I WAS scarcely old enough to know anything definite about the “Big
Knives,” as we called the white men, when the terrible Minnesota
massacre broke up our home and I was carried into exile. I have already
told how I was adopted into the family of my father’s younger brother,
when my father was betrayed and imprisoned. We all supposed that he had
shared the fate of those who were executed at Mankato, Minnesota.
Now the savage philosophers looked upon vengeance in the field of battle
as a lofty virtue. To avenge the death of a relative or of a dear friend
was considered a great deed. My uncle, accordingly, had spared no pains
to instill into my young mind the obligation to avenge the death of my
father and my older brothers. Already I looked eagerly forward to
the day when I should find an opportunity to carry out his teachings.
Meanwhile, he himself went upon the war-path and returned with scalps
every summer. So it may be imagined how I felt toward the Big Knives!
On the other hand, I had heard marvelous things of this people. In
some things we despised them; in others we regarded them as wakan
(mysterious), a race whose power bordered upon the supernatural. I
learned that they had made a “fireboat.” I could not understand how
they could unite two elements which cannot exist together. I thought the
water would put out the fire, and the fire would consume the boat if
it had the shadow of a chance. This was to me a preposterous
thing! But when I was told that the Big Knives had created a
“fire-boat-walks-on-mountains” (a locomotive) it was too much to
believe.
“Why,” declared my informant, “those who saw this monster move said that
it flew from mountain to mountain when it seemed to be excited. They
said also that they believed it carried a thunder-bird, for they
frequently heard his usual war-whoop as the creature sped along!”
Several warriors had observed from a distance one of the first trains
on the Northern Pacific, and had gained an exaggerated impression of the
wonders of the pale-face. They had seen it go over a bridge that spanned
a deep ravine and it seemed to them that it jumped from one bank to the
other. I confess that the story almost quenched my ardor and bravery.
Two or three young men were talking together about this fearful
invention.
“However,” said one, “I understand that this
fire-boat-walks-on-mountains cannot move except on the track made for
it.”
Although a boy is not expected to join in the conversation of his
elders, I ventured to ask: “Then it cannot chase us into any rough
country?”
“No, it cannot do that,” was the reply, which I heard with a great deal
of relief.
I had seen guns and various other things brought to us by the French
Canadians, so that I had already some notion of the supernatural gifts
of the white man; but I had never before heard such tales as I listened
to that morning. It was said that they had bridged the Missouri and
Mississippi rivers, and that they made immense houses of stone and
brick, piled on top of one another until they were as high as high
hills. My brain was puzzled with these things for many a day. Finally
I asked my uncle why the Great Mystery gave such power to the Washechu
(the rich)-sometimes we called them by this name--and not to us Dakotas.
“For the same reason,” he answered, “that he gave to Duta the skill to
make fine bows and arrows, and to Wachesne no skill to make anything.”
“And why do the Big Knives increase so much more in number than the
Dakotas?” I continued.
“It has been said, and I think it must be true, that they have larger
families than we do. I went into the house of an Eashecha (a German),
and I counted no less than nine children. The eldest of them could not
have been over fifteen. When my grandfather first visited them, down
at the mouth of the Mississippi, they were comparatively few; later my
father visited their Great Father at Washington, and they had already
spread over the whole country.”
“Certainly they are a heartless nation. They have made some of their
people servants--yes, slaves! We have never believed in keeping slaves,
but it seems that these Washechu do! It is our belief that they painted
their servants black a long time ago, to tell them from the rest, and
now the slaves have children born to them of the same color!
“The greatest object of their lives seems to be to acquire
possessions--to be rich. They desire to possess the whole world. For
thirty years they were trying to entice us to sell them our land.
Finally the outbreak gave them all, and we have been driven away from
our beautiful country.
“They are a wonderful people. They have divided the day into hours, like
the moons of the year. In fact, they measure everything. Not one of them
would let so much as a turnip go from his field unless he received full
value for it. I understand that their great men make a feast and invite
many, but when the feast is over the guests are required to pay for what
they have eaten before leaving the house. I myself saw at White Cliff
(the name given to St. Paul, Minnesota) a man who kept a brass drum and
a bell to call people to his table; but when he got them in he would
make them pay for the food!
“I am also informed,” said my uncle, “but this I hardly believe, that
their Great Chief (President) compels every man to pay him for the
land he lives upon and all his personal goods--even for his own
existence--every year!” (This was his idea of taxation.) “I am sure we
could not live under such a law.
“When the outbreak occurred, we thought that our opportunity had come,
for we had learned that the Big Knives were fighting among themselves,
on account of a dispute over their slaves. It was said that the Great
Chief had allowed slaves in one part of the country and not in another,
so there was jealousy, and they had to fight it out. We don’t know how
true this was.
“There were some praying-men who came to us some time before the trouble
arose. They observed every seventh day as a holy day. On that day they
met in a house that they had built for that purpose, to sing, pray, and
speak of their Great Mystery. I was never in one of these meetings.
I understand that they had a large book from which they read. By all
accounts they were very different from all other white men we have
known, for these never observed any such day, and we never knew them to
pray, neither did they ever tell us of their Great Mystery.
“In war they have leaders and war-chiefs of different grades. The common
warriors are driven forward like a herd of antelopes to face the foe. It
is on account of this manner of fighting--from compulsion and not from
personal bravery--that we count no coup on them. A lone warrior can do
much harm to a large army of them in a bad country.”
It was this talk with my uncle that gave me my first clear idea of the
white man.
I was almost fifteen years old when my uncle presented me with a
flint-lock gun. The possession of the “mysterious iron,” and the
explosive dirt, or “pulverized coal,” as it is called, filled me with
new thoughts. All the war-songs that I had ever heard from childhood
came back to me with their heroes. It seemed as if I were an entirely
new being--the boy had become a man!
“I am now old enough,” said I to myself, “and I must beg my uncle to
take me with him on his next war-path. I shall soon be able to go among
the whites whenever I wish, and to avenge the blood of my father and my
brothers.”
I had already begun to invoke the blessing of the Great Mystery.
Scarcely a day passed that I did not offer up some of my game, so that
he might not be displeased with me. My people saw very little of me
during the day, for in solitude I found the strength I needed. I groped
about in the wilderness, and determined to assume my position as a man.
My boyish ways were departing, and a sullen dignity and composure was
taking their place.
The thought of love did not hinder my ambitions. I had a vague dream of
some day courting a pretty maiden, after I had made my reputation, and
won the eagle feathers.
One day, when I was away on the daily hunt, two strangers from the
United States visited our camp. They had boldly ventured across
the northern border. They were Indians, but clad in the white man’s
garments. It was as well that I was absent with my gun.
My father, accompanied by an Indian guide, after many days’ searching
had found us at last. He had been imprisoned at Davenport, Iowa, with
those who took part in the massacre or in the battles following, and
he was taught in prison and converted by the pioneer missionaries, Drs.
Williamson and Riggs. He was under sentence of death, but was among the
number against whom no direct evidence was found, and who were finally
pardoned by President Lincoln.
When he was released, and returned to the new reservation upon the
Missouri river, he soon became convinced that life on a government
reservation meant physical and moral degradation. Therefore he
determined, with several others, to try the white man’s way of gaining a
livelihood. They accordingly left the agency against the persuasions of
the agent, renounced all government assistance, and took land under the
United States Homestead law, on the Big Sioux river. After he had
made his home there, he desired to seek his lost child. It was then a
dangerous undertaking to cross the line, but his Christian love prompted
him to do it. He secured a good guide, and found his way in time through
the vast wilderness.
As for me, I little dreamed of anything unusual to happen on my return.
As I approached our camp with my game on my shoulder, I had not the
slightest premonition that I was suddenly to be hurled from my savage
life into a life unknown to me hitherto.
When I appeared in sight my father, who had patiently listened to my
uncle’s long account of my early life and training, became very much
excited. He was eager to embrace the child who, as he had just been
informed, made it already the object of his life to avenge his father’s
blood. The loving father could not remain in the teepee and watch the
boy coming, so he started to meet him. My uncle arose to go with his
brother to insure his safety.
My face burned with the unusual excitement caused by the sight of a man
wearing the Big Knives’ clothing and coming toward me with my uncle.
“What does this mean, uncle?”
“My boy, this is your father, my brother, whom we mourned as dead. He
has come for you.”
My father added: “I am glad that my son is strong and brave. Your
brothers have adopted the white man’s way; I came for you to learn this
new way, too; and I want you to grow up a good man.”
He had brought me some civilized clothing, At first, I disliked very
much to wear garments made by the people I had hated so bitterly. But
the thought that, after all, they had not killed my father and brothers,
reconciled me, and I put on the clothes.
In a few days we started for the States. I felt as if I were dead and
traveling to the Spirit Land; for now all my old ideas were to give
place to new ones, and my life was to be entirely different from that of
the past.
Still, I was eager to see some of the wonderful inventions of the
white people. When we reached Fort Totten, I gazed about me with lively
interest and a quick imagination.
My father had forgotten to tell me that the fire-boat-walks-on-mountains
had its track at Jamestown, and might appear at any moment. As I was
watering the ponies, a peculiar shrilling noise pealed forth from just
beyond the hills. The ponies threw back their heads and listened; then
they ran snorting over the prairie. Meanwhile, I too had taken alarm. I
leaped on the back of one of the ponies, and dashed off at full
speed. It was a clear day; I could not imagine what had caused such an
unearthly noise. It seemed as if the world were about to burst in two!
I got upon a hill as the train appeared. “O!” I said to myself, “that is
the fire-boat-walkson-mountains that I have heard about!” Then I drove
back the ponies.
My father was accustomed every morning to read from his Bible, and
sing a stanza of a hymn. I was about very early with my gun for several
mornings; but at last he stopped me as I was preparing to go out, and
bade me wait.
I listened with much astonishment. The hymn contained the word Jesus.
I did not comprehend what this meant; and my father then told me that
Jesus was the Son of God who came on earth to save sinners, and that it
was because of him that he had sought me. This conversation made a deep
impression upon my mind.
Late in the fall we reached the citizen settlement at Flandreau, South
Dakota, where my father and some others dwelt among the whites. Here my
wild life came to an end, and my school days began.