
Gibson, and insert it, as indicating the policy of the Government in
regard to the Indians:
"_Sir:_ It is customary for the Government to furnish rations
to the Indians who may visit the agencies of the United
States upon business or otherwise, and I have to request that
you will direct the officers of your department, stationed at
posts in the vicinity of the agencies at Fort Wayne, Piqua,
Chicago, Green Bay and Mitch-ele-mack-i-nack[A] to issue
rations on the returns and requisitions of the Indian agents
at those places. The requisitions in every case must be
accompanied by a return of the number of Indians to be
furnished, and both must be filed with the account of the
officer making the issue to obtain a credit for the amount of
settlement.
I am, etc., J. C. CALHOUN.
_To Colonel George Gibson, Com. Gen. of Subsistence._"
This letter is dated August 30th, 1819, before the troops had reached
the mouth of the St. Peters, and was intended, no doubt, as a guide to
the officers in their dealing with the Indians.
In the list of rations to be issued to the command, I notice that
whisky has its place, and in turning over the leaves of this
manuscript book, I find a letter from an officer of the army, Captain
J. H. Hook, on duty at Washington, D. C., making various inquiries of
my father relative to the condition of the troops, the best way of
issuing rations, the best and most desirable articles as rations, the
wastage of each article, the precaution to guard against wastage, etc.
One inquiry will be interesting, in the light of the present feeling
on the temperance question: "_First_--Would not, in your opinion, the
service be benefitted by dispensing with the whisky ration?
_Second_--Could the soldier be brought to submit cheerfully to the
privation?"
This suggestion seems to have been acted upon, for I see a general
order dated May 11th, 1820, to the effect that "the President was
authorized to make such alterations in the component parts of the
rations as a due regard to health and comfort may require; and it is
hereby ordered that hereafter no issues of whisky will be made to boys
under eighteen or to women attached to the army." In the case of
soldiers on "extra duty," each was to receive one gill a day, and I
distinctly recall the demijohn with the gill cup hanging on its neck,
and the line of "extra duty men" who came up each morning for their
perquisite. In those days there seemed nothing wrong in this; but,
with the added light and wisdom of sixty years, all right-minded
people would now regard it as every way evil.
I find a letter concerning a contract with Joseph Rolette, of Prairie
du Chien, for furnishing the troops at Fort Snelling with fresh beef.
"The Commissary General directs that Mr. Rolette shall give a bond
duly signed by him, that Colonel Snelling may designate and transmit
it to this office, with the understanding that the Messrs. Astors, of
New York, will unite with him in the bond." In consequence of some
misunderstanding, owing to the extreme delay of communicating with
headquarters, the contract was cancelled, much to the disappointment
of Mr. Rolette. In examining these letters of directions with regard
to supplies and the time consumed in their transmission from the seat
of government, my wonder is, that the troops at this remote station
did not starve to death while waiting for authority to obtain
supplies. Pork, flour, whisky, beans, candles and salt were sent from
St. Louis, but, owing to the great difficulty of transportation, there
was much delay and frequent loss by depredations of the inhabitants of
the country through which the Government wagons passed. Beef was
supplied from Prairie du Chien, or some point nearer than St. Louis.
The following is a list of contract prices of articles purchased at
St. Louis:
$ Cts. Mills.
Pork, per pound, 7 1
Whisky, per gallon, 50
Soap, per pound, 10
Salt, per bushel, 2.00
Beans or peas, per bushel, 1.80
Vinegar, per gallon, 22
Corn meal, per pound, 2 2-1/2
Soon after the establishment of the fort, my father, as Commissary,
was requested by General Gibson to learn by experiment if wheat could
be raised in this part of the world, and the result proving that it
was a possibility, he was ordered to supply the garrison, at least in
part, with flour of their own raising. A letter bearing date August
5th, 1823, informs him that, "having learned by a letter from Colonel
Snelling to the Quartermaster General, dated April 2d, that a large
quantity of wheat may be raised this summer," the Assistant Commissary
of Subsistence at St. Louis had been directed to send to St. Peters
(as the fort was often called) such tools as should be necessary to
secure the grain and manufacture the flour, adding, "if any flour is
manufactured from the wheat raised, please let me know as early as
possible, that I may deduct the quantity manufactured at the post from
the quantity advertised to be contracted for," and here follows the
bill for the articles ordered for the purpose specified above:
One pair burr mill-stones, $250.11
337 pounds plaster of Paris, 20.22
Two dozen sickles, at $9, 18.00
-------
$288.33
This, then, was the outfit for the first flour mill in that part of
the great Northwest which was to be named "Minnesota" in later years,
and to become the greatest flour manufactory in the world. Remembering
clearly the great complaint of the destruction of grain by black
birds, I cannot think that the amount of wheat raised ever made the
command independent of outside supplies; but, having played around the
old mill many times, I know it was used for the purpose for which it
was fitted up.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote A: Mackinaw.]
_CHAPTER V._
Soon after we took possession of the fort, a post school was
established and some will remember the old school house just beyond
the main entrance, which has been used for various purposes, in later
years. It was there we children assembled day after day to learn to
spell in Webster's spelling book and to read in that time-honored
volume, of the "boy who stole the apples;" of the conceited "country
milk maid" who spilled her milk with a toss of her head; and of the
good "dog Tray," who fell into bad company and suffered the
consequences.
Our teacher was considered very competent for his work, but was a
violent tempered man and only maintained his position a few years, but
what we learned then, we know now, and the thorough drill we received
each day, turned out correct spellers, and good readers; with all the
improvements in the way of text books and methods, I do not think the
results, as far as fundamental education goes, are more satisfactory
now than then.
Another of my earliest recollections is the Sunday School, established
by Mrs. Colonel Snelling and my mother. There was no Chaplain allowed
us then no Sabbath service and these Christian women felt they could
not live or bring up their children in that way. They therefore
gathered the children together on Sabbath afternoons in the basement
room of the commanding officer's quarters, and held a service, with
the aid of the Episcopal prayer book, both of them being devout
members of that branch of the church, and taught the little ones from
the Bible. They had no lesson papers; no Sunday School library; no
Gospel songs; no musical instrument, but they had the Word of God in
their hands, and His love in their hearts, and were marvellously
helped in their work of love, which grew and broadened out, till it
took in the parents as well as the children, and a Bible class was
formed in which all felt a deep interest. Some who were not firm
believers in the truths contained in the Book of books, but who came
together just simply to pass away the time, were convinced of its
truth and found there the hope which is an "anchor to the soul both
sure and steadfast." I can remember the deep interest which all, even
the little ones evinced in the characters of whom we studied, how we
talked of them during the week, and chose our favorites, and how all
became deeply attached to Moses and dwelt upon his loveliness, his
unselfishness, his patience and his great love to the rebellious
people under his care. And we wept as for a dear friend when we read
that "he went up from the plains of Moab into the mountain of Nebo to
the top of Pisgah, that is over against Jericho" and viewed the land
which he might never enter, and died there and was buried by no human
hands; and "no man knoweth of his sepulchre unto this day." The day
following this sorrowful lesson, my mother in crossing the parade
ground, met Captain David Hunter who looked so sad and downcast that
she was distressed for him, and said: "What is the matter, Captain?
are you sick or have you had bad news?" He replied: "Oh, no! Mrs.
Clark, I am not sick or in personal trouble, but don't you feel sorry
that Moses is dead?" I have enlarged somewhat on this Sunday School
because it was somewhat peculiar, and because it was, as there are
good grounds for believing, the first Sunday School organized in this
Northwestern region, perhaps the first Northwest of Detroit.
The country around the fort was beautiful, the climate invigorating,
and in spite of the inconveniences and annoyances experienced by the
pioneer regiment they were not without their enjoyments and
recreations, and looking back through the years, recalling the social
gatherings at each others fireside in the winter, the various indoor
amusements, and the delightful rides and rambles in the summer, I feel
that ours was a happy life.
But the most charming of all our recreations was a ride to "Little
Falls" now "Minnehaha." The picture in my mind of this gem of beauty,
makes the sheet of water wider and more circular than it is now, I
know it was fresher and newer, and there was no saloon there then, no
fence, no tables and benches, cut up and disfigured with names and
nonsense, no noisy railroad, no hotel, it was just our dear pure
"Little Falls" with its graceful ferns, its bright flowers, its bird
music and its lovely water-fall. And while we children rambled on the
banks, and gathered pretty fragrant things fresh from their Maker's
hand, listening the while to sweet sounds in the air, and to the
joyous liquid music of the laughing water, there may have been some
love-making going on in the cozy nooks and corners on the hill side or
under the green trees, for in later years, I have now and then come
upon groups of two, scattered here and there in those same places, who
looked like lovers, which recalled to my mind vividly what I had seen
there long ago. That enchanting spot, so dainty in its loveliness, is
hallowed by a thousand tender associations and it seems more than
cruel to allow its desecration by unholy surroundings and various
forms of vice. Standing beside it now, and remembering it in its
purity, just as God made it, my eyes are full of unshed tears, and its
mellifluous ceaseless song seems pleading to be saved from the
vandalism which threatens to destroy all its sweet influences and make
it common and unclean. But as I, alone, of all who saw it in those
days long gone by, stand mourning by its side, there dawns in my heart
the hope that the half formed purpose now talked of, for making it the
centre of a park for the delight of the two cities between which it
stands, may be perfected, thus saving it from destruction and making
this bright jewel in its setting of green, the very queen of all the
many attractions of this part of our State. Surely no spot in ours or
any other State offers such beauty or so many inducements for such a
purpose, and coming generations will forever bless the men who shall
carry it out, thus preserving our lovely Minnehaha and the charming
surroundings for their own delight and the enjoyment of those who
shall come after them. And we went strawberrying too, children and
mothers and fathers, and young men and maidens, and often now, when
passing through the crowded streets of our great city, I feel that I
am walking over our old strawberry patch. How sweet those berries
were, and how delicious the fish which we caught in the pretty Lakes
Calhoun and Harriet, the one named for the great statesman, the other
for Mrs. Leavenworth. We generally carried our treasures from field
and lake to the "old Government Mill" at the "Big Falls" St. Anthony
and had our feast prepared and set in order by the miller's wife. And
then we had games, not croquet or any of those inventions which were
then in the far future, but "hide and seek;" "blind man's buff;" "hide
the handkerchief;" "hunt the slipper," and such old-fashioned sports
which all enjoyed most heartily, till warned by the lengthening
shadows that it was time to go home, which we generally reached in
time to see the flag lowered to the roll of the sunset drum. Writing
poetry is beyond me, but there was an inspiration in that beautiful
banner, as each day it flung out its stars and stripes over my first
and dearly loved home, which thrills my frame even now, and since the
terrible days when precious blood was poured out so freely to maintain
it in its proud position, it has become indeed a holy thing. May God
protect and bless it, keep it unsullied and speed the day when it
shall float over a nation whose rulers and law-givers shall lay
judgment to the line and righteousness to the plummet, and forever
purge from it everything that in any way dims the brightness or
retards the progress of this beloved "land of the free and home of the
brave."
It must have been difficult to find amusements and recreations for the
winters in that fort, so completely shut away from the world, and so
environed by snow and ice, but various devices were planned to keep up
the general cheerfulness and to ward off gloomy feelings and
homesickness. I can dimly remember the acting of plays in which the
gentlemen personated all the characters and the ladies and children
looked on. I know the women of the plays looked very tall and angular,
and there was much merriment about the costumes which were eked out to
fit them. It may be that the performances were as much enjoyed as if
everything had been more complete, for I know there was a great deal
of fun and jollity at their theatricals.
Among my earliest recollections is that of sitting on a low stool
beside Mrs. Snelling and my mother while they read and studied French
under the instruction of a soldier named Simon, and the memory of
those days was revived a few months ago by the receipt of a card from
"Zeller C. Simon," now Mrs. F. L. Grisard, Vevay, Indiana, daughter of
the old man, as a reminder of 1822 and 1823 when she and I quietly
amused ourselves while these ladies received instructions in that
language. In Mrs. Ellet's "_Pioneer Women of the West_," Mrs. Snelling
alludes to this old French teacher and regrets his loss by discharge,
adding that, when on the arrival of the first steamboat bringing among
other passengers, the Chevalier Count Beltrami, an Italian adventurer,
she expressed this regret, he kindly offered to continue the lessons
during his visit. He could speak French fluently, but did not
understand English, and was therefore much gratified to find anyone
who could converse with him.
In the month of May, 1823, the steamboat Virginia, 118 feet in length
and 22 in width, arrived at the fort. "It was built by Knox and McKee
at Wheeling, Virginia, and loaded with Government stores for Fort
Snelling," so writes one of the firm, Mr. Redick McKee to the
secretary of "Historical Society of Minnesota." Its arrival was a
great event indelibly impressed upon the memory of all who were there
to witness it.
_CHAPTER VI._
A COINCIDENCE.
"Backward! turn backward, O Time, in thy flight;
Make me a child again, just for to-night."
Take me to my early home at Fort Snelling, and help me to live over
again that happy time, when I knew nothing of care and sorrow, and
when the sight of the dear old flag, run up, each morning, to the roll
of the drum, and the sentinel's call, each night, "All's well around,"
made me feel secure and at home, even in what was then a wilderness.
Many pleasant scenes, and many startling ones, come at my call. Some
are more vivid than others, and perhaps the most distinct of my early
remembrances is the arrival of the first steamboat. It had been talked
of and expected for a long time; it is hard to realize in this age of
rapid traveling how deeply interested and excited every one felt in
anticipation of what was then a great event. It was to bring us into
more direct and easy communication with the world; and small wonder
that the prospect of being at the head of steamboat navigation should
have caused excitement and rejoicing to those who had been receiving
their mails at intervals of _months_ instead of _hours_. To me, of
course, child that I was, it only meant a sight never before
witnessed, a something heard of, and seen in pictures, but never
realized. But even we children felt in listening to our elders, that
something great was about to happen.
At last, one bright summer morning, while amusing myself on the piazza
in the rear of the officers' quarters, there came a sound new and very
strange! All listened a moment in awe and gratitude, and then, broke
out, from many voices, "The steamboat is coming! the steamboat is
coming!" And look! there is the smoke curling gracefully through the
trees; hark! to the puffing of the steam, startling the echoes from a
sleep co-eval with the creation; now she rounds the point, and comes
into full view. I stand on tiptoe, but cannot see all I long to, till
Lieutenant David Hunter, my special favorite, catches me up and holds
me on the balustrade; and now I clap my hands, and almost cry with
delight, for there she is, just landing, in all her pride and beauty,
as if she _felt_ herself the Pioneer Steamboat, and knew she would
become historic.
Officers and soldiers, women and children, are hurrying down the hill;
terrified Indians rush from their wigwams and look on in amazement,
utterly confounded, refusing to go near what they call the "_Bad
Spirit_."
Greetings and congratulations warm and heartfelt are exchanged; and
speedily the mail is opened, papers and letters are distributed; all
search eagerly for news from home, and my joy is turned into grief
for my friend Lieutenant Hunter, who learned, by the very boat whose
coming he hailed with so much pleasure, that he is fatherless. All
sympathize deeply with him; few know how closely drawn together are
the occupants of a frontier post; but the common joy, although
dampened, was not destroyed, and civilities were tendered to the
captain and officers of the boat, who were real gentlemen, and became
great favorites at the fort. They came again the next year, perhaps
more than once, and pleasant excursion parties on the boat relieved
the monotony of fort life.
The steamboat was the topic of conversation for a long time. The day
of its arrival became an era from which we reckoned, and those of the
first occupants of Fort Snelling who still survive, can scarcely
recall a more delightful reminiscence than the arrival of the first
steamboat, in the summer of 1823. Years passed away, childhood with
its lightheartedness gave way to youth, and that again to womanhood,
and then came middle life with its many cares, its griefs, its joys
too, and its unnumbered mercies, with bright anticipations of a
blessed rest from toil and pain,--when on one pleasant summer day in
1864, I find myself, with a party of friends who have come to visit
Fort Snelling and its many interesting surroundings, standing, side by
side with my mother, on the bastion of the fort, recalling days and
scenes gone by. Leaning against the railing, and contemplating the
river, so beautiful from that height, she remarked to me: "Can you
remember, my child, when the first steamboat came up this river?" I
answered, "Yes, oh yes! most distinctly do I remember it." And then we
talk of the event, and recall the many pleasant things connected with
it, when, lo! a whistle, and the loud puffing and snorting of the iron
horse! Captain Newson, standing near and listening to our
conversation, exclaimed, pointing over to Mendota, "And there goes the
first train of cars that ever started out from Fort Snelling!"
Hushed and breathless, we gaze at the fast vanishing train, feeling,
as we stand there, we two, alone, of all who saw that other great
event, _over forty years ago_, like links connecting the buried past
with the living present. And we would fain weep as we think of those
who stood beside us then, now long since passed away--but living,
loving friends are about us, and we will not let our sadness mar their
pleasure; so down in the depth of our hearts we hide these tender
recollections, to indulge in when we are alone. I look long at the
beautiful river, and think, as it ripples and laughs in the sunlight,
that, could our ears catch the language of its murmurings, we should
hear:
"Men may come, and men may go,
But I go on forever."
_CHAPTER VII._
ANDREW TULLY.
"Oh! Malcolm, look at that little boy on the steps of our quarters;
who can he be? Where did he come from?" "Oh, sister, do you think he
can be the little brother we have been praying God to send us? Let's
run home and ask mother about it."
The scene of this dialogue was the parade ground of Old Fort Snelling,
in the spring of the year 1823; the two little children had just been
dismissed from the fort school house, and were going home to dinner.
The sun shone very brightly that day. The dinner drum was beating, the
soldiers, by companies, were in line before their quarters for
roll-call, and the dear old flag floated gracefully in front of
headquarters. I can see it all now, through my tear-dimmed eyes, and
recall the mingled feelings of joyful surprise and expectation with
which we, the little son and daughter of Captain Clark, hastened to
our home, our eyes all the while fixed on the little fair-haired
stranger, who stood on the porch of our father's quarters, the first
in the row of officers' quarters as you enter the Fort by the front
gate, and just beyond the steps leading down to the old Commissary's
store.
When we reached our goal, there stood the pretty blue-eyed boy,
looking about with wonder at all he saw, and smiling at us as we came
up to him, and laid our hands on him gently, to assure ourselves that
he was real. Just inside the door stood dear mother, with a bright
happy look, enjoying our surprise, and we, with one voice, exclaimed:
"Mother, who is this little boy? where did he come from? is he going
to stay with us always?" As soon as we gave her a chance to reply, she
said: "Don't you know that every night when you say your prayers, you
always say, 'please, God, give us a little brother!' How do you know
but God has heard your prayer, and sent you this little brother?" We
were very quiet now, and tried to take it all in, but before we had
succeeded to our satisfaction in fully comprehending it, our father
came from roll-call, and taking us by the hand, said: "Come to dinner
now, mother will lead little Andrew to his place and we will tell you
all about it." And this is the story we heard on that ever to be
remembered day, as we sat by our father and mother, and our hearts
went out with love to the little boy beside us:
"A few weeks ago, Col. Snelling heard from some hunters, who had been
far out west, that there were two little white boys held captive by a
band of Sioux; he sent out some troops, who rescued the children, and
they reached the Fort this morning with the boys; the oldest one,
John, is at the Colonel's, and this is the other, 'Andrew Tully;'
shall we keep him with us?" "Oh, yes! father, we want him for our
little brother;" and he became one of us. In time we learned from
John, who was a bright boy, and from the rescuing party, who had heard
some particulars, that Mr. David Tully, a Scotchman, had been living
three years at the Selkirk settlement, where the crops had been so
poor, from various causes, notably from the grasshoppers and the
ravages of innumerable black birds, that a famine was threatened, and
he, becoming discouraged, had started, with his wife and children, two
boys and an infant daughter, to come to the Fort, hoping in some way
to continue his journey from there to the white settlements, and find
work to enable him to live and support his family comfortably.
After traveling for many days, they were overtaken by a party of
Sioux, who, returning from an unsuccessful hunt, were in a very bad
humor, and attacking Mr. Tully, demanded such provisions as he had. He
refused, of course, to give up that, without which his family must
perish, and they fell upon him, soon disabled him, and seizing the
little baby, dashed its brains out on the ice, then mortally wounded
his wife, and with a blow of his hatchet, one of the party finished
them both. John says he remembers seeing his father, who had broken
through the ice, struggling to save his mother and the baby, but that
when they knew there was no hope left, his parents told him to take
his little brother and hide in the bushes, and to try in every way to
get to the settlements. Then, with their dying breath, they besought
God to take care of their little boys, and their freed spirits went
beyond the reach of pain and suffering. The little fellows obeyed
them, and ran for safety to some hazel brush near by, where, of
course, the Indians soon found them, but their thirst for blood being
somewhat allayed, and their object attained, they contented themselves
with cutting off a piece of John's scalp, tearing it most brutally
from the quivering flesh, when the squaws from some tepees near by,
hearing his heartrending screams, came to the rescue, and begged that
they might keep the children. And there they had remained, receiving
such care as the Indian women give their own pappooses, and making
friends of all in the wigwam. When the troops came to the rescue, the
Indian women were unwilling to give them up; they had taken an
especial fancy to Andrew, who was very fair, and of a sweet, gentle
disposition. He was not quite three years old, and, of course, could
not so well understand the dreadful loss they had sustained as John,
who was two years older, and who never recovered from the shock of the
fearful tragedy, and from the injury done his nervous system by the
cruel scalping-knife.
He remained at Col. Snelling's during his life, two or three years,
and then, from an injury received from an axe, was taken with lock-jaw
and died. During his illness he raved of the barbarous Indians, who
killed his dear ones, begged them to spare the baby, and not hurt his
mother; then he would seem to be hurrying Andrew out of the way of the
murderers, and hiding him as well as he could. He suffered terrible
mental agony, but he had been carefully taught by Mrs. Snelling, whom
he learned to love very dearly, and, reason returning before he died,
he gave clear evidence that he loved the Savior, and felt sure that he
would take him to heaven, where his father and mother, and precious
little sister were awaiting him.
Little Andrew grew finely and proved a perfectly healthy child. His
preservation and rescue were so remarkable that my father gave him the
name of "Marvel," and almost always addressed him as "Andrew Marvel."
He had been our little playmate and brother for two years when our
father obtained a furlough and took us all to New England to visit our
relatives there, and we went by the way of New Orleans, that being the
only comfortable and continuous route to New York at that time. It was
our first journey since we children could remember, and we were all
delighted beyond measure at the thought of it. A keel-boat was fitted
up nicely for the occasion, and in addition to our immediate family,
including Andrew of course, we had as fellow travelers Captain
Leonard, his wife and two children, making quite a large party. I
remember distinctly our starting, the good-byes from those who stood
on shore, the slow progress of the boat as it was poled along by the
crew, and it was not without a quiver of sadness that we turned the
point where we lost sight of the flag. We felt then that we were away
from home and all seemed very strange, but there was much to interest
us, and we soon became accustomed to our new experiences. The
ceaseless walking to and fro of the men who propelled us along was an
accompaniment to all our daily amusements and we went to sleep lulled
by their regular footfalls.
And so we journeyed on, day after day, until we made the whole three
hundred miles and landed at Ft. Crawford--Prairie du Chien. I do not
remember how many weeks we traveled thus, but I know that all the
children on board the boat had chicken pox and recovered during the
trip. Arriving at the "Prairie," as it was frequently called in those
days, we were to take a steamer for St. Louis and New Orleans; but
before our departure I remember we were all vaccinated by the surgeon
at that post, whose name was Dr. James, and I know that in every case
he was very successful. Our arrival at St. Louis, the first city the
children had ever seen, was an epoch in our lives, and I can clearly
recall my feeling of loneliness at the utter absence of everything
military. It was indeed a new world to me. I could not understand it,
and felt not a little indignant that so many men passed and repassed
my father as we walked along the streets without saluting him, for
which remissness in duty I suggested the guard-house. Arriving at New
Orleans, where we were much overpowered by the heat, we remained only
long enough to secure passage to New York on the sailing vessel
"Crawford," and departed on our first sea voyage. We were twenty-seven
days out of sight of land, encountering a fearful storm off Cape
Hatteras, and the crimson light from the light-house there, like the
red eye of some great monster gazing at us through the gloom, when we
were every moment expecting to be engulfed, made an ineffaceable
impression upon me. But He who is "mightier than the noise of many
waters, or the mighty waves of the sea," delivered us from our peril
and brought us safely to our desired haven, where we were warmly
welcomed by dear friends and where we found ourselves famous as having
come from the "Far West," a part of the world of which their ideas
were most vague and imperfect. The story of our little Andrew created
intense excitement, and crowds of people came to see a child who had
so thrilling a history. Among these visitors came Mrs. Divie Bethune
and the widow of Alexander Hamilton, who were lady patronesses of an
orphan asylum in the city. They urged strongly that he should be
placed under their care, planning to educate him for the ministry, and
send him out to preach the gospel of peace to the tribe of Indians who
had murdered his parents. We all objected strongly to giving him up,
but the ladies at length persuaded father that they could do better by
him than one whose life was one of constant change and uncertainty,
and, with a view to the boy's best interests, he yielded to their
entreaties, and our little brother passed into the hands of the orphan
asylum. We remained at the East a year visiting dear friends in New
England and spending some time in New Haven, where a precious little
sister, born at Fort Snelling, died and was laid to rest in the burial
lot of Joseph Brewster, whose wife was our father's much-loved cousin.
When years afterward I went from a frontier post and became a pupil in
Mrs. Apthorp's seminary, in the lovely City of Elms, that little grave
in the beautiful cemetery comforted me in my homesickness.
In 1833 my father made a second visit to the East, and while in New
York hunted up Andrew, whom he found apprenticed to a wagon maker, and
could not learn why the original purpose of fitting him for the
ministry had been abandoned. But the boy seemed doing well and was
happy and content. Three years later, when our father lay on his
death-bed at Fort Winnebago, a letter came to him from relatives of
the Tullys inquiring about these boys, stating that some money from
their mother's family was awaiting them. Father dictated a reply
telling the writer all he knew of them and gave him the address of
Andrew in New York; and for years afterwards we heard nothing of him.
My mother made inquiries by letter of parties whom she thought might
tell her something concerning him and used all available means to find
him, in vain, much to the regret of all our family, and we came to
the conclusion that he was dead. A few years ago, after our mother had
gone to her rest, we saw in an eastern paper the obituary of Rev.
Abraham Tully, of New Jersey, in which reference was made to these
"Tully boys," stating that the only survivor of that branch of the
family was Andrew, a carriage maker in New York city. Immediately we
procured from the New Jersey family his address and communicated with
him. A cousin of his, the Rev. David Tully, well known and beloved as
the pastor of the Presbyterian church in Jacksonville, Florida, spent
a summer in Minnesota, and calling on me told me he thought Andrew
might visit this part of the country during the season. And one day,
just at sun-setting, our door bell rang, and answering it in person, I
saw a gentleman whom I did not know, who looked at me without
speaking, for a moment, and then said: "Is this my sister Charlotte?"
Like a flash it came to me, and I replied: "Is this my brother
Andrew?" And we kissed each other, we two old people who had parted
when we were little children and had not met for more than sixty
years. He spent some days with us and we learned that he was an
active, earnest Christian, an honored member of the Reformed Dutch
Church in Harlem, New York, Rev. Mr. Smythe, pastor; that he had
married and had one son who grew to manhood, but had been bereft of
all and was alone in the world. He knew so little of his early life,
that the story I could tell him was a revelation to him. He had
preserved, through all his reverses and trials, his sweet, sunny
temper, and soon made friends of the whole household. We rode together
to the old fort and I pointed out to him the very spot on which he
stood on that spring morning long ago when we first saw our "Brother
Andrew."
We visited the graveyard and I showed him the grave of his brother
John, which having no headboard or name, could only be identified by
its being next to the little stone inscribed "E. S.," which I knew
marked the grave of Mrs. Snelling's little daughter. We searched the
records at the quartermaster's office in vain for a description of his
brother's grave, that we might make sure of the spot, as the Tully
family wish to erect a monument to his memory.
We walked about the fort, went to the brow of the bluff where the old
bastion formerly stood, and while strolling around the home of our
childhood were met by General Gibbon, then in command, who, learning
who we were and what was our errand, took us to his quarters and
showed us much kindness. I told him many things of the old fort which
were never recorded, pointed out to him where the stones in the front
wall of headquarters had been riven by lightning when I was a little
girl, and our pleasant visit rounded up with a ride in his carriage to
call on General Terry and other officers, who all seemed interested to
see us; relics, as it were, of the times before their day.
Our courteous escort drove with us to the site of the old Camp
Coldwater, and we drank from a tin cup of the clear spring which now
supplies the garrison with water, as we had done more than half a
century before. Driving back to the fort just as the bugle sounded for
"orderly call," the General, in tender consideration of my deafness,
called the bugler, and bade him sound it again by the side of the
carriage. To hear is to obey, and the musician, ignorant of the reason
for the command, repeated the clear, ringing call, where my dull ears
could take it all in. No words can describe my sensations, as, with
Andrew Tully beside me, I listened with bated breath to the familiar
notes unheard for years, and, with eyes brimming with tears, I could
only say, "Oh, General, I thank you; this makes me feel that I must
hear my mother's voice calling me home to the dear old quarters over
there, 'to get ready for dinner.'" And then, as our carriage drove up,
and we thanked our noble host for his kind and considerate attentions
to us, he said, "I have to thank you for more information about Fort
Snelling than ever I had before." And so, past the old sutler's store,
the guard house and the vine-clad tower, we drove away very silently
from our early home, and after an hour's resting at Minnehaha,
returned to Minneapolis, talking by the way of the strange experiences
of our lives, and the wonderful way in which God had brought us
together again in our old age.
Andrew made a visit to Winnipeg in search of some one who had known
his parents, and there he found an old man named Macbeth, who had
blown the bellows in his father's shop, which stood just in one corner
of what is now the city of Winnipeg. He told him how the friends there
opposed his father's leaving the settlement when he did, as he had
remained there three years, and they felt the times would be better
soon; but he had made up his mind that he could improve his condition
by seeking a more congenial home, and they could not dissuade him. He
also told him that, from the accounts of the Indians and others, it
was generally believed that the scene of his parents' murder must have
been where Grand Forks now stands. He made some inquiries as to the
possibility of recovering anything on his father's claim, but could
learn nothing encouraging. He hopes to visit Minnesota again; meantime
we correspond regularly, and he takes a deep interest in the growth
and development of the great Northwest, with which his early life was
so singularly identified. He is still in the business for which he was
trained, and, by patient industry and skilled workmanship, has reached
the summit, and receives satisfactory returns for his labor; and so,
although his life has not been without its trials, yet an overruling
Providence has dealt graciously with the little fair haired orphan boy
who hid from the savages in the hazel copse so many years ago.
We returned home from our eastern trip by the way of the great lakes,
as the route was called in those days; and although we left dear
friends and many pleasant things behind us, we were rejoiced to be
once more in the fort, in the midst of military surroundings.
Soon after our return, my father and Major Garland obtained permission
to build more commodious quarters outside the walls, and the result
was the erection of the two stone cottages nearly opposite the old
Indian Agency, a few rods from the fort. The grounds about them were
improved and beautified with flowers and shrubs, and the change was
very beneficial and agreeable to us all. Here, I remember, we had
regular instruction in the fundamental English branches from our
father, whose great anxiety was that we might suffer for want of good
schools; and so great was his zeal and thoroughness in this direction,
that in after years, when we had greater advantages, it was found that
we were fully up to the grade of children of our age who had been to
school all their lives.
The two families became much attached to each other, and when Major
Garland was ordered elsewhere, we felt the separation keenly. We have
never met since that time. One of the Major's daughters, my early
friend and playmate, married General Longstreet, and the time came
when our husband's stood on opposite sides in the lamentable civil
war. Thank God, that is all over now, and should we ever meet again,
we could talk lovingly of the old times when, as children, we played
together under one flag, in happy unconsciousness of the trials and
sorrows that lay before us.
_CHAPTER VIII._
A WOLF STORY.
Among the recreations which relieved the tedium of garrison life, was
an occasional wolf chase. I am too tender hearted to call it an
amusement, but it was exceedingly exciting. The animal having been
caught in a box-trap, and not maimed or crippled in any way, was first
muzzled, and then let loose for a race for its life over the prairies,
with hounds and hunters in full pursuit. All the blue coats and brass
buttons of the hunters did not make that a brave thing to do, but the
wolves were great nuisances, and it was long before the days of Bergh.
On one of these occasions, the wolf was led to the starting point by
some soldiers to be prepared for the chase, but none of them really
liked the idea of taking hold of his fierce looking jaws while the
muzzling process was going on. My brother, Malcolm, a boy of seven or
eight, and already an apt pupil of Martin Scott, stepped up and
grasping the animal's snout with his little hands, called out: "Muzzle
him now, I'll hold him," and they did it. Those who know how the land
lies, and how well adapted it was for such a chase, can readily
imagine that for those who like such sport, it must have been very
enjoyable, and a great relief from the monotony of life in a frontier
fort.
During the winter of '25 and '26, the wolves were unusually
troublesome, and came every night to the barns and out-houses,
carrying off any small stock they could find. We were occupying the
stone cottage at that time, and my brother and I were much interested
in the case of some chickens and other pets which we were allowed to
call ours.
Of course we grieved over the result of these nightly raids, and,
finally, thought we would try and catch some of the marauders; so
procuring a steel-trap, we had a dead carcass of some animal hauled to
the foot of our garden, and began our work in real earnest. Our
success was far beyond our hopes, and it was our custom to rise every
morning at reveille, dress ourselves hastily and run down to look at
the trap, which was rarely without an occupant. One morning, to our
astonishment, the trap was gone, but the blood on the snow, and the
peculiar track leading toward the woods, satisfied us that a wolf was
in that trap somewhere between the fort and the "Little Falls." Hoping
to find him near home, we started in pursuit, without any protection
from the cold, which was intense, but the sun shone so brightly that
we did not think of the cold; our one idea was--the wolf, and how to
catch him. I was bare-headed and bare-handed; my brother, boy-like,
had seized his cap and mittens as he left the house, and was better
off than I. After traveling on, and on, not in the beaten path, but
wherever that track led us, we, of course, became cold and very
tired, but still could not think of giving up our search, and my dear,
brave brother insisted on my wearing his cap and mittens, saying,
"boys can stand the cold better than girls." We must have gone more
than a mile when our consciences, aided by the cold, began to warn us
that we were doing wrong, that our parents would be anxious about us,
and we ought to go back, but how could we give up the pleasure of
taking that wolf back in triumph, for the track assured us we should
find him crippled and fast to the trap, and we thought how pleased
Captain Scott would be to see us there with our prisoner as he came
out to breakfast. Looking back over the long years, I can clearly
remember that that thought gave me courage, and enabled me to hold out
so long. But, as we talked the matter over, setting duty against
inclination, and unable to decide, there appeared to us what may have
been an angel in disguise; to us it was an Indian boy in a blanket,
with his bow and quiver, emerging from the bushes very near
"Minnehaha," and thus my brother accosted him: "How! Nitchie." After a
friendly reply to this invariable salutation, Malcolm told him in the
Indian language, which was then as familiar to us as our mother
tongue, why we were there and what we wanted, offering him a loaf of
bread and piece of pork if he would find our wolf and bring him to our
door immediately. The lad gladly closed with the offer, took the trail
and started after him, while we turned our faces homeward. And now,
the excitement of expectancy being over, we began to have serious
misgivings as to the propriety of having gone so far from home without
the knowledge of our parents, and the wind, which blew keenly in our
faces, sided with our consciences, and convinced us we had much better
have either staid at home or prepared ourselves with a permit and good
warm wrappings. It all comes back to me so plainly that I can almost
feel the pinchings of the cold and the torment of a guilty conscience
as I write, and I feel a real pity for these two little children as
they trudge along over the prairie, so troubled and so cold. My dear
brother being older than I, and the chief party interested, generously
took most of the blame to himself, and comforted me as well as he
could, running backwards in front of me to shelter me from the wind,
and assuring me he would tell father all about it, and he would
forgive us. I have carried in my heart of hearts for sixty years the
image of that beautiful, bright-eyed, unselfish brother; and when, not
many years ago, the terrible news came to me that treacherous hands
had taken his precious life, like one of old I cried in my anguish,
"Oh, Malcolm! my brother, would to God that I had died for thee, my
brother, oh, my brother!" Just as we reached our garden fence we heard
the familiar breakfast drum, and saw our father and Captain Scott
walking in a somewhat excited manner, back and forth, and discussing
something, we could not hear what. We afterwards learned it was our
conduct, and that while father felt that we should at least be
severely reprimanded, our friend, the Captain, made him promise he
would say nothing in the way of reproof, until he had drunk his
coffee. In consequence of this we were simply saluted kindly, but not
warmly, and we followed the gentlemen to the breakfast-room, where a
rousing fire in the great fireplace, and a most appetizing breakfast
awaited us, which our long tramp in the bitter morning air had
prepared us to enjoy most thoroughly, notwithstanding the mental
disturbance which could not be allayed, until confession had been made
and forgiveness granted. Just as our meal was ending, a soldier
entered the room, and said: "Malcolm, there is an Indian boy here with
a wolf, who wants to see you." This announcement brought all to their
feet, and every one rushed out so see the sight, and there, with his
foot fast in our trap, lay a large timber-wolf, exhausted with pain
and fatigue. Captain Scott examining him carefully, pronounced him the
very one they had tried in vain to capture, and he congratulated the
little boy and girl who had succeeded so fully where older ones had
failed. That was a proud moment in our lives, but until we had told
our parents how sorry we were to have grieved and distressed them, and
had obtained full pardon, sealed with a loving kiss from each, we
could not wholly enjoy it. Then we gave our Indian a royal breakfast,
and his promised reward beside, and the wolf was taken away and put
out of his misery, while beside the comfortable fireside we told all
about our morning walk, from reveille to breakfast-drum.
After this Captain Scott took me to the Sutler's store, and made me
select for myself a handsome dress, as a present from him, to a brave
little girl, as he was pleased to call me, and he took me in his
sleigh, drawn by one of his beautiful horses (I think his name was
"Telegraph"), back to my mother, telling her, not many little girls of
seven years old could go out before breakfast on a cold morning, and
chase a wolf so successfully. To my brother he gave a pretty pony,
which was a never-ending source of joy to him, and which, under the
skillful training of the mighty hunter, he learned to ride fearlessly
and most gracefully.
The story of this, my first and last wolf hunt, has entertained
children and grandchildren, not only mine, but many others, and has
been repeated so often that it has been learned by heart, so that if,
in telling it, I have sometimes varied the phraseology, I have been
promptly corrected and set right. If any of those, once my little
hearers, should read this written history, it may carry them back to
the days when life was new and fresh, and when adventures of any kind
seemed greater and more important than they do now. "God bless them,
every one."
_CHAPTER IX._
RED RIVER OR SELKIRK SETTLEMENT.
The story of the early days of Minnesota would be incomplete without a
more detailed account of the Red River or Selkirk settlement than the
allusions made to it in the history of the Tully boys, and turning to
"Harpers Monthly" of December 1878, I find a most satisfactory and
interesting history of the enterprise, by General Chetlain of Chicago,
who is a descendant of one of the settlers and is so well and
favorably known in the Northwest as to need no introduction from me.
After speaking of the disastrous effect of the Napoleonic wars on the
social relations of Europe he alludes to the extreme suffering in
Central Europe, and in Switzerland particularly, owing to a failure of
crops from excessive rains in 1816, and says: "the people wearied of
struggles which resulted in their impoverishment, listened eagerly to
the story of a peaceful and more prosperous country beyond the sea." A
few years earlier Thomas Dundas, Earl of Selkirk, a distinguished
nobleman of great wealth had purchased from the Hudson Bay Company a
large tract of land in British America, extending from the Lake of the
Woods and the Winnipeg River eastward for nearly two hundred miles,
and from Lakes Winnipeg and Manitoba to the United States boundary,
part of which is now embraced in the province of Manitoba and in which
are the fertile lands bordering on the Red and Assinniboine Rivers. It
formed a part of "Rupert Land," named in honor of Prince Rupert or
Robert of Bavaria, a cousin of King Charles II of England and one of
the founders and chief managers of the "Hudson Bay Company." In the
year 1811 he had succeeded in planting a large colony of Presbyterians
from the North of Scotland on the Red River, near its junction with
the Assinniboine; this was followed four years later by another but
smaller colony from the same section of Scotland. In consequence of
the stubborn competition and the bitter dissensions between the Hudson
Bay Company and the Northwest Company of Montreal, these were
compelled to abandon their new homes, nearly all of them removing to
Lower Canada. This Scotch settlement having proved almost a total
failure Lord Selkirk turned his attention to the Swiss, for whom he
entertained a great regard. By glowing accounts of the country, and by
the offer of great inducements, which were endorsed by the British
government whose policy it was to favor these emigration schemes, he
succeeded in persuading many young and middle aged men to emigrate to
this new world. The colony numbered two hundred persons, nearly
three-fourths of whom were French or of French origin, they were
Protestants and belonged to the Lutheran church. Some of the families
were descendants of the Hugenots of Eastern France, all were healthy
and robust, well fitted for labor in a new country; most of them were
liberally educated and possessed of considerable means. Among the more
prominent were Monier and Rindesbacher, Dr. Ostertag, Chetlain and
Descombes, Schirmer, afterwards a leading jeweller at Galena,
Illinois, Quinche and Langet. In May 1821, they assembled at a small
village on the Rhine near Basle and in two large flat-boats or barges,
floated down the Rhine, reaching a point near Rotterdam where a
staunch ship, the "Lord Wellington" was in readiness to take them to
their new home towards the setting sun. Their course lay North of
Great Britain and just South of Greenland to Hudson Strait. After a
tedious and most uncomfortable journey they arrived at Hudson Strait,
and after a hard journey of four months they landed at Fort York.
Embarking in batteaux they ascended the Nelson River, and at the end
of twenty days reached Lake Winnipeg, and after encountering all
manner of discouragements arrived at the mouth of the Red River, only
to learn that the locusts or grasshoppers had been before them, and
had literally destroyed all the crops. With heavy hearts they
proceeded up the river thirty-five miles to Fort Douglas, near the
site of the present Fort Garey, then the principal trading post of the
Hudson Bay Company. Governor Alexander McDowell and the other officers
of the company welcomed them cordially and did what was in their
power, to supply their wants and make them comfortable, but they were
by no means able to furnish them with supplies for the coming winter,
and as it was terribly severe there was untold suffering among them.
But by scattering to different points and struggling bravely against
great difficulties, they managed to exist and some of them in time
made permanent homes for themselves, while others feeling they could
not content themselves in what had impressed them as an inhospitable
country, left the settlement as opportunity offered and came nearer
civilization. As early as 1821, some who had put themselves under the
protection of a party of armed drovers, on their return to the States,
having taken some cattle to the settlers, arrived at Fort Snelling and
were kindly cared for by Colonel Josiah Snelling who consented to let
them remain at the fort during the winter. The next spring they
settled on the military reservation near the fort and made homes for
themselves. I well remember my mother's descriptions of these
emigrants as they arrived, so nearly famished, that the surgeon was
obliged to restrict the amount of provisions furnished them lest they
might eat themselves to death.
In the spring of 1823, thirteen more of the colonists started to go to
Missouri, of which country they had heard glowing accounts. They made
the journey as far as Lake Traverse, the headwaters of the St. Peter's
river, four hundred miles, in Red River carts, which need no
description here; where they remained long enough to make canoes, or
dugouts, of the cottonwood trees abundant there, when they began the
descent of the river, and after perils by land and by water, and
perils by savages, who were very hostile to them, they reached "St.
Anthony" in September, and were warmly welcomed by the friends who had
preceded them two years before. After a few weeks rest, our Colonel
furnished them with two small keel-boats and supplies for their
journey, and they went on their way comforted and encouraged. But
probably from the effects of the fatigue and hardships of their long
and wearisome journey, and from the malarial influences, at that time
prevalent on the river, several sickened, and Mr. Monier, the senior
of the party, and his daughter, died and were buried near Prairie du
Chien. Mr. Chetlain also became so ill that he and his family remained
at Rock Island until his recovery, when he joined his friends at St.
Louis, but finally settled at La Pointe, on Fever River, where now
stands the city of Galena, Illinois.
In the spring of 1826, owing to the great rise of water in the
Mississippi and its tributaries, and in the Red and Assinniboine
rivers, caused by the unusual deep snow of the preceding winter, which
had melted with warm and heavy rains, the losses sustained by the
settlers at La Fourche were so heavy that no attempt was made to
repair them, and nearly all the French settlers there became
thoroughly discouraged and left their home. Over the same route their
friends had traveled three years before they came to Fort Snelling,
and nearly all took passage in a small steamboat for the lead mines at
and near La Pointe, Illinois.
I remember well when this party arrived. One of them, a very pretty
girl named Elise, was employed in our family as a nurse for our baby
sister, and remained with us some time.
General Chetlaine closes his very interesting article thus: "The
descendants of these colonists are numerous, and are found scattered
throughout the Northwest, the greater part being in the region of the
lead mines. Most of them are thrifty farmers and stock breeders. A few
have entered the professions and trade. All, as far as is known, are
temperate, industrious, and law-abiding citizens."
_CHAPTER X._
RUNNING THE GAUNTLET.
Like the old man in Dickens' "Child's Story," "I am always
remembering; come and remember with me." I close my eyes and recall an
evening some sixty years ago, when in one of the stone cottages near
Fort Snelling, which was our home at that time, a pleasant company of
officers and their families were spending a social evening with my
parents.
The doors were thrown open, for the weather was warm, and one of the
officers, Captain Cruger, was walking on the piazza, when we were all
startled by the sound of rapid firing near us. The Captain rushed into
the house, much agitated, exclaiming: "That bullet almost grazed my
ear!" What could it mean? Were the Indians surrounding us? Soon the
loud yells and shrieks from the Indian camp near our house made it
evident that the treaty of peace made that afternoon between the Sioux
and Chippewas had ended, as all those treaties did, in treachery and
bloodshed. The principal men of the two nations had met at the Indian
Agency, and in the presence of Major Taliaferro, their "White Father,"
had made a solemn treaty of peace. In the evening, at the wigwam of
the Chippewa chief, they had ratified this treaty by smoking the pipe
of peace together, and then, before the smoke of the emblematic pipe
had cleared away, the treacherous Sioux had gone out and deliberately
fired into the wigwam, killing and wounding several of the
unsuspecting inmates. The Chippewas, of course, returned the fire, and
this was what had startled us all and broken up the pleasant little
gathering at my father's house. The Chippewas, with their wounded,
sought refuge and protection within the walls of the fort, commanded
at that time by Colonel Snelling. They were kindly cared for, and the
wounded were tenderly nursed in our hospital. One, a little girl,
daughter of the chief, excited much sympathy, and I cannot forget the
interest I felt in her, for she was but a year or two older than
myself, and it seemed to me so cruel to ruthlessly put out her young
life. I remember the ladies of the fort were very kind and tender to
her, and, since I have had little girls of my own, I know why. She
lingered but a few days, in great agony, and then God took her out of
her pain to that land where the poor little wandering, wounded child
should know sin or suffering no more.
Meanwhile our prompt and efficient Colonel demanded of the Sioux the
murderers, and in a very few days a body of Sioux were seen, as we
supposed to deliver up the criminals. Two companies of soldiers were
sent to meet them and receive the murderers at their hands. Strange to
say, although they had the men, they refused to give them up, when
our interpreter (I cannot recall his name) stepped out from among our
soldiers, and said: "If you do not yield up these men peaceably, then,
as many leaves as there are on these trees, as many blades of grass as
you see beneath your feet, so many white men will come upon you, burn
your villages and destroy your nation."
A few moments' consideration, a few hurried words of consultation, and
the guilty men were handed over to our troops. The tribe followed as
they were taken into the fort, and, making a small fire within the
walls, the condemned men marched round and round it, singing their
death songs, and then were given up to be put in irons and held in
custody until time should determine how many lives should pay the
forfeit, for it is well known that Indian revenge is literally a life
for a life, and the Colonel had decided to give them into the hands of
the injured tribe, to be punished according to their own customs.
Some weeks passed, and it was found that five lives were to be paid
for in kind. A council of Chippewas decided that the five selected
from the prisoners should run the gauntlet, and it was approved. And
now, back over the lapse of many years I pass, and seem to be a child
again, standing beside my only brother, at the back door of my
father's house. The day is beautiful; the sun is so bright; the grass
so green, all nature so smiling, it is hard to realize what is going
on over yonder, by the graveyard, in that crowd of men and women; for
there are gathered together the Chippewas, old and young men, women
and children, who have come out to witness or take part in this act of
retributive justice. There are blue coats, too, and various badges of
our U. S. uniform; for it is necessary to hold some restraint over
these red men, or there may be wholesale murder; and borne on the
shoulders of his young men, we see the form of the wounded, dying
chief, regarding all with calm satisfaction, and no doubt happy in the
thought that his death, now so near, will not go unavenged. And there
stand the young braves who have been selected as the executioners;
their rifles are loaded, the locks carefully examined, and all is
ready when the word shall be given. There, too, under guard, are the
five doomed men, who are to pay the forfeit for the five lives so
wantonly and treacherously taken.
Away off, I can not tell how many rods, but it seemed to us children a
long _run_, are stationed the Sioux tribe; and that is the goal for
which the wretched men must run for their lives.
And now, all seems ready; the bolts and chains are knocked off, and
the captives are set free. At a word, one of them starts; the rifles,
with unerring aim, are fired, and under cover of the smoke a man falls
dead. They reload; the word is given, and another starts, with a
bound, for _home_; but, ah! the aim of those clear-sighted,
blood-thirsty men is too deadly; and so, one after another, till four
are down.
And then the last, "Little Six", whom, at a distance, we children
readily recognize from his commanding height and graceful form; he is
our friend, and we hope he will get _home_. He starts; they fire; the
smoke clears away, and still he is running. We clap our hands and say,
"He will get home!" but, another volley, and our favorite, almost at
the goal, springs into the air and comes down--dead! I cover my face,
and shed tears of real sorrow for our friend.
And now follows a scene that beggars description. The bodies, all warm
and limp, are dragged to the brow of the hill. Men, who at the sight
of blood become fiends, tear off the scalps, and hand them to the
chief, who hangs them around his neck. Women and children with
tomahawks and knives, cut deep gashes in the poor dead bodies, and
scooping up the hot blood with their hands, eagerly drink it. Then,
grown frantic, they dance and yell, and sing their horrid scalp-songs,
recounting deeds of valor on the part of their brave men, and telling
of the Sioux scalps taken in former battles, until, at last, tired and
satiated with their ghoul-like feast, they leave the mutilated bodies
festering in the sun. At nightfall they are thrown over the bluff into
the river, and my brother and myself, awe-struck and quiet, trace
their hideous voyage down the Mississippi to the Gulf of Mexico. We
lie awake at night talking of the dreadful thing we have seen; and we
try to imagine what the people of New Orleans will think when they
see those ghastly up-turned faces; and we talk with quivering lips and
tearful eyes of "Little Six," and the many kind things he has done for
us--the bows and arrows, the mocauks of sugar, the pretty beaded
moccasins he has given us; and we wish, oh! we wish he could have run
faster, or that the Chippewa rifles had missed fire. And we sleep and
dream of scalps, and rifles, and war-whoops, and frightful yells, and
wake wishing it had all been a dream.
Next day the chief sat up in bed, painted himself for death, sang his
death song, and, with those five fresh, bloody scalps about his neck,
lay down and died calmly and peacefully in the comfortable hope, no
doubt, of a welcome in the "happy hunting grounds," prepared by the
"Good Spirit" for all those Indians who are faithful to their friends,
and avenge themselves upon their foes.
A few years ago, I told this story to another "Little Six." "Old
Shakopee," as he lay with gyves upon his legs, in our guard house at
Fort Snelling, awaiting execution for almost numberless cold-blooded
murders, perpetrated during the dreadful massacre of '62. He
remembered it all, and his wicked old face lighted up with joy as he
told me he was the son of that "Little Six" who made so brave a run
for his life, and he showed as much pride and pleasure in listening to
the story of his father's treacherous conduct, as the children of our
great generals will do some day, when they read or hear of deeds of
bravery or daring that their fathers have done.
_CHAPTER XI._
The incident recorded in the preceding chapter occurred in June, 1827,
and in the autumn of the same year two companies of our command were
ordered to Prairie du Chien to strengthen the garrison there, in
anticipation of trouble with the Indians. One of these was Company
"C", commanded by our father; the other company was in command of
Captain Scott.
We had become so attached to a home so filled with peculiar and very
tender associations that our hearts were sad indeed when we bade "good
bye" to all, and from the deck of the steamer took our last look at
the beloved fort where we had lived so many years. In later years when
passing the spot where we bade farewell to the flag which floated over
headquarters on that bright morning long ago, I involuntarily look up
at the beautiful banner still waving there, and a tender, reverential
awe steals over me, as when standing by the grave of a friend long
buried.
We had hardly been a year at Fort Crawford when my father was detailed
on recruiting service, and ordered to Nashville, Tennessee. This was
in 1828, memorable as the year of the presidential campaign which
resulted in the election to that high office of General Andrew
Jackson. When our friend Mr. Parton was writing his "Life of
Jackson," I gave him, at his request, my impressions as a child, of
the great man, with whom we were daily and intimately associated, and
now transfer those impressions from that great work, "Parton's Life of
Jackson," to the pages of this unpretentious record of past times.
At the time referred to, our family boarded at the "Nashville Inn,"
kept by a Mr. Edmonson, the home of all the military officers whom
duty or pleasure called to Nashville. It had also been for a long time
the stopping place of General Jackson and his wife, whenever they left
their beloved "Hermitage" for a temporary sojourn in the city. Eating
at the same table with persons who attracted so much attention, and
meeting them familiarly in the public and private sitting rooms of the
hotel, I of course felt well acquainted with them, and my
recollections of them are very vivid even now. The General's
appearance has been so often and correctly described that it would
seem almost unnecessary to touch upon it here; but it will do no harm
to give my impressions of him.
Picture to yourself a military-looking man, above the ordinary height,
dressed plainly, but with great neatness; dignified and grave--I had
almost said stern, but always courteous and affable; with keen,
searching eyes, iron-gray hair standing stiffly up from an expansive
forehead; a face somewhat furrowed by care and time, and expressive of
deep thought and active intellect, and you have before you the General
Jackson who has lived in my memory from my childhood. Side by side
with him stands a coarse-looking, stout little old woman, whom you
might easily mistake for his washerwoman, were it not for the marked
attention he pays her, and the love and admiration she manifests for
him. Her eyes are bright, and express great kindness of heart; her
face is rather broad, her features plain, her complexion so dark as
almost to suggest a mingling of races in that climate where such
things sometimes occur. But withal, her face is so good natured and
motherly, that you immediately feel at ease with her, however shy you
may be of the stately person by her side. Her figure is rather full,
but loosely and carelessly dressed, with no regard to the fashions of
the day, so that, when she is seated, she seems to settle into
herself, in a manner that is neither graceful nor elegant. I have seen
such forms since, and have thought I should like to experiment upon
them with French corsets, to see what they would look like if they
were gathered into some permanent shape. This is Mrs. Jackson. I have
heard my mother say, she could imagine that in her early youth, at the
time the General yielded to her fascinations, she may have been a
bright, sparkling brunette, perhaps may have even passed for a beauty;
but being without any culture, and out of the way of refining
influences, she was at the time we knew her, such as I have described.
Their affection for each other was of the tenderest kind. The General
always treated her as if she was his pride and glory, and words can
faintly describe her devotion to him. The "Nashville Inn" was at this
time filled with celebrities, nearly all warm supporters of the
General. The Stokes family, of North Carolina, were there, particular
friends of his; the Blackburns, and many other old families, whose
names have escaped my memory. I well recollect to what disadvantage
Mrs. Jackson appeared, with her dowdyfied figure, her inelegant
conversation, and her total want of refinement, in the midst of this
bevy of highly-cultivated, aristocratic women; and I recall very
distinctly how the ladies of the Jackson party hovered near her at all
times, apparently to save her from saying or doing anything which
might do discredit to their idol. With all her disadvantages in
externals, I know she was really beloved. She was a truly good woman,
the very soul of benevolence and kindness, and one almost overlooked
her deficiencies in the knowledge of her intrinsic worth and her real
goodness of heart. With a different husband, and under different
circumstances, she might have appeared to greater advantage, but there
could not be a more striking contrast than was manifest in this
dignified, grand-looking man and this plain, common-looking little
woman. And the strangest of it all was, the General did not seem at
all aware of it. She was his ideal of every thing that was good, and
loving, and true, and, utterly unconscious of any external
deficiencies, he yielded her the entire homage of his own brave, loyal
heart. My father visited them more than once at the Hermitage. It was
customary for the officers of the army to do this, as a mark of
respect to the General, and they frequently remained at their
hospitable mansion several days at a time. The latch-string was always
out, and all who visited them were made welcome, and felt themselves
at home.
An anecdote which my father told us, characteristic of Mrs. Jackson,
impressed my young mind very forcibly. After the evening meal at the
Hermitage, as he and some other officers were seated with the worthy
couple by their ample fireplace, Mrs. Jackson, as was her favorite
custom, lighted her pipe, and having taken a whiff or two, handed it
to my father, saying, "Honey, won't you take a smoke?"
The enthusiasm of the people of Nashville for their favorite has been
descanted upon, years ago. I remember well the extravagant
demonstrations of it, especially after the result of the election was
known. I walked the streets with my father the night of the
illuminations and saw but two houses not lighted up, and these were
both mobbed. One was the mansion of Judge McNairy, who was once a
friend of Jackson, but for some reason became opposed to him, and at
that time was one of the very few Whigs in Nashville. On that
triumphant night the band played the hymn familiar to all, beginning:
"Blow ye the trumpet blow," and ending: "The year of Jubilee is come,
return ye ransomed people home." This certainly looked like deifying
the man they delighted to honor, and I remember it seemed very wicked
to me. When the old man finally started for Washington, a crowd of
ladies were assembled on the piazza of the hotel, overlooking the
Cumberland river to "see the conquering hero go." I mingled with them
and distinctly remember hearing one lady say she had had a good-bye
kiss from the General, and she should not wash it off for a month. Oh!
what a noise there was! A parrot, which had been brought up a
democrat, was "hurrahing for Jackson," and the clapping of hands, the
shouting, and waving of handkerchiefs have seldom been equalled. When
the steamboat passed out of sight, and all realized that he was really
gone, the city seemed to subside and settle down, as if the object of
its being was accomplished.
But the sad part of my remembrances, is the death of Mrs. Jackson.
Early one bright pleasant morning my father was putting on his uniform
to go with the other officers then in the city, to the Hermitage to
escort the President-elect to Nashville. Before he had completed his
toilet a black man left at the door a hand-bill announcing Mrs.
Jackson's death, and requesting the officers to come to the Hermitage
at a time specified, with the usual badges of mourning, to attend her
funeral. She had died very suddenly at night, without any apparent
disease, it being very generally supposed that her death was
occasioned by excess of joy at her husband's election. When it was
discovered that she was dead, the grief-stricken husband could not be
prevailed upon to part with her body, but held it tightly in his arms
until almost forced from his embrace.
This news caused great commotion. Many ladies went out from the city
to superintend the funeral arrangements, and displayed more zeal than
judgment by arraying the body in white satin, with kid gloves and
slippers. Pearl ear-rings and necklace were likewise placed upon it;
but, at the suggestion of some whose good sense had not entirely
forsaken them, I believe, these ornaments were removed. The day of the
funeral, proving damp and drizzly, the walk from the house to the
grave was thickly laid with cotton for the procession to pass over.
Notwithstanding the grief displayed by the friends of this really good
and noble woman, on account of her sudden death, it was supposed by
many, that after all, they felt it a relief; for it had been a matter
of great anxiety how she would appear as mistress of the White House,
especially as some of her warm, but injudicious friends, had selected
and prepared an outfit for the occasion, more suitable for a young and
blooming bride than for a homely, withered looking old woman.
During the war of the rebellion, as the Fifth Division of the Army of
the Cumberland was marching from Gallatin to camp near Nashville, the
General in command arranged that myself and daughter, who were
visiting the army and keeping with them from day to day, should call
at the Hermitage, as the troops passed near. An escort was furnished
us, and we turned off in our ambulance at the nearest point. We soon
reached the great gate, and, passing up the avenue of dark, sombre
evergreens, to the broad piazza of the historic old mansion, were
received by the hostess, the wife of General Jackson's adopted son.
Our reception, while not uncivil, was certainly frigid, and we had
expected nothing more cordial from those who called us their enemies.
After a short, constrained conversation, we were shown the General's
room, and some portraits of distinguished people on the walls, and
were then conducted to the tomb at the foot of the garden, where
husband and wife lie side by side under a canopy supported by marble
pillars and shaded by magnolia trees, whose rich, glossy leaves and
royal white blossoms made the sacred spot a lovely resting place for
the old man and his beloved Rachel. On the tablet, which covers her
remains, we read the following inscription, prepared by her husband:
"Here lie the remains of Mrs. Rachel Jackson, wife of President
Jackson, who died the twenty-second of December, 1828, aged sixty-one.
Her face was fair; her person, pleasing; her temper, amiable; her
heart, kind; she delighted in relieving the wants of her fellow
creatures, and cultivated that divine pleasure by the most liberal and
unpretending methods. To the poor, she was a benefactor; to the rich,
an example; to the wretched, a comforter, to the prosperous, an
ornament; her piety went hand in hand with her benevolence; and she
thanked her Creator for being permitted to do good. A being so gentle
and so virtuous, slander might wound but could not dishonor. Even
death, when he tore her from the arms of her husband, could but
transport her to the bosom of her God."
At his own special request, the tablet which marks the spot where he
rests, has only this simple record:
"GENERAL ANDREW JACKSON.
_Born on the 15th of March, 1767;_
_Died on the 8th of June, 1845._"
Among the notable persons whom we frequently met during the year of
our sojourn in Nashville, was Samuel Houston, since so thoroughly
identified with the early history of Texas. He was at that time moving
in gay society, was called an elegant gentleman, was very fine looking
and very vain of his personal appearance; but domestic troubles
completely changed his whole life, and leaving his wife and family, he
abjured the world and went into exile, as he termed it. While we were
in Smithland, Kentucky, to which place our father had been ordered
from Nashville, he stopped with us on his way to the wilderness, and
excited our childish admiration by his fanciful hunter's garb and the
romance which surrounded him. I remember, too, that he begged a fine
greyhound and a pointer from my brother, who gave them up, but not
without a great struggle with himself, for he loved them,--little
thinking then, dear boy, that this man, fantastically clad in
buckskin, would one day, as President of Texas, repay him amply by
delivering him from a great peril.
I record here a reminiscence of Smithland which stamps that little
town, and its surroundings, indelibly upon my memory. One day, as my
brother and I were at play in front of the recruiting office, which
was situated on the one long street, near the river bank, a steamboat,
with its flag flying, came down the Ohio and rounded to at the wharf.
As it made the turn, we noticed that the deck was crowded with
negroes, and we heard them singing some of their camp meeting hymns in
a way to touch all hearts. The strain was in a minor key, and, as the
poor creatures swayed their bodies back and forth and clapped their
hands at intervals, we were strangely moved; and when, the landing
being effected, and the gang-plank arranged, they came off, _chained
in pairs_, and were marched, still singing, to a shed prepared for
them, we could not keep back the tears. The overseer, a great strong
man, cracking his "blacksnake" from time to time, to enforce
authority, excited our strong indignation. All this is an
impossibility now, thank God, but then it was a cruel, dreadful
reality. Like cattle, they were penned for the night, and were to be
kept there for a day or two, till another boat should take them to New
Orleans to be sold for the cane brake and the cotton field. They had
been bought by the dealer in men and women, who had them in charge, at
the slave pen in Washington, the capital of the United States. For
aught I know, Uncle Tom may have been among them, destined for the
genial, easy-going St. Clare and finally to pass into the hands of
Legree, the brute, who was to whip him to death. The next morning a
bright mulatto woman surprised us, as we were at breakfast, by coming
into our room and begging my father to purchase her. I never knew how
she managed to do this, I only know she stood before our free, happy
household pleading most earnestly, said she was not a field hand, was
a good house servant in her master's family where she was born and
raised, and had been sold, "because massa died, and de family was too
poor to keep me; I'se a fustrate cook, and 'd sarve you faithful; and,
oh, mistis," turning to my mother, "I'se lef' little chillun in de ole
Virginny home, and if you buys me, may be I might see 'um again
sometime." But it could not be, and the poor sorrowing mother went
back to the gang, whose breaking hearts were pining for home and dear
ones they could never again behold. And one morning they were driven
onto another boat, and passing slowly out of sight, sang, as they
sailed down the river to their doom, "swing low, sweet chariot," etc.
_CHAPTER XII._
CINCINNATI.
From this Kentucky town, his two years of service as recruiting
officer having ended, our father was ordered to Fort Howard, Green
Bay; but, being desirous that his children should have the advantage
of the schools in Cincinnati, which at that time were considered
exceptionally excellent, he established us in that city in a pretty
home of our own, and for the first time the family was separated, he
going alone to his post, while mother and children remained in Ohio.
In 1829 Cincinnati was very different from the great city which now
spreads out over the beautiful hills, and extends miles on "La Belle
Riviere." It was a pretty, flourishing, clean town, and for us it was
a delightful home, the dense smoke from the innumerable industries,
now hanging like a pall over the valley, was not known then, and the
atmosphere was clear and bright. Nicholas Longworth was the great man
then; his strawberries and his beautiful gardens were famous, and his
sudden rise from comparative poverty to enormous wealth, mostly by
successful ventures in real estate, was marvelous, such instances
being rare in those days. He was an eccentric, but very kind-hearted
man, very good to the poor, and he had many warm friends. A few years
later he turned his attention to the culture of grapes, and made
Cincinnati famous for its catawba and other wines bearing the
Longworth brand.
There were many others whose names could be given and of whom even
then the young city was justly proud. Dr. Drake, the eminent surgeon
and beloved physician; Rev. Dr. Joshua L. Wilson, the Boanerges of
Presbyterianism; Dr. Samuel Johnson and Dr. Aydelotte, the
hard-working and vigilant watchmen on the Episcopal watch towers;
Judge Bellamy Storer, the distinguished jurist; Edward Mansfield, the
great journalist; Salmon P. Chase, then the energetic and promising
young lawyer, years afterward Chief Justice of the United States, and
many others whose lives are written in the "History of Cincinnati."
From the long list I select a few names of those with whom our family
was intimately associated: Major David Gwynne, a former Paymaster in
the army, and my father's life-long friend; Judge Burnett, our near
and highly-esteemed neighbor; Dr. John Locke, my honored teacher for
four years; Alexander Kinmont, the eccentric Scotchman and most
thorough educator of boys; the Groesbecks, the Lytles, the Carneals,
the Kilgours, the Piatts, the Wiggins,--all of whom bore a prominent
part in the early formative days of the beautiful city.
Edward Mansfield, who did so much to shape the literary taste of
Cincinnati and to promote its interests in many ways, deserves more
than a mere mention of his name. He was the son of Jared Mansfield,
Professor at West Point Military Academy and Surveyor General of the
Northwest Territory. He graduated at West Point in 1819, and was
appointed Lieutenant of Engineers, but, at the earnest solicitation of
his mother, resigned and turned his attention to legal pursuits. He
practiced law for a while in Cincinnati in partnership with Mr.
Mitchell, who afterwards became so famous as professor of astronomy.
But finally Mr. Mansfield devoted himself to literary and scientific
investigations, and published several books and essays of great value.
In 1845 he wrote "The Legal Rights of Women," and year after year some
biography or history from his fertile pen came to light, and was
welcomed and appreciated by the reading public. In 1836 he became
editor of the "Cincinnati Chronicle," afterwards of the "Chronicle and
Atlas," and in 1857 of the "Gazette." "As an editor and contributor he
was remarkable for his impartiality and fairness, and was one of the
most extensive newspaper writers in the country. He supported the Whig
party with great ability, and no one in his day did more for the
triumph of the Republican party. His memoirs, published by himself in
his seventy-eighth year, extending over the years from 1803 to 1843,
are of great public interest."
The Asiatic cholera visited the United States for the first time in
1832, and its ravages in Cincinnati were terrible. Business was in a
great measure suspended, schools were closed for a time, and the air
was full of "farewells to the dying and mournings for the dead," but
after a time the dreadful scourge passed away, leaving an indelible
impression on all, and the old order of things was resumed. In 1833 we
left our pleasant home in Cincinnati and went to Fort Winnebago, on
the Fox River, Wisconsin. This was just at the close of the Black Hawk
war, during which my father commanded at Fort Howard, Green Bay, and
had some pretty sharp experiences. On our way to our new station we
stopped at Fort Crawford, Prairie du Chien, several days to rest and
prepare for our journey of nearly a week overland to Fort Winnebago,
and were entertained at the hospitable quarters of Colonel Zachary
Taylor, then in command of the post. Our host and hostess were so
cordial and made us so comfortable and at home, Miss Knox Taylor was
so lovely, and little Dick and Betty such delightful playmates, that
we enjoyed our visit there most fully, and have always remembered it
with great pleasure. And when we learned only a short time after our
arrival at our journey's end that Lieutenant Jefferson Davis had
carried off our beautiful Miss Knox, in spite of her parents'
watchfulness and her father's absolute commands, our grief and
indignation knew no bounds. The pair went to St. Louis and were
married. The Colonel and his wife never recovered from the shock,
which seemed to blight the happiness of their home. They never saw
their child again. There was no reconciliation between the parties,
and the beloved, misguided daughter died in six months after leaving
home. He who treacherously beguiled her away from her happy home is an
old man now, and must soon go to his account. He stands out
prominently against a dark background, and no one will envy him the
recollection of that deed or the place he occupies in the history of
the country to which he proved false in her hour of trial.
It is said that the broken-hearted father never spoke to him for
years, but that on the battle-field in Mexico, Captain Davis made a
successful movement, and in passing him, General Taylor, as commanding
officer of the division to which he was attached, said, "that was well
done, Captain," and perhaps he never spoke to him afterwards.
When our delightful sojourn with the kind friends at Fort Crawford
came to an end, we started in our open vehicle, which had been made as
comfortable as possible for our long ride of several days to our final
destination, and, as there were no public houses on the road, our
dependence for accommodations, was upon the thinly scattered settlers,
who for the most part were "roughing it," and had few conveniences,
scarcely any comforts to offer the weary traveler.
One night the halt was called in front of a low log house of two
rooms, connected by an enclosed passage way, which served the purpose
of an eating room.
The mistress of the house was the wife of a steamboat captain, but
owing to some irreconcilable difference of sentiment, she refused to
live with him, and she was miserably poor. In pity to her sad case,
her husband had sent, by my father, some articles of clothing which he
hoped might be of use to her, and this errand served as our
introduction. She was a tall, fine looking woman, and received and
welcomed us with the air of a princess dwelling in a palace. She was a
niece of James Fennimore Cooper, and her grand and stately mien, in
the midst of such squalid poverty, would have been amusing, but for
the pity of it.
Her father, a very old man, lay dying of consumption in one of the
rooms, and my little sister and I were assigned for the night to a bed
directly opposite the death couch. The one tallow candle on the stand
beside him, guttering down in its socket, the fitful light from the
vast fireplace, which made strange fantastic shapes and shadows on the
rough dark walls, and the clear cut profile of the dying man, with the
erect dignified figure beside him, rising occasionally to arrange his
pillow, or give him water, impressed us most painfully, effectually
driving sleep from our eyes, which, under a kind of fascination, gazed
intently on what they would fain not see. From time to time the dogs
outside howled dismally, and this forced night-watch was made most
hideous by the occasional hooting of an owl, or the prolonged baying
of hungry wolves in the distance. We were very weary, and at last
fell into a troubled slumber, but were haunted even in sleep by the
ghastly face across the room and the weird shadows on the wall, 'till
aroused by mother's morning kiss, and cheery call to breakfast, which
banished all disturbing dreams, and waked us to the realities of a
bright sunshiny morning, and the morning meal which our grand hostess
had prepared for us to eat before we left this most uninviting
caravansary. This repast consisted of potatoes boiled "au natural,"
and some kind of drink which she announced as coffee, and which she
served with the grace of a queen, dispensing the delicacies of her
table.
I have never ceased to admire the admirable tact and grace with which
my father added to this choice menu; some very nice boiled beef and
other toothsome viands, with which our bountiful friends the Taylors,
had packed our messchest; also, some choice tea, which father,
accustomed to camping, knew how to prepare in perfection. All this he
did in such a way as to make the lady feel that it was an honor to us
to share these things with her, and it was really gratifying to see
her calm enjoyment of delicacies to which she had long been a
stranger. I think, too, that the fragrant cup of tea and the delicate
bit of toast, taken to the sick man, may have brought to his mind
tender recollections of a time when he lived like a gentleman, and
dispelled for a little while the memory of the family troubles, and
the complication of misfortunes which had reduced him to poverty and
a dying bed in this comfortless log cabin in the wilderness.
Kind friends met us with a hearty welcome at our journey's end, where
for a few years we had a very happy home. The memory of the weekly
musicals at John Kinzie's pleasant agency, and the delightful rides on
horseback over the Portage to the point where Portage City now stands,
quickens my heart-beats even now.
But where now are all those who then called that little quadrangle
"_home_?" Col. Cutler, Major Green, Captain Low, Lieutenants Johnston,
Hooe, Collingsworth, Lacy, McLure, Ruggles, Reid, Whipple, Doctors
Satterlee, McDougal and Foote, Sutlers Goodell, Satterlee, Clark,
Lieutenant Van Cleve and my own dear father? Alas! of all these but
one answers to roll-call, and he and I hold in sweet remembrance the
dear friends of our youth, and the beloved old fort, where He who hath
led us graciously all our days, first brought us together, and blessed
us with each other's love, and we thank Him from our hearts that He
has spared us to each other for so many years.
_CHAPTER XIII._
NEW HOME--SCHOOL DAYS.
There came a day in April, 1834, when my brother and I bade "good-bye"
to all, and, under our father's care, left Fort Winnebago to go East,
he to West Point, I to school in New Haven.
We descended the sinuous Fox river in an open boat, having on board,
besides ourselves, a crew of soldiers, and two ladies, who embraced
this opportunity to visit their Eastern home.
The spring rains set in the next day, and our voyage down the Fox
river lasted ten days, during which time we had ample opportunity to
test the efficacy of hydropathy, as our awning was by no means
waterproof, and we were literally soaked the greater part of the time.
In passing through Lake Winnebago the wind was so fearful that the
combined efforts of Captain and crew were necessary to prevent
shipwreck and disaster. The passage through the rapids below was
extremely hazardous, but a famous Indian pilot was employed to guide
us over, and no harm befel us. The picture of that tall, dark figure
at the bow, his long, black hair streaming in the wind, his arms bare,
his motions, as he shifted his pole from side to side, rapid and full
of unconscious grace, his eyes glowing like stars with anxious
vigilance, his voice ringing out clear and musical from time to time,
is as fresh in my mind as if all this was only yesterday.
But civilization and never-tiring enterprise have waved over it their
magic wand, and the whole scene is changed. Beautiful towns have
sprung up about the clear, blue lake, and the place that knew the
Indian and his people shall know him no more forever. In a distant
camping-place nearer the setting sun the remnant of a once powerful
tribe is dragging out its existence, waiting and expecting to be moved
still farther west when the white man wants the land they occupy,
_reserved_ to them only till that want becomes imperative and the
United States says: "Go farther!"
When we finally reached Fort Howard, and were cordially welcomed and
hospitably entertained by General Brooke, of the Fifth Regiment, we
forgot, in our exceeding comfort, all the perils and disagreeables by
the way, and not one of us experienced the slightest cold or
inconvenience from our long exposure to the elements.
We remained a week here awaiting a schooner, and I met for the first
time Captain and Mrs. Marcy, parents of Mrs. General McLellan. How
pretty and charming she was, and how kind and tender to the boy and
girl who were going away from home and mother for the first time! The
beautiful wife of General Brooke, too, was so loving and considerate
in her motherly attentions to us that she completely won our hearts,
and when she died, some years afterward, we felt bereaved.
The voyage by schooner to Buffalo through the Straits of
Mich-e-li-mac-i-nac and tempestuous little Lake St. Clair, a day or
two at hoary, magnificent Niagara, the journey thence by stage, canal,
railroad and steamboat to New York, filled up one month from the time
we took our farewell look at the star spangled banner floating over
our far Western home. And this sixteen mile ride by rail from
Schenectady to Albany, which was over the first piece of road opened
for travel in the United States, seemed so like magic as to inspire us
with a kind of awe. I remember that in coming to a steep grade the
passengers alighted, while the train was drawn up the slope by some
kind of stationary machinery.
I recalled this experience of my girlhood a few years ago when, in a
luxurious palace car, a party of us wound up and over the Veta pass,
an ascent of 2,439 feet in fourteen miles, and looking down the dizzy
height, as the two powerful engines, puffing and snorting like living
creatures, labored to reach the summit, I marvelled at the splendid
triumph of genius and skill.
After a pleasant day or two at West Point, where we left the young
Cadet, and a short visit to relatives in New York, a most enjoyable
trip in a "Sound" steamer brought us to the "City of Elms," one of the
great educational centers of New England, which was to be my home for
two years.
There were many learned men in New Haven then, and the faculty of the
time-honored old college had on its roll names which will never die,
Day, Silliman, Olmstead, and many others,--who were mighty in
eloquence and theology, like Leonard Bacon and Dr. Taylor, proclaimed
the truth with no uncertain sound in the churches on the "Green" from
Sabbath to Sabbath. Grand old Noah Webster, standing in the doorway of
his modest home on our road from school to church, was, to me, an
embodiment of the spelling-book and dictionary, and I instinctively
made obeisance to him as we passed that way.
One of the few privileges granted me in the way of recreation while at
"Mrs. Apthorpe's School for Young Ladies" was an occasional visit to
our dear cousins, the Brewsters, who occupied a beautiful home on the
Sound, formerly known as the "Pavillion," which might be called
historic, for in a dark dungeon underneath the house the notorious
regicides, Goff and Whalley, were hidden in the old, old times. And
the graveyard in New Haven, with its tall poplar trees, was an epitome
of the lives of men and women who had made their impress, not only on
that community, but on the world. Our school was situated on Hillhouse
avenue, and our walks were mostly confined to that quiet, shady street
and "Powder House lane," in order that we might avoid meeting the
"students," of whom our teacher seemed to have a great dread, a fear
from which her pupils were entirely free. But for all this care and
precaution we learned to know _by sight_ Benjamin Silliman, who lived
next door to us, and young Thomas Skinner, who was opposite, and it is
delightful to know that these two young men, who were full to the brim
with fun and harmless mischief, have become eminent and dignified men
of renown, one as a chemist and scientist, the other as a
distinguished divine and honored professor in a theological seminary.
The college commencement exercises were held in the Central Church, on
the "Green," and all the schools, male and female, were well
represented in the large audience. The ladies occupied the center of
the church, and, in order that the large bonnets in vogue at that time
might not intercept the view of the stage, several long lines were
stretched longitudinally over their heads, to which they were expected
to attach them, and, after all had hung up their bonnets, these lines
were drawn up out of the way until needed again. Many of the ladies
provided pretty caps and headdresses for the occasion, and the
delicate laces, with their tasteful trimmings, and the bright eyes and
happy faces, formed a pretty picture long to be remembered. Recalling
it, I see again the dimpled cheeks and soft, graceful appointments of
those merry girls, and, wafted backward over the bridge of many years,
I sit among them, the spring-time of youth comes back to me, and I
bless God for memory. What if we are old women now, worn and weary
with care and trial it may be; this blessed gift refreshes us on our
way to the eternal youth that awaits us just beyond, and we exult in
the belief that the flowers over there are fadeless, that old age is
not known, and friends no more say "good-bye."
[Illustration]
_CHAPTER XIV._
FATHER'S DEATH, ETC.
The fall of 1835 found us all, except our Cadet, at Fort Winnebago
again, but heavy afflictions made that winter a very sad one. The
anxiety consequent on the serious illness of two beloved members of
the family so wore upon our dear father, whose constitution had been
severely tried by arduous military duties, that after many weeks of
pain, he died, and left us crushed and desolate.
I have beside me an old "Order Book," open at a page on which is this
sad record:
"The Major Commanding has the painful duty to announce to the
command, the death of Major Nathan Clark; he will be buried
to-morrow afternoon at 2 o'clock, with the honors of war,
where all present, except those persons who may be expressly
excused, will appear under arms in full uniform; the
Commanding Officer directs that the escort be composed of
four companies, which, in accordance with his own feelings as
well as what is due to the deceased, he will command in
person. All officers of this command will wear black crape
attached to the hilts of their swords, and as testimony of
respect for the deceased, this badge will be worn for the
period of thirty days. The Surgeon of the Post will act as
Chaplain.
By order of Major Green.
Feb. 18th, 1836.
Signed J. T. COLLINGSWORTH, Act. Adj."
And at the time appointed, a detail of soldiers from his own "Company
C," reverently place upon the bier the encoffined form of their
beloved commander, having for a pall the "Stars and Stripes", on which
are laid the sword and accoutrements now no longer needed.
Memory brings back to me that mournful afternoon, and I see the
bearers with their burden; the long procession of soldiers with
trailed arms; the commissioned officers each in his appropriate place,
all keeping time and step to the muffled drum as it rolls out its
requiem on the wintry air, in the strains of Pleyel's heart-melting
hymn; the weeping wife and children in the large sleigh,--all passing
out the great gate to the lone graveyard. And the precious burden is
lowered, and at its head stands Surgeon Lyman Foote, our father's
life-long friend, and in a voice trembling with emotion, reads the
wonderful words: "I am the Resurrection and the Life, saith the Lord."
After the burial service comes the last salute, and, leaving there
that which is so dear to us, we go back to the empty quarters, bowed
down heavily, as those who mourn for one inexpressibly dear.
During those weeks of pain and languishing, my father, knowing what
the end must be, and realizing the change his death would make in all
our plans, left full directions for our future course; and in
accordance with his last wishes, my marriage with Lieutenant H. P. Van
Cleve was solemnized, in the presence of a few friends, March 22d,
1836. Rev. Henry Gregory, of the Episcopal Church, at that time
laboring as a missionary among the Stockbridge Indians, performed the
ceremony. His station was between the Forts Winnebago and Howard, and
he had a serious time making the journey on horseback to the fort, the
snow being very deep and the weather severe. Besides using up his
horse he became snow-blind, and reached us pretty well worn out, but
we can never forget his cheerful endurance of his trials, and his
genial, affable manner, which made warm friends of all who came in
contact with him. He was one who _lived_ the gospel which he preached,
and unconsciously diffused a beneficial influence all about him.
Notwithstanding his temporary blindness, he was so perfectly familiar
with the marriage service that there was no delay in consequence, and
after resting with us a few days, till his eyesight was restored, he
left us on a new horse to return to his home among the Indians, where
he labored faithfully and effectively for some years longer.
As soon as navigation opened, my mother went to Connecticut with two
children, leaving the youngest, a dear little three year old girl, in
our care. We spent the first summer of our married life very quietly
and happily at the old fort, and enjoyed exceedingly a visit from two
companies of the First Regiment, from Prairie du Chien, who had been
ordered up there, to strengthen our post, on account of a rumor of an
Indian outbreak which had reached Washington. Col. Zachary Taylor
commanded the detachment personally, and encamping just outside the
fort, made a beautiful display. Old General Brady was with them also,
and we were proud and happy to entertain our dear father's old friends
at our own table. To add to the pleasure of this visit, there was not
and had not been the slightest foundation for alarm. It was said that
not only were the Indians perfectly peaceable, but that they had not
enough ammunition to kill what game they needed for food. Colonel
Taylor knew all this, but was obliged to obey orders; so we had a
grand picnic of a few weeks, just when the prairies were covered with
delicious strawberries, and the cows were yielding abundance of milk
and cream. That was in the old time, when mails were monthly, and
telegraphing was a thing of the future.
In the following September, my husband having resigned his commission,
we bade a long "good bye" to the army and its many tender
associations. This step was taken after much thought and deliberation,
and in accordance with the advice of our dear father. But the army had
always been my home; I loved it as such. I love it still, and it is a
comfort to me in my old age to know that I am not far away from a
fort, that I can _almost_ see the beautiful flag, as it sways in the
breeze, can _almost_ hear the drum and fife, the music of my
childhood, and can _feel_ that they are near me, in dear old Fort
Snelling, my earliest home.
[Illustration]
_CHAPTER XV._
In 1840, being in Cincinnati, where we were delightfully situated, we
had a rare opportunity to witness the enthusiasm of our countrymen, as
displayed in the Presidential campaign of which General Harrison was
the successful man. The excitement of that time was tremendous. The
hard cider songs--
"And should we be any ways thirsty,
I'll tell you what we will all do,
We'll bring forth a keg of hard cider
And drink to old Tippecanoe."
Also: "For Tippecanoe and Tyler, too,
And with them we'll beat little Van.
Van, Van's a used-up man,
And with them we'll beat little Van."
Resounded through the streets from morn till midnight, drums beat and
cannons roared, and, seeing the way in which the poor old man was
dragged about from place to place in all kinds of processions, we were
not surprised when we learned of his death a few weeks after his
inauguration. Then, alas! what a sad procession passed through those
same streets, of late so full of life and joy; now heavily draped in
mourning and echoing to funereal strains, as the worn-out old man is
borne slowly through the beautiful city to rest in his quiet home at
North Bend. How empty seem all earthly honors in view of such sharp
contrasts. The lesson sank deep, and can never be forgotten. Looking
over the leaves of my diary kept during that eventful year, I find
recorded there a sorrowful incident that occurred during the winter,
bringing desolation to a rich man's home and grief to many loving
friends. I give it here in the form of a story, as I have told it to
my children from time to time. It is an entirely correct narrative,
without the slightest coloring, and I have called it "A Tale of the
Florida War."
"You had better go, dear Lizzie, it will do you good; the confinement
in this lonesome fort does not agree with you. A ride on horseback and
a pleasant visit with dear friends will brighten you up and bring back
some of the roses to your cheeks. My duty keeps me here, but Sherwood
will go with you; the Colonel will provide a suitable escort, and
there is nothing to fear. You will return in better spirits and be
happy again, will you not, my drooping lily? What! tears again? Dry
them, dearest, and let us hope that you will soon receive that
long-expected letter from your mother, for she must feel that by this
time, if any punishment was necessary, yours has been sufficient. Now
smile again, dear one, as you were wont to do in happier days, or I
shall tell you that my heart reproaches me for having taken you from
your luxurious home and brought upon you so much unhappiness." "Say
anything but that, my beloved, and I will try to conquer my sadness.
You know I would not exchange these simple quarters of a poor
Lieutenant for all the splendors of my father's house. For your sake,
and with you beside me to cheer and comfort me, I could bear all
hardship and privation; but, oh! to hear from my parents that I am
forgiven, that they still remember me with my sisters, as one of their
dear children. I will be patient, dear, and trust more fully in Him
who has said: 'When thy father and thy mother forsake thee, then the
Lord will take thee up.' He will surely hear my daily prayer and
restore peace to my heart, and we will dwell on the sweet promises we
read together in the Book we have learned to love so well, and will
trust Him who is our best, our unfailing friend. And now, since you,
my dear, kind husband, wish it, I will prepare for this little
excursion. I cannot bear to leave you here, but I shall be back soon,
and who knows but to-morrow's mail may bring some news from home which
will cheer and comfort us both. Yet I cannot account for a feeling
that takes possession of me now and then, that something is about to
happen; that all will not be well while we are absent the one from the
other. What can it be? I cannot shake it off. The fort may be
attacked, and should anything befall you, my best beloved, what would
become of me? Much better remain and perish with you than return to a
desolate home."
"Now, my darling, do not give way to such dismal forebodings. You
always cheered me during those days of doubt and suspense in Newport,
bidding me look forward to brighter days. You would not now sadden the
hours of your absence from me by causing anxious thoughts in my heart.
Oh! my precious wife; you have borne much for my sake, you have been
to me in very truth a ministering angel. Do not now despond, but still
strengthen me by your brave, hopeful smiles. You know how I shall miss
you every moment of your absence, but the hope that this ride will do
you good makes me willing and anxious to have you go. And see, the
Orderly has just brought your horse, and Sherwood is crossing the
parade to tell you he is ready. Let me put your shawl around you and
tie your hat, that you may be all in waiting for him." The young wife
turned upon him her large, beautiful eyes, beaming with love, and,
twining her arms about his neck, kissed the "good-bye" she could not
speak. Then, looking earnestly to heaven, she silently called down the
protection of heaven on him whom she loved only next to God, in whom
she trusted. Her husband tenderly embraced her, led her into the
parlor, and, handing her to the young officer who was to take charge
of her, said: "Be careful of her, Sherwood, and let me see you both by
noon to-morrow. My compliments to the ladies of Fort Holmes, and urge
Mrs. Montgomery's special friend to return with her and partake of the
hospitalities of Fort Adams." Sherwood bowed in acquiescence, and,
assisting the lady into her saddle, acknowledged gracefully the honor
conferred upon him and mounted his horse, which was impatient to
begone. Then the last "good-byes" were spoken, loving looks exchanged,
and in a few moments the young Lieutenant and his precious charge had
passed through the gate and were out of sight. The young husband gazed
after them a long while, with anxious, troubled look. "Dear girl," he
said, at last, "she, too, feels forebodings of coming ill, and I dare
not tell her, but for days I have felt much depressed. This is wrong,
however. I must struggle against it and try to be cheerful when she
returns. Why should I feel thus? We were never more secure than at
present, and soon this vile war will be over, and surely by the time
we return to our homes the parents of my precious wife will have
become reconciled to us, and we shall be very happy." Turning from the
door and entering the room where he had parted with his wife, he threw
himself on the lounge, overcome by various emotions, and, in fact, far
from well in body, though this had been carefully concealed from his
anxious wife.
While he is thus resting and trying to put away unpleasant thoughts,
and our fair heroine is pursuing her way to Fort Holmes, we will tell
the reader of some of the peculiar circumstances of Lieutenant
Montgomery and his gentle bride, at the time our story begins. Lizzie
Taylor was a fair girl of little more than seventeen summers when she
first met Lieutenant Montgomery at a party given by some of the
_elite_ of Cincinnati. They were mutually attracted to each other, and
being thrown frequently into each other's society, this feeling
gradually ripened into love. Honorable and high-minded in all things,
young Montgomery did not conceal his fondness for Lizzie, and it was
generally known that he was her lover. But her father, a man of great
wealth and ambition, did not approve of what he chose to call her
childish fancy, and, being desirous that his daughters should form
brilliant marriages, frowned scornfully on the suit of one who had
_only_ his irreproachable character and his commission in the army of
the United States to offer as his credentials. Opposition in this
case, however, had its usual effect, and Lizzie, in all things else
obedient and complying, felt that here, even her father should not
interfere, when his objections were simply want of wealth and
influence on the part of him to whom she had given her young heart.
The young people, were not hasty, however, but waited patiently and
uncomplainingly a year, the father promising them that he would think
of it and give them an answer at that time. The proud man flattered
himself, that during that probationary year he could divert his
daughter from her foolishness, as he termed it, and excite her
ambition to form a wealthy alliance.
To this end, he travelled with her, introduced her into gay and
fashionable circles, and lavished upon her indulgences in every shape.
But he realized little of the depths of a woman's love, and was much
astonished when, at the end of the year, she sought an interview with
him, in which she told him, her feelings were unchanged, and she
desired his consent and blessing on her union with Lieutenant
Montgomery, adding that she hoped that time had softened his feelings
towards one with whom he could find no fault save that he loved his
daughter, and who was prepared to be to him a dutiful, loving son.
Her father turned upon her in anger, and stamping violently, swore by
all that was sacred that never would he give his consent to her union
with one so much beneath her in wealth and position. "Then, father,"
said his gentle daughter, mildly but with much dignity; "we will marry
without it, for as sure as God has witnessed our vows, so surely shall
nought but death part him and me; 'his people shall be my people, and
his God, my God.' Forgive me this first act of disobedience to your
commands, and believe me that I still love you as tenderly as I have
always loved my father; but there are feelings which not even a
parent's authority can control, and with the blessing of God and the
love of him most dear to me of all on earth, I can brave even more
than a father's displeasure." So saying, she left the room, while her
father, astonished beyond measure, remained motionless, completely
taken by surprise at this determined opposition to his will in one who
had hitherto been all gentleness and submission. Days passed, and she
continued as ever, gentle and loving to her father. No reference by
either was made to their late conversation, and he began to think she
had thought better of it and had concluded to yield to his wishes,
even congratulated himself that the _childish affair_ had been nipped
in the bud by his timely and judicious authority, when on one bright
summer day, like a thunder-clap from an unclouded sky, came a very
polite note from Lieutenant Montgomery apprising him of the fact that
Lizzie and he had just been married in the presence of a few friends
by an Episcopal clergyman, and that they craved his forgiveness and
blessing. From that moment her father's heart, already hard, was set
as a flint against her. No entreaties could prevail on him to see her,
and her mother, nearly crazy with grief, anger and wounded pride, took
counsel of friends, who most unwisely encouraged her bitterness and
convinced her that no concessions should be made to a disobedient
child under any circumstances, making the poor, distressed, mistaken
mother feel that it was a Christian duty to let her feel that her act
had made her an outcast from her parents' love and home. Therefore,
although she saw the poor girl occasionally, she always heaped on her
devoted head the most withering reproaches, telling her she had
disgraced her father's name, and must expect to reap the fruits of her
disobedience. And when the sad little bride sent to her, begging for
some of her clothes, of which she was sadly in need, for she had
carried nothing with her when she left her old home, she tore from
its frame a beautiful portrait of dear Lizzie, and, rolling it up in
some of the very plainest of her clothing, sent it, with the message
that they had no further need of it, and that the articles sent were
good enough for one in her position.
During that summer Lieutenant Montgomery was stationed at Newport,
Ky., on the recruiting service, where my husband, my mother and I
occasionally visited them, and we were astonished to notice with what
perfect kindness, even affection, they always spoke of her parents and
friends; but when we found her once reading God's Word and staying
herself on His precious promises, we no longer wondered that there was
in her heart no feeling of bitterness, for she, too, had learned the
lessons He taught, who, "when He was reviled, reviled not again, but
committed himself to Him who judgeth righteously." A very few of her
friends still visited her, but nearly all felt it would not be politic
to be found in sympathy with one on whom the wealthy and influential
Griffin Taylor frowned with displeasure. She always believed her
father would relent, and sometimes, when she saw him approaching her
on the street, her heart would give a great bound with the hope that
now he would surely speak to her; but as soon as the proud man saw
her, he invariably crossed the street to avoid the meeting, and then
she felt sore and wounded, indeed. So the summer passed away, and in
the fall came orders for the Lieutenant to join his regiment, then
engaged in the terrible war with the Seminoles in Florida. All
wondered if Lizzie's love for her husband would stand this severe
test, and many were astonished when they heard it was her intention to
accompany him to the land of the Everglades, where so many had lost
their lives, and where the prevailing fever or the deadly tomahawk
might leave her alone among strangers. A few days before they left we
visited them in the old Newport barracks, and I said to her: "Lizzie;
remember you are a soldier's wife, and must not give way to fear."
Never can I forget the look of tenderness with which her husband
regarded her as he replied for her: "Dear Lizzie has no fear; she is
more of a soldier than I am. Had it not been for her brave bearing and
her sweet words of encouragement, I know not but I might have turned
coward at the thought of exposing the dear girl to the dangers and
privations of such a campaign; but the knowledge that I possess such a
treasure will nerve my arm and give me courage to fight manfully to
preserve her from danger, and to end this dreadful war with the
relentless savages." After repeated but vain efforts to see her
father, she bade farewell to her friends, and those to whom she had
clung during her days of trial and suspense accompanied her to the
steamer which was to carry her from her home. The day was a cheerless
one; the sun veiled his face behind dark, ominous clouds, and the wind
sighed mournfully, as if moaning out a requiem. We felt oppressed with
foreboding; we knew she was going into the midst of real danger; her
father had refused to see her; her mother had parted with her in
anger; nearly all her old friends had frowned upon her, and now nature
seemed to give signs of displeasure, though we who loved her felt that
the heavens were weeping in full sympathy with the dear girl. The
young husband and wife strove to be cheerful, she smiled sweetly
through her tears, as she spoke of returning in the spring, expressing
the hope that by that time her parents would have forgiven them and
would welcome them into the beloved family circle.
We stand on the wharf as the boat pushes off, waving our last
"good-byes" and breathing prayers for their safety and welfare, while
she leans on the arm of him for whom she has forsaken all but God; the
great wheels revolve, the boat moves on her way, and that girlish
form, on whom our eyes are fixed, grows fainter and fainter, till it
fades out of sight. We heard from them immediately on their arrival at
Fort Adams, and the Lieutenant wrote that Lizzie was well and would be
perfectly happy but for the thought of her parents' displeasure. Her
young sister, Carrie, a sweet girl of thirteen, had shed many tears
for her, and had used all her eloquence to bring about a
reconciliation, apparently in vain, but finally she had so far
prevailed with her mother as to extort a promise from her that she
would write to her, which fact she straightway communicated to Lizzie,
who was, at the opening of our story, looking anxiously for this
promised letter, which might contain words of love, perhaps
forgiveness. But she had looked so long and had been so often
disappointed, that suspense, that worst of all trials to a wounded
spirit, had affected her health and made her pale and sad. It was on
this account her husband had prevailed on her to accept an invitation
from an old friend of hers and make a little excursion to Fort Holmes.
The real object of the trip was the bearing of important messages to
Fort Holmes, and a full escort had been detailed as a matter of
prudence, although the Indians had been very quiet for some time and
no danger was apprehended. Lieutenant Sherwood, as commander of the
expedition, deemed it an honor to take especial charge of the young
wife, who by her gentle loveliness had endeared herself to all. But
after they were out of sight Montgomery became very restless, and,
remaining only a short time on the sofa where we left him, when we
commenced this long digression, he arose and paced the floor in deep
and anxious thought, and at length, as if to throw off the terrible
weight that oppressed him, went to the door where he had parted from
his darling, and oh! horror! there stands her horse, panting and
riderless, quivering in every limb with fright. Without an instant's
delay he sprang on to the animal and rode, he scarcely knew where, not
knowing nor daring to surmise what terrible thing had befallen his
precious wife. What words can depict the scene that broke upon his
bewildered gaze when the horse instinctively stopped about three miles
from the fort? There on the ground lay several soldiers, murdered,
scalped and stripped of their clothing. A little farther on lay poor
Sherwood, butchered by the brutal savages, and near him the lifeless
body of her whom he had died to protect. Close by her side lay a
soldier mortally wounded, who had just strength enough left to say: "I
fought--for her--till the last,--Lieutenant,--and have saved her--from
the horrid scalping-knife." Poor, distracted Montgomery threw himself
on the ground beside her, calling despairingly upon her, imploring her
to speak one more word to him, but all in vain; and when the troops
from the fort, who had taken the alarm, arrived at the dreadful spot,
he lay like one dead, with his arm around the lifeless form of his
precious Lizzie. And thus they carried them home in the conveyance
sent for the purpose--the poor husband to awake to a bitter sense of
his terrible bereavement, and she who had so lately been a lovely
bride, to be dressed for her burial. Imagine, if you can, the feelings
of her parents when the heartrending news reached them. Her father's
pride was crushed, her mother's heart was broken, and those who knew
her well say, although she lived many years, that she never smiled
again. Her father wrote immediately to Lieutenant Montgomery,
imploring him to come to him and be to him as an own son, feeling this
to be the only reparation he could make to him and his poor, murdered
child. This offer was, of course, rejected, for how could the
heartbroken husband consent to live in the home from which his dear
wife had been turned in anger away.
Her parents felt that they deserved this, but wrote again begging the
body of their daughter, that it might repose among her own kindred and
not among a savage people. To this he consented, although he could not
be prevailed on to come himself to Cincinnati, and accordingly, early
in the spring, the remains of the once lovely and idolized Lizzie
Taylor were brought to her father's house.
Her false-hearted summer friends could now weep for her as the
daughter of the rich Griffin Taylor, while they would scarcely have
regretted her as simply the wife of a poor soldier. Alas! for the
hollow friendship of the world! Had one-half the sympathy been
bestowed upon the poor child when she was turned from her father's
door, an outcast, as was lavished on her poor, unconscious body when
lying in that father's house a corpse, how much she would have been
cheered and comforted under her sore trial. Everything possible was
done to make it a splendid funeral--a rosewood coffin and velvet pall,
crape streamers and funereal plumes, an elegant hearse, and an almost
unending line of carriages--pitiable, senseless pride, that would cast
away as worthless the priceless jewel, and bestow tender care and
pompous honor on the perishable casket that once held it!
Nearly fifty years have passed into history since that mild spring
day, when the long procession passed through the streets of
Cincinnati, telling in its mournful march of wounded pride, blighted
hopes, broken hearts, and agony unspeakable. And yet so indelibly is
it fixed in my memory that it seems but yesterday, and I find it hard
to realize that the young, gallant officer for whom our hearts were
sore that day, is now an old man, with white hair, still in the
service of the country he has faithfully served through all these
years, holding high rank, and honored, respected and beloved by all
who know him. The father, mother, sister, and very many of the nearest
relatives and friends of the dear girl have passed away. Soon all who
personally knew of this story will be gone. A simple but appropriate
monument to the memory of the gallant Sherwood and the brave, true
soldier, who gave up his life to protect the precious body from
mutilation, was erected where they fell, and may still be standing
there, but that is all that remains to tell of this heartrending
incident of the bloody war with the Seminoles in the Everglades of
Florida.
_CHAPTER XVI._
From our pleasant home and work in Cincinnati we were called away by
the illness and death of Lieutenant C. C. Daveiss, a brother-in-law
and army associate of my husband, to whom he left the care of his
family and the settlement of his business. He had resigned his
commission in the army a few years before, and had settled on a large
plantation which he owned near La Grange, Missouri, and Daveiss
Prairie, as it was called, was our home for two years, during which
time we had some new experiences, and a fine opportunity to study a
class of people entirely different from any former associations. They
were mostly from what might be called the backwoods of Kentucky; were
ignorant, and had some very crude notions of the world at large.
Nearly all of them owned a few slaves, raised a great many hogs,
cultivated large fields of corn, and were content with a diet of corn
bread and bacon, varied, during their long summers, with vegetables,
melons and honey, all of which were very abundant. They had some cows
and sheep, and some fine horses, which enjoyed unlimited pasturage on
the succulent grasses of the prairies. They made their own clothing
from the wool, spun and woven at home, and were in a measure
independent of the world. They were religiously inclined, and had
preaching every Sabbath, at some accessible point, the Baptist,
Methodist, Presbyterian, and Campbellite preachers alternating, the
first named denomination being the most numerous. Among them was a
stalwart, _powerful_ preacher, who was also the owner of a fine farm
and a pretty strong force of negroes. He was held in high esteem for
his great natural gifts, and we can never forget the meed of praise
accorded him by his gentle, adoring wife, when, in speaking of this
mighty man, she said, with exultation: "Mr. L. is so gifted that he
never has to study his sermons. They come naturally to him. He hardly
ever looks at a book from Sunday till Saturday, not even the Bible!"
and we believed her.
The houses were built mostly of logs, and the architecture was of the
most primitive style. The living room was furnished with one or more
beds, a table, and strong home-made hickory chairs with painfully
straight backs; and it was customary in occupying one of them to lean
it back against the wall or bed, at a convenient angle, putting the
feet on the rounds; and this fashion made it the proper thing to
salute a visitor thus: "How-d'y? Walk right in; take a cheer, and lean
back." One of our neighbors, in giving her ideas of a newcomer, said:
"She's smart enough 's fur as I know, but I don't reckon she knows
much about manners, for when I _sot_ down on a cheer she never asked
me to lean back."
Soon after we were settled at Daveiss Prairie, a neighbor, hearing we
had taught school elsewhere, called to see me, and opened up the
subject of education with, "I'd kind o' like to have our Reu_ben_ larn
figgers; he takes to larnin the prettiest you ever see. But, law
sakes, he ain't nothin to our Pop. Why, Pop can read ritin"! I learned
subsequently that "our Pop", a pretty girl of eighteen or twenty, was
the wonder of the country on account of this rare accomplishment, and
seeing her frequently on horseback, with her "_ridin-skeert_" tucked
about her, as if for a journey, I inquired one day if she had any
special calling, and learned that she rode from farm to farm, as her
services were needed, to read the letters received by the different
families; "and", my informant added, "she makes a heap of money, too;
I tell you Pop's smart."
Another ambitious mother called to learn if I would teach her "Sam
_the tables_, so'st he can measure up potatoes and garden truck
handy," adding, "it ain't no use for girls to bother much with
figgers, but I see Miss Daveiss draw in a piece" (into the loom)
"without countin' every thread, so you may just let Kitty larn enough
to do that-a way." Spending an afternoon with this mother, a good,
sensible woman and very kind neighbor, I found her preparing the
wedding trousseau of one of her girls, who was to be married the next
week. She was a good girl, a general favorite, and all were much
interested in the coming event. In the course of my visit one of the
daughters called out, "Lucy, where's the fine needle? you had it
last;" and the reply came, promptly, "I reckon it's in that crack over
yon, whar I stuck it when I done clar'd off the bed last night;" and
there it was, sure enough, and by the aid of that little solitary
implement some delicate ruffling was hemmed, and the bride looked very
pretty and bright a few days later, when she stood beside her chosen
husband in her humble home and promised to be to him a good, true
wife; and when, after a bountiful wedding feast, the happy pair
mounted their horses, and, amidst the good wishes and congratulations
of friends, rode away to the new log house in the wilderness, where
they were to make a home. I could not but admire these simple souls,
who knew nothing of the strife and turmoil and excitement of the outer
world, and required so little to make them happy.
Besides this class of people of whom I have been telling, there were
several families in our neighborhood who were well educated and
refined, and we formed lasting friendships among them. It may be that,
if Missouri had been a free State, we might have made our home there,
but slavery, even as exhibited here in its mildest form, was an
insuperable objection, and when my husband, having faithfully
discharged his trust, felt that his sister's affairs were in such a
state that she no longer required his aid, we bade farewell to our
beloved relatives, to our dear friend Richard Garnett and others, and
returned to Michigan, which had been our first home after leaving the
army. Here we remained for many years, much of the time in Ann Arbor,
where we were engaged in teaching, and where we formed many warm
friendships, and became much attached to the beautiful city, which has
taken so high a rank as an educational center. Our school was large,
and comprised a male and female department, in the former of which a
number of young men were prepared for the university. Among them was
James Watson, who became so famous as an astronomer, and who from the
first astonished all by his wonderful facility in all branches of
mathematics. We meet now and then some of our old pupils, middle-aged
men and women, and are proud to see them filling their places in the
world as good wives and mothers or useful, earnest men. We watched the
growth of the University of Michigan from its infancy, and rejoiced
when Chancellor Tappan took it in hand and gave it an impetus which
changed its status from an academy to a vigorous go-ahead college,
with wonderful possibilities. He was a grand man. It was a pleasure
and an honor to know him, and Michigan owes much to his wise and
skillful management, which brought her university up to the high
position it occupies to-day.
We loved Michigan, and would fain have lived there always, but several
of our family became much enfeebled by the malarial influences so
prevalent at that time in the beautiful peninsula, and we felt that a
complete change of climate was imperatively necessary. So, bidding a
reluctant good-bye to home and friends, we turned our faces towards
Minnesota, in the hope that that far-famed atmosphere would drive away
all tendency to intermittent fevers and invigorate our shattered
constitutions.
[Illustration]
_CHAPTER XVII._
In the autumn of 1856 our family removed to Long Prairie, Todd county,
Minnesota, as the nucleus of a colony which was to settle and develop
a large tract of land, purchased from government by a company, some
members of which were our friends and relatives.
The weather was very pleasant when we left our Michigan home, but at
the Mississippi river the _squaw winter_, immediately preceding
_Indian summer_, came upon us with unusual sharpness, and lasted
through the remainder of our journey. We were to cross the river at a
little hamlet called "Swan River," and our plan was to hire
conveyances there which should take us the remaining distance. But on
arriving at this point we found a young friend who had come West for
his health, and was acting as agent for my brother, one of the owners
of the purchase. He was on a business errand and not well prepared to
take us back with him, but as we learned that it would be impossible
to procure transportation for two or three days, and were extremely
anxious to reach the end of our journey, he decided to make the
attempt. We made the transit in small skiffs amidst huge cakes of
floating ice, which threatened to swamp us before we reached the
western shore, and our fears well nigh got the better of some of us,
but taking a lesson from the implicit confidence our dear children
reposed in us, we rested in our Heavenly Father's love and care, and
so passed safely and trustingly over. At 4 P. M., we struck out into
the wilderness, but, the roads being rough and our load heavy, we made
very slow progress. By 9 o'clock we had not reached the half-way mark,
but by way of encouragement to the horses, and in consideration of the
tired, hungry children, we came to a halt and improvised a nocturnal
picnic. It was cold, very cold, there was no shelter, no light but the
camp-fire, and yet there was an attempt at cheerfulness, and the
entertainment passed off with some degree of merriment.
After an hour's rest we resumed our journey, and, although our
conveyance was an open wagon, so crowded as to be very uncomfortable,
especially for the children, yet we did the best we could, and the
little emigrants bore the journey bravely for some hours longer. But
when within six miles of our destination, just beside a deserted
Indian encampment, our horses fairly gave out and would not pull
another inch. So a large camp-fire was made; a sort of shelter
constructed of branches of trees; a Buffalo robe laid on the ground,
and the weary travelers found a temporary resting place, while our
young friend, above alluded to, started with the used-up team to bring
us help, if he could reach the prairie. I had chosen to pass the hours
of waiting in the wagon, feeling that I could better protect my dear
little baby in this way. So when all the tired ones were still, and
the silence only broken by the crackling of the burning fagots, the
occasional falling of a dry twig or branch from the bare, ghostly
looking trees about us, the hooting of an owl, the dismal howlings of
the wolves in the forest, I sat there looking at the weary forms so
illy protected from the cold, thinking of the little white beds in
which my dear ones were wont to slumber peacefully and comfortably,
the friends whom we had left, who might even now be dreaming of us, of
some of the farewell tea drinkings by cheerful firesides in dear old
Ann Arbor, where tender words had been spoken, and our prospects in a
far western home been discussed over delicate, tempting viands,
prepared by loving hands; and these thoughts kept my _heart_ warmed
and comforted, albeit I shivered with external cold; but hugging my
baby closer, and committing all to the care of Him who never slumbers
nor sleeps, I was just sinking into unconsciousness when a voice, not
heard for a year and a half, broke the deep stillness with: "How!
Nitchie!" and there by the flickering light of the fire, I saw our
eldest son, who had left us, for a trip with his uncle to the Rocky
Mountains a mere boy, and now stood before us in size a man. As his
father rose to his feet, he exclaimed in an agony of joy: "Oh! father,
is it you?" and he fell upon his father's neck and wept, and his
father wept upon his neck. Then, as in a dream, I heard, "Where's
mother?" in an instant he stood beside me, and I was sobbing in the
arms of my first-born, my well-beloved son.
Our messenger had told him that the horses had given out just beside
an Indian encampment, and that, unless all haste was made, the load
might be carried off. So the boy, without a moment's delay, took his
horses and came at full speed to save the goods. Hence his first
salutation, greeting, as he supposed, a party of Chippewas.
The little camp was all alive with surprise and joyful excitement, and
with a hearty appreciation of this very good practical joke, we were
soon in motion again, wending our way, with lightened hearts, to our
journey's end, which we reached without further let or hindrance.
After a brief, but much needed rest, we opened our eyes on a calm fair
Sabbath morning, and our new home, in the soft hazy light of an Indian
summer sunrise was very lovely. It required no very vivid imagination
to fancy ourselves in the happy valley of "Rasselas, Prince of
Abyssinia," and it seemed to me impossible that any one could ever
desire, like that discontented youth, to leave so charming a spot. The
term prairie is a misnomer in this case; instead we found a beautiful
fruitful valley lying between two low ranges of hills, interspersed
with groves of trees and picturesque lakes, and watered by a river
winding gracefully through its whole length. It had been the seat of
the Winnebago Agency, and there were, still standing, in pretty good
order, a large number of houses. These buildings, empty though they
were, gave the idea of a settlement, dispelling every thing like a
feeling of loneliness or isolation. On our way to our new home, we
had purchased, at Dubuque, ample supplies for a year, but, (the
steamboats at that season being much crowded), were obliged to leave
them with our household goods to follow, as we were assured in the
next boat. Resting in this assurance and being supplied for the
present, we had no anxiety for the future; we knew not what was before
us. God tenderly "shaded our eyes," and we were very happy and full of
hope. Prairie hens and pheasants were abundant beyond belief. Our
boys, standing in the kitchen door, could frequently shoot as many as
we needed from the trees in the dooryard, while the numerous lakes in
the vicinity afforded us most excellent fish, such as an epicure might
have envied us. Some of our family, enfeebled by malarial fevers, and
the ills resulting from them, imbibed fresh draughts of health and
life with every breath, the weak lungs and tender irritable throats
healed rapidly in the kindly strengthening atmosphere, and hearts that
had been sore at parting with dear friends and a beloved home, were
filled with gratitude to Him who had led us to so fair and lovely a
resting place, and we mark that time with a white stone in memory of
His loving kindness in thus preparing us for what was to come.
Early in December, winter came upon us in earnest; snow fell to such a
depth that we were fairly shut out from the whole world, and so
suddenly as to find us unprepared. It was difficult and almost
impossible, on account of the deep snow, to procure wood sufficient
to keep up the constant fires necessary on account of the intense
cold. We had no mail, no telegraph, no news from our supplies. Yet we
hoped and made the best of our situation. Our children, who had read
"Robinson Crusoe" and "Swiss Family Robinson," thoroughly enjoyed this
entirely new experience, and, every day explored the various empty
houses, returning from their expeditions with different household
articles left by the former occupants as worthless, but which served
us a purpose in furnishing our table and kitchen. But day by day our
temporary supplies lessened, and with all the faith we could call to
our aid, we could not but feel somewhat anxious. A crop of wheat
raised on the place the preceding summer had been stored, unthreshed,
in some of the empty buildings, and this, at last, came to be our only
dependence. The mill on the property had, of course, been frozen up,
and only after hours of hard work, could my husband and boys so far
clear it of ice, as to succeed in making flour, and such flour! I have
always regretted that we did not preserve a specimen for exhibition
and chemical analysis, for verily the like was never seen before, and
I defy any one of our great Minneapolis mills to produce an imitation
of it. The wheat was very smutty, and having no machinery to remedy
this evil, all efforts to cleanse it proved unsatisfactory, but the
compound prepared from it which we called _bread_, was so rarely
obtainable, as to be looked upon as a luxury. Our daily "staff of
life" was unground wheat.
A large number of Chippewa Indians were encamped about us most of the
time, and not being able to hunt successfully, on account of the very
deep snow, were driven to great extremity, and sometimes, acting on
the well established principle, that "self-preservation is the first
law of nature," broke in the windows of our extemporized granaries,
and helped themselves to grain. They were welcome to it under the
circumstances, but in obtaining it they had broken in the windows, and
had mixed glass with it to such an extent that it was unsafe for food
until we had picked it all over, grain by grain. This process was our
daily occupation and amusement. I distinctly recall the scene in our
dining-room, when all the available members of the family were seated
around a long pine table, with a little pile of wheat before each,
replenished from time to time from the large heap in the center,
working away industriously, conversing cheerfully, telling interesting
and amusing stories, singing songs, never complaining, but all
manifesting a feeling of gratitude that we still saw before us what
would support life, for, at least, a while longer; and taking heart
and strength to endure, in the hope that before this, our last
resource was exhausted, we should receive our long expected supplies,
which were somewhere on the way to us. This wheat was boiled, and
eaten with salt, the only seasoning of any kind we had; no butter, no
milk, no meat, nothing, and yet we never can forget the intense relish
with which our children partook of it, one of them remarking, on one
occasion, "Mother, how good this wheat is; I wish you would write to
Ann Arbor and tell the boys there of it; I don't believe they know." A
little child was teaching us, and the amount of strength and comfort
imparted to us by such a manifestation of perfect contentment,
gratitude and trust can never be computed in words. We realized in
those days, as never before, the full force and beauty of the
Icelandic custom: living in the midst of dangers seen and unseen,
these people, we are told, every morning open the outer door, and
looking reverently up to Heaven, thank God they are still alive. So
when with each returning day we saw our children safe and well, our
first feeling was, gratitude that the Eternal God, who was our only
refuge, had not removed from underneath us His everlasting arms.
The nearest settlement of any kind was "Swan River," on the
Mississippi, but we were so completely blockaded with snow, that no
team could possibly get through. Two or three times during that
memorable winter, our oldest son, a boy of eighteen years, made the
trip on snow-shoes, at the risk of his life, to get our mail, and
learn, if possible, something from our supplies. The round trip was a
three days' journey, and there being no stopping place or house of any
kind on the route, he, of course, was obliged to camp out one night.
Our anxiety during his absence was terrible, and we remember vividly
our overpowering sense of relief, when, at the close of the third day,
long before his form was discernible, some familiar song in his clear
ringing tones, broke on the still night air, to assure the dear home
folks he was safe and well. Like the man whose business was so urgent
he could not stop to rest, but now and then picked up a stone and
carried it some distance, then threw it down, and went on relieved and
encouraged, so we, when we laid down this burden of anxiety felt
rested and better able to bear our daily trials.
It is due to our only neighbors, the Indians, to say that they were by
no means troublesome, that our intercourse with them was pleasant, and
to some of them we became much attached. A great chief's wife was a
frequent visitor at our house, her little son, of perhaps eight
winters being her invariable attendant. On one occasion having missed
a small case-knife of rather peculiar formation, which was in daily
use, I ventured to ask her if the little lad had taken it to their
wigwam, it occurred to me he might have done so, innocently to show to
some of his family, in whose honesty I had implicit faith. The old
woman drew herself up to her full height, and with a grace and dignity
which would have done honor to the mother of the Gracchi, said, in all
the expressiveness of her native tongue: "_The son of Ne-ba-quum
cannot steal!_" In real admiration and reverent contrition, I laid my
hand on the injured mother's shoulder, and explained my meaning. She
accepted my apology fully and graciously, giving me her hand, in token
that my error was condoned, and you will readily believe it was never
repeated. Through all the years of our residence at Long Prairie she
and her family were always welcome guests at our house, when in their
wanderings they came that way, and when, during our late war, her
brave, loyal husband's offers to assist us in our struggle, were
contemptuously scorned by one of our Generals, and the mortified,
broken-hearted old chieftain, unable to bear up under such an insult,
went to the "happy hunting grounds," we sincerely mourned the loss of
our staunch and honored friend, Ne-ba-quum.
Some time in January, our five year old boy was very suddenly seized
with pleurisy in its most violent form, and for hours he seemed in
mortal agony. We had no efficient remedies, no doctor within thirty,
perhaps fifty miles, and to complicate matters, I had lain down sick
for the first time, thoroughly vanquished by fatigue and unusual
exposure. But that sickness of mine had to be postponed, and we fought
all that night with the fearful disease, using vigorously all the
external remedies within our reach, cupping the dear child with
inexperienced hands, but prayerful hearts, leaning entirely upon God,
who, when we cried unto Him in our distress, heard and mercifully
regarded our cries. The acute and agonizing symptoms of the attack
were subdued, but lung fever supervened, and for four weeks our dear
boy lay very near death. His form wasted, his hands, through extreme
attenuation, became almost translucent, and we could only watch and
pray, and use all the means in our power to alleviate his sufferings.
I recall the seasons of family worship around that sick bed, when we
were drawn so near the All-pitying Father that we could talk with Him,
as a man talketh with his friend, when the loving Savior made us feel
that He was near us to sympathize with us, and the Blessed Comforter
brooded over us, and spoke peace to our sorrowing hearts, so that we
could say, "Thy will be done," and from our hearts could sing:
"_Ill_ that God blesses is our _good_,
And unblest _good_ is ill;
And all is right, that seems most wrong,
If it be His dear will.
"When obstacles and trials seem
Like prison walls to be;
We'll do the little we can do,
And leave the rest to Thee."
During this trying time, our stock of candles was nearly exhausted,
and our weary watchings were only lighted by a sense of God's
presence. So with our hand on the dear sufferer, and our ear attentive
to his breathing, his father and I sat beside him, lighting our candle
only when absolutely necessary, and felt as none can feel until they
have tested it, the sustaining grace and Infinite love of the Blessed
Watcher, who never slumbers nor sleeps. He granted us sweet thoughts
of His love and precious promises, which were to us as songs in the
night, and under the shadow of His wings, our hearts were kept in
perfect peace. Thanks to the Great Healer, a change for the better
came, and then occurred a strange thing, that has always seemed to me
directly Providential.
During a bitter wind and blinding snow storm, some snow birds took
refuge in our wood-shed and were caught by the Indian boys. At the
suggestion of our oldest son, who had read somewhere the story of a
sick child and her Canaries, these little refugees were brought into
the nursery and soon became perfectly tame, flying all about the sick
boy's head, lighting on his hands, and amusing and resting him
wonderfully. For several days the storm continued, and we sheltered
the little creatures, our invalid growing better so rapidly as to
excite our surprise. But at last there came a mild bright day, and we
turned them out to find their companions. Why was it that they flew
only a few rods and then fell dead? To us it seemed that these little
winged messengers had been driven to us in our extremity by the fury
of the storm as healing agents, and had given their lives for our
child's. The question now arose, where shall we find suitable food for
our convalescent? There seemed no possible help for us, but we
believed it would come. One morning as I sat wondering how this would
be brought about, my dear brother came in, and handing me a fresh laid
egg, said: "I did not know there was a fowl on the place, but it
seems that an old superannuated hen, who doubtless has lived in the
wheat all winter has suddenly been aroused to a sense of her duty, and
this is the result." Had the golden egg, famous in fable, been
presented in his other hand for my choice, it would have been to me no
better than a chip, but the treasure he brought me was of priceless
value, and I received it gratefully as a gift from God. It furnished a
whole day's nourishment for our exhausted, feeble little boy, and for
three days he was supplied in the same way; then, just as he was more
hungry than ever, and when it was evident he never could regain his
strength without nourishment, the supply ceased. We waited and
trusted, and in a day or two our son found a fine pheasant, which had
evidently lost its way, sitting in the snow, wondering, perhaps, where
all its companions were, and why the berries were all gone. Where it
came from we never knew, but we do know that there never was so
delicious a bird eaten. It was reserved for the sick child, but a
small piece was given to each of the other children, and not one of
them will ever forget the taste of that precious morsel. By the time
this nutritious supply was exhausted, our invalid was so much better
as to be able to do his share of picking over wheat, and of eating
this simple but very healthful diet.
Soon after this the wheat ran low, the long hard winter had told upon
us all, and we seemed to need more substantial food as we had never
needed it before. Day after day we managed to prepare something that
sustained life, but I had a nursing child, and supporting myself and
him too, almost solely upon a wheat diet, had been hard on me and I
was much exhausted. We did not lose faith; the spirit was willing, but
the flesh was growing weak. I sat one morning after our simple
breakfast, with my precious baby in my lap, wondering on what I should
feed the dear ones at noon, as scarcely anything remained. The
children were full of glee in their unconscious ignorance, and I must
not, by a word of repining, shake their sweet trust and faith. Our
eldest son sat near me, reading my thoughts, but saying nothing, only
conveying by a loving look his sympathy, when, suddenly, a shadow
darkened the window; he looked up quickly, and said: "Mother, look
there!" I looked, and directly at our door were two sleds heavily
laden with our long-looked for supplies! Then came the first tears I
had shed that winter. I could not speak, but my over-wrought feelings
found most salutary relief in those blessed, grateful tears. There was
danger that the powerful reaction would overcome me entirely, but very
soon every member of the little colony knew that relief had come, and
the work of unloading the sleds, opening boxes, and unheading barrels,
was carried on with such ardor, as to leave no chance for such a
result, especially as we learned that the teamsters had had no
breakfast, that they had been three days coming 28 miles; had been
obliged to shovel their way through great drifts, a few rods at a
time, and had reached us thoroughly worn out and exhausted. Then came
the preparation of that wonderful breakfast. No need that a priest
should burn frankincense and myrrh, sending up our orisons in the
smoke thereof. The odor of that frying pork, the aroma of that
delicious coffee, the perfume of that fragrant tea went up to heaven,
full freighted with thanksgiving and praise. No need that a President
or Governor should proclaim a day when we should return thanks in view
of God's great goodness; it proclaimed itself, and every human being
within our reach was bidden to our thanksgiving feast.
Our supplies were ample and varied, and 3 o'clock found a large
company seated around a table loaded with excellent, well-cooked food,
of which all partook with a gusto most flattering and gratifying to
the cook, who was glad to retire to her room with her baby, when the
meal was over and rest on her laurels, while the young people danced
and made merry in very gladness of heart.
Night closed around a little settlement of thoroughly grateful, happy
human beings. What if it was still cold, and there must yet be many
stormy days? No fear of suffering or starvation. God had not forgotten
us, and we should never cease to trust Him. I could not sleep for very
joy, and the delicious sense of relief from anxiety on the score of
providing for the daily meals. I seemed to see in the darkness, in
illuminated letters, "Jehovah _Jireh_," and felt He had abundantly
verified his blessed promise.[B]
In due time the days grew longer and warmer; the snow melted. Large
flocks of wild geese passing northward over our heads assured us, with
their unmusical but most welcome notes, that the long winter of '56
and '57 was over and gone. The ground was broken up, crops were
planted, and everything gave promise of a favorable season. Our home,
in its lovely, fresh robes of green, was enchanting, and we felt that
the lines had indeed fallen unto us in pleasant places. But as we take
pleasant walks through our happy valley, what means this unusual sound
that arrests our footsteps? It is like the pattering of gentle summer
rain, and yet the sky is clear and cloudless; no drops fall. What can
it be? Ah! see that moving in the grass! We stoop to examine, and find
myriads of strange-looking insects hardly larger than fleas. They must
be--yes, they are, _young grasshoppers_. And now may God help us! for
we are powerless to arrest their depredations. Day by day they grew
and increased, until they covered everything; fields of wheat which
promised a bountiful harvest were eaten up so completely that not a
green blade or leaf was left; gardens were entirely demolished;
screens of cloth put over hot-beds for protection were eaten as
greedily as the plants themselves, and the rapidity with which they
did their destructive work was amazing. So faded away all our hopes of
raising anything available that year, and we watched and waited. But
one bright June morning there was a movement and an unusual sound. We
rushed to see the cause, and beheld our dire enemy rising in masses,
like a great army with banners! They passed over us, making our home
for a time the "land shadowing with wings," and finally disappeared in
the south. With lightened hearts and willing hands we went to work,
replanted some things, and labored thankfully, hopefully and
successfully to provide for the next winter.
The experience of the past had taught us much. We felt our hearts
stronger and richer for its lessons, and we all look back on that
memorable time as something we would not willingly have missed out of
our lives, for we learned that one may be reduced to great straits,
may have few or no external comforts, and yet be very happy, with that
satisfying, independent happiness which outward circumstances cannot
affect.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote B: Soon after this great deliverance, the Blackfoot Indians
who belonged to our little colony became discontented and homesick for
their hunting grounds among the Rocky Mountains, and made their
preparations for an exodus so secretly that we were taken entirely by
surprise when one evening they were all missing. They had taken their
women and children and as much of their stuff as they could carry on
two or three horses, and turned their backs upon us, permanently, as
they supposed. Immediately our oldest son started in pursuit, and we
watched him with a field-glass as long as we could see, and then by
the lights he struck from time to time, as he went farther and farther
away, to enable him to see their tracks or the votive offerings to the
sun which they had placed on the shrubs and bushes by the wayside as
they journeyed westward. At the close of the second day he found them
encamped near a stream making snow-shoes, and so uncertain as to their
route to the home they loved and pined for, as to be somewhat
disheartened. A few persuasive words from the lad, who understood
their ways thoroughly, with a promise that they should return to their
mountains when the warm weather came, prevailed, and they came back to
the Prairie somewhat subdued and not a little chagrined at their
failure.]
_CHAPTER XVIII._
MALCOLM CLARK.
A few years ago, Colonel Wilbur F. Sanders, President of the
Historical Society of Montana, justly claiming my brother as one of
the earliest pioneers of Montana Territory, requested me to furnish
the society with a sketch of his life, feeling that without it, the
records would be incomplete.
His career was peculiar, and in order that those who come after us may
have a correct account of it, I insert here the substance of the
sketch prepared at the request of Colonel Sanders:
My brother Malcolm Clark was the oldest child of our parents and their
only son. He was born July 22d, 1817, at Fort Wayne, Indiana. When he
was two years old our home was at Fort Snelling, where we remained for
eight years. He was a handsome, bright-eyed, brave and venturesome
boy, and soon began to develop a very decided taste for field sports
of all kinds, becoming a ready pupil and prime favorite of Captain
Martin Scott, widely known as the veritable Nimrod of those days. He
was constantly running risks even in his plays, and had some
miraculous escapes. But his fortitude and endurance of pain were very
remarkable, and his great ambition was to bear himself under all
circumstances like a true soldier.
One of my earliest recollections of him is seeing him mounted on his
beautiful pony, riding without saddle or bridle, his arms extended,
his eyes flashing, and his soft brown hair waving in the wind. This
early training in daring horsemanship made him, as all who knew him
can testify, a perfect rider. He was very quick to resent anything
that looked like an imposition, or an infringement of his rights, it
mattered not who was the aggressor. On one occasion, during the
temporary absence of the Surgeon, he fell and cut his mouth so badly
that it was feared the injury might be very serious.
Colonel Snelling, who had some knowledge of surgery, volunteered to
repair the damaged feature, but when he attempted to use the needle,
Malcolm, who felt he was not duly authorized, refused to let him touch
it, shaking his tiny fist in his face, by way of menace. The Colonel
laughingly retreated, and recommended sticking-plaster, which answered
an admirable purpose.
A few years later I assisted the Surgeon in dressing a wound which
Malcolm had accidentally inflicted on his own arm with a knife, and,
although the operation of probing and cleansing it was perfect
torture, he submitted to it patiently and without a sound of
complaint.
He was a loving, affectionate boy, full of real chivalry and true
nobility. Being next in age, I was his constant companion, and his
kind, loving consideration of me is deeply impressed upon me. When for
some years Cincinnati was our home, he attended a classical school in
that city, taught by Alexander Kinmont, a Scotchman, somewhat
celebrated as an educator of boys, and by his high sense of honor and
his engaging manners he endeared himself to his teacher and fellow
pupils. He had a real reverence for his female associates; indeed, his
ideas of womanhood, in general, were very exalted. He guarded me most
sacredly from anything which might offend my sense of delicacy, and
was ready to do battle with any one who spoke slightingly of a lady.
At one time a young school-mate made some improper remarks concerning
a young girl acquaintance of Malcolm's, who bade him take back his
words. On his refusing to do this, my brother seized the fellow, who
was larger and stouter than he, and gave him a pretty severe
punishment, receiving himself, however, a bad cut on his head from
falling on a sharp stone. But neither the pain of his wound nor the
rebukes of his friends could make him feel that he had done anything
more than justice, and he bore his sufferings with the spirit of a
knight who had been wounded in defense of his "faire ladye." While at
school he manifested a marked talent for public speaking, and took the
highest rank in elocution in the Kinmont Academy, and I think that all
through his life this gift of eloquence gave him a power over those
with whom he mingled. I recall distinctly my sisterly pride in him
when at an exhibition he delivered that wonderful speech of Marc
Antony over the dead body of Cæsar; and when the terrible news of his
tragical death reached me, I seemed to hear again the infinite pathos
of his voice in the words, "And thou, Brutus!" The man who
treacherously took his precious life had been to him as a son, had
shared his home, and received from him nothing but favors. Well might
he have exclaimed, "And thou, Ne-tus-cho!" as e'en under the
protecting shadow of his own home the brave man fell, pierced by the
deadly ball. At seventeen he was entered at West Point, where, owing
to his early military associations and training, he stood well as a
capable, well-drilled soldier, and was soon put in command of a
company. In this capacity he acquitted himself in such a way as to win
the approval of his superior officers and the confidence of his fellow
Cadets.
But one of his company, who had been derelict in duty and had been
reported accordingly, accused him of making a false report, and this
in those days was an accusation not to be borne. Consequently my
impetuous brother, with a mistaken sense of honor, fostered by the
teachings and usages of fifty years ago, sent the young man a
challenge. Instead of accepting or declining it, he took it to the
Commandant, thus placing himself in a most unfavorable light.
The next morning at breakfast roll-call my brother stepped out before
his company, and, seizing his adversary by the collar, administered to
him a severe flogging with a cowhide. This, of course, was a case
that called for a court-martial, the result of which was my brother's
dismissal, the sentence, however, recommending him to mercy. It was
intimated to him by some high in authority that by making proper
concessions he would be reinstated. This he would not do, and took the
consequences.
In the light of the great improvement in public sentiment with regard
to such matters, the young man's course must be condemned, but great
allowance must be made for the code of honor in force at that time,
and nowhere so strenuously insisted on, as in military circles.
Several duels had been fought between the officers at Fort Snelling
while that was our home, and Malcolm had heard with delight and awe of
the prowess of his hero, Captain Scott, who, as already narrated in
these records, had soon after his appointment in the regular army
given a final quietus to a young West Point officer who had snubbed
and insulted the Green Mountain boy, whose career opened in a
volunteer regiment in the war of 1812, instead of at the Military
Academy. These influences account for, and in a great measure excuse
my rash brother's conduct in this affair. We deeply deplored this
event, which changed the whole tenor of his life; and yet, there lies
on my table as I write, his defense before the military tribunal, and
I confess to a thrill of pride as I read the manly, fearless, yet
thoroughly respectful and courteous document, and I feel very sure
that a most efficient, high-minded officer was lost to the service,
when my brave, true brother suffered the penalty of a boyish folly.
Soon after this he started for Texas to join the desperate men there
in their struggle for independence.
During his journey to the "Lone Star" State a characteristic incident
occurred which may be worthy of mention. On the voyage from New
Orleans to Galveston, the Captain of the ship refused to keep his
agreement with his passengers in regard to furnishing ice and other
absolute necessaries, thus endangering their health and making their
situation thoroughly unendurable. After unsuccessful efforts to bring
the Captain to reason, my brother took command himself, placed the
Captain, heavily ironed, in close confinement, and thus landed in
Galveston. Then he released his prisoner, and repaired immediately to
General Sam Houston's quarters to give himself up for mutiny on the
high seas. His story had preceded him, and, on presenting himself, the
President exclaimed: "What! is this beardless boy the desperate
mutineer of whom you have been telling me?" And, after inquiring into
the affair, feeling thoroughly convinced that, according to the laws
of self-defense, my brother's conduct was justifiable, dismissed him,
with some very complimentary remarks on his courageous behavior. The
young hero was loudly cheered by the populace, and borne on their
shoulders in triumph to his hotel.
He soon after received a commission in the Texan army, where he
served faithfully till the war was ended, and then returned to
Cincinnati, at that time our widowed mother's home.
While in the Southwest, he was one day riding entirely alone through a
wilderness, in some part of Texas, I think, when he saw in the
distance, riding directly towards him, his old West Point antagonist,
who had so far lost caste at that institution as to be obliged to
resign about the time of my brother's dismissal. He had learned that
Malcolm was in the country, whither he also had drifted, and had
threatened to take his life, if ever he crossed his path. My brother,
knowing of this threat, of course, concluded that when he met his
enemy there would be a deadly encounter. Both were heavily armed;
Malcolm had two pistols, but had discharged one at a prairie hen a
short time before, and had forgotten which one was still loaded. It
would not do to make investigations in the very face of his foe; so
with his hand on one of them, and his keen eye firmly fixed on the
man, he rode on, determined not to give one inch of the road. Thus
they approached each other, neither yielding; my brother's steady gaze
never relaxing, till just as their mules almost touched one another,
his enemy gave the road, and Malcolm went on, feeling that very
probably his foe would shoot him from behind, but never looking back,
till, by a turn in the road, he knew he was out of sight, when he drew
a long breath, and felt that he had been in a pretty tight place. The
next news he had of his adversary was, that he had been killed in a
drunken row in some town in Texas.
Failing to find in Cincinnati, business congenial to his taste, my
brother obtained, through our father's life-long friend, Captain John
Culbertson, an appointment in the American Fur Company, and went to
one of their stations on the Upper Missouri. At this time he was just
twenty-four years old; at the time of his death he was fifty-two, so
that more than half his life was spent in the Indian country. The
story of his life in the Far West is full of incident. Soon after his
arrival in the Blackfoot country he won the name of Ne-so-ke-i-u (the
Four Bears), by killing four Grizzlies one morning before breakfast,
which remarkable feat gave him high rank in the estimation of the
tribe. How he traded successfully among these Indians, in all cases
studying their best interests; how he came to be looked upon as a
great and powerful chief; how he identified himself with them by
marrying among them; how, by his deeds of daring, his many miraculous
escapes, his rare prowess and skill, and his wonderful personal
influence over them, he obtained the dignity of a "_Medicine Man_," in
whom they professed implicit faith and confidence, are facts well
known to all who knew him.
And, how, when the eager, grasping whites encroached upon their
territory, seeing before them the fate that had befallen all the other
tribes among whom white settlements had been opened up, these Indians
feared that this man, whose hair had whitened among them, would take
part with his own people against them, and made a foul conspiracy
against his life, treacherously stilling the heart that had beat with
kindness and affection for them, are grievous facts in the history of
his beloved Montana, on which I need not and cannot dwell.
In sketching the record of this life from early childhood to its
tragic ending, I seem to see again before me my beautiful, bright-eyed
brother, a boy of whom I was very proud, and who was, to me, the
embodiment of everything brave, and manly, and true. I follow him in
his eventful life, and while I realize that his impetuosity sometimes
led him to do things which were not wise, and which he afterwards
regretted, yet above all these errors and mistakes, rises the memory
of his unswerving integrity; his fidelity to his friends; his high
sense of honor, between man and man; his almost womanly tenderness
towards those whom he loved; his rare culture and refinement; his
affable, genial and courteous manners; his hospitality and
large-heartedness,--all entitling him richly, to
"Bear without abuse,
The grand old name of gentleman."
_CHAPTER XIX._
Long Prairie was our home for five years which though not unmixed with
trial and sorrow, were happy years. Some few neighbors settled in and
around the Prairie, and the visits of lumbering and surveying parties,
passing to and fro, made a pleasant variety in our simple life. We
were directly on the route over which the Indians, both Sioux and
Chippewas travelled as they went for game or scalps; but they behaved
themselves circumspectly, except when bad white men crept into the
settlement and made them crazy with "fire water." This infamous
traffic we resisted to the extent of our power, and on one occasion
blood was drawn on both sides, but no lives were lost. We always
treated the Indians well, dealing fairly with them as with white men,
and they looked upon us as their friends. At one time, however, rumors
of danger warned us to take measures to insure our safety; and we
applied to Floyd, then Secretary of War, for military protection, the
result of which step was, that some soldiers were quartered at the
Prairie for the winter of '58 and '59, and we dismissed our fears.
Captain Frederick Steele and Lieutenant Joseph Conrad were the
officers in command of the detachment, and proved most agreeable
neighbors, making our winter very enjoyable. The former of these, our
friends, was a General during the war of the Rebellion, and lost his
life in the service; the latter, now a Major, is still doing good
service as a gallant and efficient soldier.
The next winter we had the protection of Lieutenant Latimer and his
company from Fort Ridgley, a most genial and whole-souled Southern
gentleman, who endeared himself to us by his frank kindly manners.
Gen. Irwin McDowell, inspecting officer, made us a charming visit
during this winter, and by his kindly, unassuming manner, won all
hearts, while his splendid form and manly beauty made an impression on
us never to be effaced. He survived the war, but died in the prime of
life, sincerely mourned by a large circle of friends and fellow
soldiers.
Possibly we might have spent our lives at Long Prairie, but for the
bombardment of Fort Sumter, on the eventful 12th of April, 1861, whose
vibrations thrilled the whole North, and reaching us in our pastoral
home, changed entirely our plans and purposes. When our youngest boy
was twenty-four hours old, his father went to St. Paul, in obedience
to a summons from Governor Ramsey, and was soon after commissioned
Colonel of the "2d" Regiment of Minnesota Volunteers, which was
rendezvoused at Fort Snelling for thorough organization and drill. As
soon as possible his family joined him there, and, once again my
temporary home was in the old Headquarters, and in memory I live my
childhood over again. The few weeks spent there were full of
excitement and pleasant incidents, but over all, hung the dark shadow
of the dreadful civil war, and hearts ached sorely, in spite of the
brave talk and smiling faces. Writing of those days I recall a picture
of the parade ground at the time of the sunset drum: the men are
placed by companies, the officers in proper position; many visitors,
ladies and gentlemen, stand near; the drum beats, the flag is lowered;
and, as the Chaplain steps forward, every head is uncovered, and he
offers the evening prayer to the God of battles. I am glad they
prayed; did they think of this when they gained the victory in that
first, fierce battle at Mill Spring? And there are those living, who
will recall that sad parting hour, when those brave men said,
"Good-bye, and God bless you," to their mothers, wives and children,
and went forth with tearful eyes, and quivering lips to hazard their
lives for their country. It was a holy cause, and the women, too, were
brave, and would not hold them back, but entered willingly upon that
sad, weary time, when tears were shed till the fountains were dry;
when prayers and groanings that could not be uttered, arose to heaven
by day and by night, alike from luxurious homes, and from humble
cottages, for the safety of the beloved ones, and the success of the
sacred cause. The children felt it, too. A little curly-headed seven
year old boy, whose father was at the front, waking one night from
troubled sleep, stole softly to his mother's bedside, and kissing her
tenderly, said, in a voice broken with sobs: "Mother, did you pray
for father to-night?" She replied: "Yes, my son, mother never forgets
that." "But, mother, are you sure?" "Yes, dear one." "Well, mother,
won't you kneel down here by me, and pray for him again?" and side by
side, the two knelt humbly, the mother with her arms about the sobbing
boy, while she prayed most earnestly for the precious one far away.
Then, the dear child ceased his weeping, and kissing "mother" for
herself and "father," lay down to sleep again, saying: "Mother, I
don't think God will let the Southerners kill father." And thus it was
all over the North. Mothers and children weeping and praying, and
working, to keep the home bright and comfortable for the soldier when
he should come back. And many fair, smooth faces, grew pale and seamed
with care and anxiety, many brown heads turned to gray, and erect
forms became bent as with years; and, alas! many hearts broke when the
list of "dead and wounded" reached the Northern homes. Oh! history
makes record of the heroes who fell fighting bravely, and of those who
survived; of great deeds of daring done and suffering endured; but
there _were_ heroes who won no stars, who received no ovations, whose
histories were never written, and who none the less were martyrs to
their country.
"But men must work,
And women must weep;
Though storms be sudden and waters deep;
And the harbor-bar be moaning."
But God gave us the victory and our beloved country, aye, the whole
world has made a forward move because of our heart-breaking, agonizing
Civil War.
_CHAPTER XX._
After the breaking up at Long Prairie, a few months were spent by our
family in St. Paul, but in the early spring it seemed expedient to
remove to "St Anthony," which has ever since been our home. It was at
that time a very quiet village; very many of the young and vigorous
men were at the front, and business was at a standstill; property was
very cheap, and real estate men had little or nothing to do.
Minneapolis, on the west side of the river, was a small town, and had
any one predicted at that time that the city of Minneapolis would one
day become what it is now, he would have been regarded as a lunatic.
The Indian outbreak of '62 stirred things up for a while, but that
passed away, and the place resumed its sleepy condition, waking up now
and then at the news of a victory, or on the occasion of the return of
a regiment, to whom an ovation was tendered, when it became manifest
that there was a great deal of energy and power latent in the
community, which only needed an occasion to bring it out. But the
immense water power kept up its music, the mills ground flour and
sawed logs and made paper, and, all unconsciously, we were growing
great and preparing to become the wonder of the world. When the old
settlers get together now-a-days, we like to talk of those pleasant,
quiet times, when a ride in a stage to St. Paul was a treat, and a
trip to Minnetonka in a double wagon, with provisions and camp
fixtures for a week's picnic, was delightful; when we caught fish in
Lake Harriet and cooked it at our camp-fire, and had a most enjoyable
time rowing on the lake, gathering pond lilies, singing songs, telling
stories, and taking in with every breath the delicious, invigorating
air of that most charming spot.
And while rejoicing at the present state of things, so far in advance
of those times, we sometimes look back regretfully at the days when we
seemed like one large family, with common interests, and we
involuntarily breathe a sigh for those simple, primitive pleasures,
that will be ours nevermore.
No need for me to describe in these humble records the phenomenal
growth of Minneapolis; it is known and read of all men, and the world
is startled at its rapid transition from a somewhat obscure
manufacturing town to a great and prosperous city, whose foundations
are so solid, and whose possibilities so great, that there seems no
limit to its progress. We who have watched it from infancy are justly
proud of our city, and it is certainly cause for congratulation that
so much time and thought and money are given to establishing and
fostering benevolent institutions and charities of all kinds. The
people are large-hearted and ready to take hold of anything which has
for its object the good of the community or the amelioration of
suffering in any form. Witness our "Home for Children and Aged Women;"
the beautiful "Washburn Home for Orphans;" the "Northwestern
Hospital," built by and under the care and management of women who
have been generously aided by the community in carrying on their work;
the "Bethany Home" for fallen, outcast women and deserted babies, a
work established by women in weakness and under discouraging
circumstances, but now carried on in a commodious building erected by
one man who has lived many years in our city and has grown rich here.
He has watched our work in this line for years, and his heart was
moved to donate to the management of the "Home" the beautiful,
convenient house and grounds on Bryant avenue, which shelters sad and
broken-hearted women and tender, helpless infants, and stands out
clear against the beautiful background of woodland and blue sky, an
enduring monument to his large-hearted generosity and his tender pity
for the weak and helpless. May God bless him and deal graciously with
him and all he loves. These are only a few of the various branches of
work for the good of humanity, generously encouraged by our citizens,
and the liberality with which societies, conventions and gatherings of
all kinds are welcomed and entertained by Minneapolitans astonishes
all who see, read or hear of it. Those who saw the great Villard
procession and the meeting of the Grand Army of the Republic can
never forget them, and religious bodies of all sects and kinds who
have been received and cared for here, are loud in their praises of
their hospitable entertainers.
But better than all this is the earnest desire that we should become
good, as well as great, as manifested in the numerous active societies
organized for the purpose of overcoming and suppressing the evils
incident to large and prosperous cities; and the eloquent, earnest men
of all religious denominations who labor faithfully as preachers and
pastors for the highest good of the people are doing grand, efficient
work towards the accomplishment of this desire.
And side by side with us, a little way down the river, is our
beautiful twin sister, the city of St. Paul, to which by the power of
mutual attraction we are growing nearer day by day. The healthy
rivalry which has existed between us since we began to grow has
benefited both cities, and we now stand before the world phenomenal in
growth, each year lengthening our cords and strengthening our stakes,
with the sure prospect of becoming, in the near future, a mighty
metropolis of the great and powerful Northwest.
The tender friendships formed there by our family during the early
days of the war grow stronger and more binding each year, and will
last through eternity; our children will tell to their children of the
kindness rendered by dear ones in St. Paul to "father and mother"
when they were in sore need of loving sympathy, and this legacy of
love will be very precious to them. I love to visit this neighboring
city, not only because of the warm friendships existing between us,
but because that in some indescribable way it seems to have an army
atmosphere which makes me feel entirely at home. And sometimes, when,
in passing through its streets, I come upon our old, staunch friend,
General R. W. Johnson, the thoughts of Fort Snelling, where, years
after it ceased to be my home, he won the beautiful Miss Steele for
his bride, stir my heart with pleasant memories, and looking at him
now, a handsome, white-haired man, still erect and vigorous, I feel
that time has dealt very generously with him, and rejoice that after
his many years of faithful service to his country he is still doing
his duty, and is most happily situated in every respect. And there is
General Bishop, one of my husband's "boys" of the brave Minnesota
Second, the very sight of whose kindly face brings up thoughts of Mill
Spring and other battle fields on which he won his "eagle" and his
"star," and it gladdens my heart to feel that he, too, still in his
prime, is as brave and faithful a civilian as he was a soldier, and
that he has a beautiful, hospitable home, which is a rallying point
for the survivors of the old regiment, which he loved so well and
commanded so successfully. And there are many other military men
there, whom it is an honor to know, and who, with the energy which
made them successful soldiers, are working earnestly for the good of
St. Paul, where they have made their homes.
When the beautiful Edith, searching the field after the bloody battle
of Hastings, found the body of her beloved, the last of the Saxon
Kings, she saw right over his heart, as she wiped the blood from his
wounded side, two words graven thereon: "Edith," and beneath it
"England." So on my heart, among my precious things, stands
"Minneapolis," and just beneath it "St. Paul." God bless them both and
make them truly good, as well as eminently great.
_CHAPTER XXI._
Looking over the quarter of a century that we have lived quietly and
happily in our Minneapolis home, I recall some very pleasant
satisfying incidents, notably a visit made by my husband and myself to
the lovely home of our only daughter in Honolulu, the capital of the
Hawaiian Kingdom. We were both enfeebled by sickness and He who has
been so gracious to us all our lives, knowing we had need of such a
change, provided for it in an unexpected way. We left our home early
in December, 1878 under the care of our son-in-law and daughter, and,
journeying in the comfortable Pullman cars, took in the wonders and
beauties, so often described, of the overland route to San Francisco.
It is needless for me to tell you of these wonders. Many travelers
have so descanted upon them as to make them familiar to all, and yet
no words can ever do them justice; they must be seen to be
comprehended. Comprehended did I say? Ah! that can never be; they
overwhelm and fill us with awe, make us very quiet, and incline our
hearts to silent worship of Him whose "works are manifold, and who, in
wisdom, hath made them all." As this magnificence unrolls before us
like a grand panorama, the deep, dark, rocky canons; the high,
snow-capped mountains, sometimes blue and far away like a wondrous
picture, with a back ground of clear cloudless sky; the immense
plains, with no signs of life, broken here and there by gigantic rocks
of most weird fantastic shapes; the picturesque villages, with their
church spires, distinct and well-defined against the high overhanging
mountains, all combine to carry us out of ourselves, and to make us
not only wonder and adore the wisdom of God, but admire the skill and
energy of man, which, by God's help, has opened up these grand
pictures, and enabled us to see and enjoy them.
Very early on the morning of our last day's ride, we rounded "Cape
Horn," and halted, as is the custom, for all to have a sight of that
masterpiece of the Great Architect. The mist still lay in the deep
gorge and on the mountain sides, and all was perfect unbroken silence.
Without a word we gazed enraptured on the glorious scene, and waited,
as if expectant of some royal presence, to fill this magnificent
throne of God's own building. And as we look, behold the heralds! And
now the King of Day himself, in his chariot of flame, comes forth over
the mountain-top, "as a bridegroom coming out of his chamber, and
rejoicing as a strong man to run a race." At his presence, the mists
roll away; the mountain sides appear in all their rugged beauty; the
American River, like a silver thread, down deep in the mighty gorge,
smiles brightly at the coming of the king, and accepting graciously
its appointed task, "goes on and on forever."
That day's ride was the perfection of enjoyment, full of wonder and
beauty, and just as we reached the terminus, the great monarch whose
rays had illumined our path all the way, sank gloriously to rest in
the "Golden Gate," rendering our first view of the mighty ocean
unspeakably grand.
After spending ten days very pleasantly and satisfactorily in the
great metropolis of the Pacific coast, our party of four embarked on
the United States mail steamship, "City of Sydney," for the beautiful
Hawaiian Islands, two thousand miles away, in the midst of the sea,
which we reached in the remarkably short time of a little less than
seven days, having made the quickest trip on record. Our voyage was
most prosperous, and, with the exception of two days of rough weather
at the outset, very pleasant. The ship is a fine one, all its
appointments being everything that could be desired. The company was
intelligent and agreeable. Our party was happy in the anticipation of
seeing dear ones in Honolulu, and in the near realization of what had
been, to some of us, a beautiful dream for years. And were we
disappointed? Oh, no! No picture of our imagination had ever been so
bright, so beautiful as that spread out before us, as our gallant ship
sailed majestically through the coral reef into the beautiful harbor
of Honolulu. It was like entering a new world; everything was bright
with tropical splendor. The mountains, in whose hearts had slumbered
volcanic fires, which, from time to time, had burst forth, lighting up
the great ocean with Tartarean brilliancy, and scattering red-hot lava
far and wide, now stood up in sublime composure, like ramparts of
protection to the lovely island formed by the upheaval.
The tall cocoa-nut palms, crowned with their feathery tufts; the rich
foliage of the various trees; the gorgeous blossoms; the picturesque,
gaily-dressed natives in their arrowy canoes, with luscious fruits, or
specimens of coral, shells, and other treasures of the deep; the
innumerable little bronze figures darting in and out of the water for
bits of coin thrown to them from the deck; and, above all, the dear
ones, with happy faces and eager, outstretched hands, awaiting, with
loving impatience, the moment of our landing, formed a tableau, which,
illumined by the soft, glowing, dreamy atmosphere, made a photograph
in my memory which time nor distance can ever efface. Our ride through
the city, up the Nu-u-an-u valley, was one continued surprise and
wonder, a bright vision, from which we surely must awaken to sober
reality.
We knew that, by the almanac, it was the last day but one of the old
year, midwinter, a time of frost and snow, and surely these brilliant
oleanders, these great scarlet geraniums, these bright hedges of the
many-colored Lantana were but a fairy scene which might vanish any
moment and leave the trees bare and the flowers withered. But when we
entered the charming grounds about our children's home, where we were
to spend some months, resting and gaining health and vigor, we were
fain to believe that it was all real, and that we should sit day after
day on the broad veranda, and look at the royal palms, the graceful
algeroba, the wide-spreading umbrella trees, the truly regal
bougainvillia, with its wealth of purple blossoms, the Mexican vine,
covered with rose-colored sprays, the soft velvet turf, and the
exquisite ferns, and we thanked God that he had brought us, safely and
happily, to so beautiful a haven. Everything about us was so charming
a suggestion of Paradise, that even now, after the lapse of many
years, the memory of the six months spent in that gem of the Pacific,
comes to us freighted with a sense of sweetness and peace that savors
of the rest of Heaven.
The society of Honolulu, representing many different nationalities, is
exceptionally intelligent and cultivated. The climate is simply
perfect, the mercury ranging from 60° to 80° the year round; delicious
fruits, lovely flowers and spice bearing shrubs abound. The soil is
very fertile and favorable to the production of the best of sugar
cane, a high grade of coffee and excellent rice, which are the staple
productions and a source of great profit to the islands. A most
nutritious and satisfying vegetable universally cultivated there, is
the Taro, which is to the native Hawaiian what the potato is to the
Irishman. Poverty is unknown there, every one has a competence, some
are wealthy. Education is compulsory, churches and school houses are
numerous, and in every way adequate to the needs of the community. The
reigning King, Kalakaua, is not as wise and strong as Solomon, and for
many years has been in the hands of an intriguing Cabinet, which has
been a source of anxiety to those who love the little kingdom, and
desire to see it prosper, but it is very gratifying to be able to
state, that the evils so much dreaded have been entirely averted, and
the government placed in a better condition than it has enjoyed for
many years. This was brought about in a proper and orderly way, by the
decisive action of the law-abiding citizens, who have formed an
entirely new Cabinet, altered for the better the Constitution, and
established a limited monarchy. This change took place only a few
months ago, and already its beneficial effects are clearly manifest.
The prospects for the islands were never better, and it is sincerely
to be hoped by all who wish well to the human race that Hawaii-nei may
long continue to prosper in every way, and to send light and gladness
to the peoples of the insular countries which are scattered like
lovely gems all over the beautiful blue ocean.
_CHAPTER XXII._
THE GOLDEN WEDDING.
In the month of March, 1886, we sent to our many friends far and near
the following invitation, and the hearty response which we received
made March 22d a day never to be forgotten by ourselves and our
children:
_Lieutenant Horatio Phillips Van Cleve, U. S. A.,
and
Charlotte Ouisconsin Clark,_
MARRIED
_March 22d, 1836,
Fort Winnebago, Michigan Territory._
------
_General and Mrs. H. P. Van Cleve,_
AT HOME
_March 22d, 1886,
603 Fifth Street S. E.,
From 3 until 10 o'clock P. M._
_No presents._
The weather seemed as if made for the occasion, the sun shone brightly
till its setting, and the old house, which has been our home so long,
that we all love it, in spite of its old-fashioned appearance and its
entire lack of style, was fitly prepared and adorned by loving hands.
A thatched roof over the bay window, prettily arranged, bearing on its
front the dates "1836" and "1886" in carnations of two colors, made a
canopy under which the old man and woman were to sit and receive the
congratulations of their friends. Over the mantel, opposite them, were
arranged the battle flags of the beloved Second Regiment of Minnesota
Volunteers, with the sword and sash and insignia of rank of its
Colonel, who led them into battle, and the house was tastefully draped
with the "stars and stripes" and many beautiful, significant emblems
sent by friends and children. A beautiful bank of fifty golden
rosebuds on a background of green, baskets of lovely, fragrant
flowers, one of orange blossoms from Oakland, California, a pot
containing a tall Bermuda lily with two large blossoms and several
buds, and many bouquets of rich, rare flowers gave to the
reception-room a brightness and loveliness which cannot be fitly
described. At 3 o'clock the survivors of the old regiment came in,
under command of our dear friend, General J. W. Bishop, of St. Paul,
bringing hearty congratulations to their old Colonel, and after a
short time spent in a pleasant converse, the General, in a most
appropriate address presented to him, whom they honored, an elegant
gold-headed cane, bearing the inscription: "Presented to General H. P.
Van Cleve by surviving members of the Second Regiment, Minnesota
Veteran Volunteer Infantry, Golden Wedding, March 22, 1886." This was
a perfect surprise, and the gift was acknowledged in a few fitting
words. After a pleasant chat of old war experiences and some light
refreshments the veterans said "good-bye" and departed, leaving very
grateful, pleasant thoughts in the hearts of those whom their presence
had honored and made glad. Another surprise awaited us. Our little
grandchild Pauline Van Cleve, a year and a half old, side by side with
her cousin Rebecca, a few months older, toddled up to "grandma" and
presented her with a cluster of fourteen golden rosebuds, one for each
grandchild, and our granddaughter Charlotte Van Cleve recited very
sweetly "The Old Man and His Bride," by Dr. Holland. Many sweet poems
and loving letters from friends far and near, and many valuable,
beautiful presents from dear ones, testified their love and kind
regard for us, and are treasured by us among our most precious things,
to be highly valued by our children when we shall have passed away.
Cake and coffee were served through the evening, the fruit cake being
baked in the same pan which was used fifty years before, when I, a
girl of sixteen, made my "wedding cake." It has been in constant use
ever since, and is a plain affair which shows the marks of time, but
which, with ordinary care, will last through at least another
generation.
Our friend, Rev. Dr. Neill, spoke to us in his usual felicitous
manner, and his address was full of pleasant reminiscences. Our
pastor, Rev. Dr. Stryker, recited a poem composed by himself for the
occasion, and the evening passed most enjoyably, and, with many
wishes that we might keep our diamond wedding, our friends bade us
"good night" and went their several ways.
Then came to us a full realization that we had walked beside each
other half a century, and our thoughts went back to the old quarters
at Fort Winnebago, where side by side we stood in the freshness of
youth, with life all before us, and promised "to have and to hold from
this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in
sickness and in health, to love and cherish each other till death us
do part," and as we looked into each other's eyes, heart answered to
heart, "We have kept our vows."
"And looking backward through the years
Along the way our feet have pressed,
We see sweet places everywhere--
Sweet places, where our souls had rest.
For though some human hopes of ours
Are dead and buried from our sight,
Yet from their graves immortal flowers
Have sprung, and blossomed into light.
Our sorrows have not been so light,
God's chastening hand we could not trace;
Nor have our blessings been so great
That they have hid our Father's face."
And we thanked Him that He "had mercifully ordained that we should
grow old together." And now, laying down my pen, I say to all who have
followed me through these memories: "Good night, dear friends. God
bless you every one."
* * * * *
Transcriber's Notes
The Table of Contents does not appear in the original book.
Minor punctuation errors and the following typos in the original book
have been corrected to reflect the author's intention.
Pg. 23: Hzzaard to Hazard (son-in-law, Mr. Hazard,)
Pg. 42: lenghtening to lengthening (lengthening shadows)
Pg. 60: parent's to parents' (parents' murder)
Pg. 78: off to of (telling of the Sioux scalps)
Pg. 105-106: decased to deceased (respect for the deceased, this)
Pg. 115: fondnes to fondness (for consistency; fondness on pg. 28)
Pg. 160: nd to And (And the harbor-bar be moaning.")
The following inconsistencies were left as is.
Pg. 56: Mrs. Apthorp's seminary
Pg. 102: "Mrs. Apthorpe's School for Young Ladies"
Pg. 34: Mitch-ele-mack-i-nack
Pg. 101: Mich-e-li-mac-i-nac
All other questionable spellings were left as in the original book.
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