timber. I walked some hours, and then laid me down to rest, on the
damp ground. The dew on the grass was very heavy; I thought I could
scoop up some of it with my hand, and obtain relief, but it was in vain
that I tried it. I then took up the bottom of my skirt, and sucked
the moisture from it, until I had partially quenched my thirst. I
thought it the sweetest water I ever drank. I now curled myself up on
the ground for a nap, trying to get myself warm, by drawing the apron
over my head and face, and breathing on my benumbed hands. I shook
from head to foot. I was chilled through, and my teeth chattered. I
heard something approach me, which I supposed, from the step, &c., was
a wolf. I heard him snuffling around my head awhile, and then running
away. I did not even look up, for I felt not the least fear of anything
but Indians. Soon sleep and weariness overcame me, and I slept for some
time. When I awoke, I felt quite refreshed, and started once more on
my toilsome journey. But, by this time, my feet had become very sore;
the flesh was worn almost to the bone, on the top of my toes, by the
coarse prairie grass. Indeed, it was quite a hardship for me to walk,
at all, but the sweet hope that I should soon reach “Dutch Charley’s,”
buoyed up my sinking spirit. If I could only reach that place, I should
be well cared for, and assisted to some friendly settlement, whence I
could inform distant friends of my misfortunes. I traveled on in the
darkness, through sloughs, and high tangled grass, and soon found a
slough that was filled with water. Here I satisfied my burning thirst,
but it was very difficult getting through it: the grass was as tall as
my shoulders, and twisted and matted so that I had to part it before
me, to get along. Most of the way, the water was as much as two and a
half feet deep. I got so fatigued in wading this wide slough that I was
almost obliged to sit down in it, and rest myself. As soon as I set
my foot on dry land again, I lay down and rested a long time, before
starting again.
It was now early twilight, and I could see timber at a short distance.
I was so weak that I reeled badly, as I walked, but the sight of
the woods revived my strength somewhat, and I dragged myself along,
thinking that about five of the sixteen miles of the route to “Dutch
Charley’s,” were accomplished, and vainly hoping that before night I
might travel the remaining eleven miles. As I neared the timber, I
heard the crowing of fowls in several directions. It was now broad
day, and I discovered that this was not Buffalo Lake, but Lake Shetak!
I cannot describe my grief and despair, at finding myself back there,
after wandering two long nights, with feet bleeding and torn by briers
and rough weeds, and with nothing to eat for three nights and two
days. My fear of Indians caused me to creep into the first bunch of
weeds, for shelter, and I covered my head and face with the apron, to
keep off the musquitoes, which stung me beyond all endurance. I began
to feel sick, and a weak, faint feeling would come over me at times,
which I attributed to extreme hunger. I thought that if I got away
from that place, I must get something to eat, or die soon of weakness
and starvation. There was a house not far off, which I knew to have
belonged to my old friend and neighbor, Thomas Ireland, and if I could
get to it, I might, perhaps, find something eatable. After wavering for
a long time, in a state of uncertainty, between the fear of starvation
and the fear of the Indians, I chose to risk the danger of being
discovered by them, knowing that to remain without food longer, was
death. At about ten o’clock I started for the house. I had to cross a
small slough, the opposite side of which was a high bank, covered thick
with brush. With great pain attending every step, I crossed the slough,
gained the other side, and essayed to climb the bank; I parted the
brush, in order to get through with the least possible pain, but the
brush would catch between my toes at every step, causing me to groan
aloud. God only knows what I suffered. Entirely discouraged, I lay down
in the midst of the brush to _die_! I reflected that all that had kept
me alive, hitherto, was my great desire and determination to live;
hence, that all I now needed to do, was to lie down, determined to
die, and death would soon relieve my sufferings. But I was mistaken: I
found that I could not die, unless it was God’s will, and in His time.
I lay here until noon; then arose and started once more for the house.
By pulling myself up by the bushes, I at last reached the top, and
found myself within a short distance of a corn field. Though in such
an exhausted state that I could scarcely walk, I dragged myself to the
field. I plucked the first ear I could reach, sat down, and, after many
efforts, pulled off the green husks. I then ate two rows of the milky
kernels of green corn, but they made me very sick at the stomach. But,
after lying down for some time, I arose, feeling a great deal better,
and stronger, and soon reached the house.
Here I found the head and bones of a young bullock the Indians had
butchered: several dead pigs, old clothes, dishes, Indian blankets,
&c., scattered all about the yard. The ground was covered with
feathers which they had emptied from the beds. I entered the house
and found in one corner, a dead dog; I found a crock containing some
buttermilk, so sour and covered with mould that I found it impossible
to use it for food. But I took a cup to the spring, drank some water,
and crawled into some plum-bushes, where I remained until night. When
it got sufficiently dark, I went back to the house, where I caught and
killed a chicken, tore off the skin, and with my teeth tore the flesh
off the bones. This I rendered eatable by dipping it in some brine that
was left in a pork barrel; wrapped it in paper, and put it in a tin
pail that I found. This must be my provision for next day, for well I
knew that I must have food of some kind, even if raw. I also pulled
three ears of corn, and deposited them with the meat. This little store
of provision, I thought, would be enough to keep up my strength until
I could reach “Dutch Charley’s.” This I imagined would be a haven of
rest, where kind hands would care for me, and nurse me up. I put on an
old ragged coat, to keep me warm, bound up my raw and painful feet, in
old cloths, and started anew on my journey.
I knew the direction to the road to be due east from this place, and
the distance about two miles. This night I kept the right course by
the north star, but did not travel far, for I could go but a short
distance, before I was obliged to lie down and rest. Just at day-break,
I reached the road, making the distance of two miles in the whole
night! This I thought was slow traveling, but I was quite encouraged,
now that I had found the road, and was sure of going right. I lay
down and slept until after sunrise: then, after eating some green
corn, I started again. Often did fatigue force me to sit down and
rest, and each time, after resting, I could scarcely put my foot to
the ground. My heel, which had been shot through, was very sore, and
badly swelled; but, discouraging as this was, I still pressed onward,
till I reached Buffalo Lake, at about 11 o’clock, a. m. Here I found
that I must cross the outlet of the lake, upon a pole that some one
had laid across, long ago. But when I trusted my weight upon it over
the middle of the stream, it broke, and I fell into the water. After
repeated efforts I got out and passed on, but was obliged to stop and
repair damages caused by the accident. I took off and wrung out some of
my clothes, such as my skirt and the rags on my feet; then hung them
in the sunshine to dry. I also laid the meat in the sun to dry, for
it was so soft and slippery that I could not eat it. After this I lay
down in the bushes that grew around the lake, and slept very soundly,
for some time. I arose, at length, put on my skirt, coat, and apron, as
usual, dressed my feet again, sat on a log and ate some corn and forced
down some meat. Just as I finished my lonely meal, a flock of ducks
flew off the lake, and soon a crane followed them. This was proof that
something had disturbed them, and, fearing that Indians were close at
hand, I hid behind a tree, and watched the road in the direction I had
just come. Presently the head of a horse was seen to rise over the hill
near by. “Indians, without doubt,” thought I, and shrank down among the
bushes, and watched to see a dozen or more of the hated savages file
along before me. But, oh! what a revulsion of feeling, from fear to
joy! It proved to be the mail-carrier from Sioux Falls to New Ulm. I
crept out of the brush, and addressed him. He stopped his horse, and,
staring me in the utmost astonishment, asked, in the Indian tongue, if
I were a squaw. I answered yes, not understanding him, and told him the
Indians had killed all the white people at the lake. “Why,” said he,
“you look too white to be a squaw.” “I am no squaw,” replied I, “I am
Mrs. Eastlick; you have seen me several times at Mrs. Everett’s house;
but I am very badly wounded.” While talking with him, the first tears
I had yet shed, since the beginning of my troubles, began to pour like
rain over my cheeks. While I was alone, without an earthly friend to
listen to my grief, I bore up stoically; but now the warmth of human
sympathy unlocked the frozen current of my tears, and I tried with
joy, at once more beholding the face of a white man. He then inquired
about the extent of my wounds, and asked to see them; so I turned up my
sleeve, and showed him my wounded arm, and the place where my head was
broken. He then helped me up on his sulky, and walked along, leading
the horse. At about four o’clock we came in sight of “Dutch Charley’s,”
when we drove the horse away from the road into a ravine, helped me to
the ground, telling me to conceal myself in the grass, and he would go
to the house and see if there had been any Indians about. He returned
presently, saying there had been none there: that the family had
deserted the premises, but that there was an old man there, who came
from Lake Shetak. He helped me to mount the sulky again, and we were
soon before the door. As soon as I had got to the ground, the man made
his appearance at the door, and, wonderful to tell, it was poor “Uncle
Tommy Ireland.” I hardly knew him, for he looked more like a corpse
than a living being; his face was pale, his eyes deeply sunk, and his
voice reduced to a whisper. I hurried to greet him, rejoiced to find,
still living, my old friend and neighbor, who had witnessed the same
heart-ending sights with myself. He clasped his arm around me, kissed
me several times, and we both wept like children at the sight of each
other.
While the mail-carrier cared for his horse, we entered the house, and
he told me that Merton had left the scene of the massacre on the same
day, carrying little Johnny, and he thought, perhaps, he had reached
that house before “Dutch Charley’s” family had left, and so gone along
with them. I was filled with hope and joy, to think that, perhaps, two
of my children were spared. He detailed to me the circumstances how
the rest of the men, who were lying there with him wounded, had made
their escape from the slough about the middle of the afternoon of the
same day, after the Indians had left. That Merton then told him that
_he_ was going to leave, too. “Oh! no,” said Uncle Tommy, “you will
starve to death on the prairie; you had better lie down with me, and
both die here together, than to wander over the prairie, and finally
starve.” “No,” bravely replied Merton, “Mother told me to carry Johnny
as long as I live, and I’m going to do it.” Uncle Tommy then, seeing
the child’s determination to go, told him he would go with him as far
as the road. Poor little Frank started to go with them, but was wounded
so badly, and so enfeebled by loss of blood, that he soon fell upon his
knees, and besought his brother, Merton, to wait for him, saying he was
_sick_ and could not keep up, Oh! how the poor boy must have felt, to
see his brother leave him alone in such agony. He had been shot through
the thigh, through the abdomen and through the mouth. I afterwards
learned that he remained two days on the prairie, and was then found by
a band of Indians, who carried him to Mrs. Smith’s house. Here they
remained and doctored him two days; there were worms in his wounds
at the time; and, finding he could neither eat nor drink, but would
probably die, they left him in this situation. But he lived, and after
staying there alone for three weeks, and living on cheese, &c., he was
taken prisoner by a half-breed, named Joe Leaboshie. God only knows
what the poor child suffered, and what he still suffers, for if still
living, he is yet a prisoner.
Uncle Tommy only went about half a mile with Merton; being very faint
from the loss of blood, he lay down in the grass, and was unable to
turn himself over for thirty-six hours. Then, finding himself able
to walk, he arose, and went as far as “Dutch Charley’s” that day, at
which place we found him on Saturday, the next day. As he was unable
to get himself a drink, he was suffering greatly, but the sight of the
mail-carrier and myself raised his spirits to such an extent, that
he thought he could travel a little. The mail-carrier came in after
feeding his horse, brought in some hay, which he put in a corner, and
advised me to lie down upon it and rest. He found a cheese in the
chamber, which he cut and fed us upon. After resting some time, I went
to the garden, and pulled a few turnips; taking them and a part of the
cheese for food, we started once more. At first, Uncle Tommy could not
walk very well, but, after going a mile or two, he could walk as fast
as the horse. After going about eight miles, we went about half a mile
away from the road, to camp for the night; ate a part of our turnips
and cheese, and lay down on the ground to sleep. The mail-carrier gave
me a quilt, that he had with him, and this I shared with Mr. Ireland,
who had nothing but his shirt and pants. During the night, a severe
storm arose, and it rained for some time; the kind mail-carrier put his
oil-cloth blanket over us, reserving but a small portion for himself.
As soon as day-light on Sunday morning, we started again. It was very
cold, and I should have suffered much, if the mail-carrier had not
given me his blanket to ride in, which kept me very comfortable. At
about eleven o’clock, we espied some persons ahead of us, and the
mail-carrier, thinking they might be Indians, turned from the road,
followed along a ravine, for some distance, till he thought he could
come up with them. He then cautiously crept to the top of the hill, and
looked over, upon the road. But he could see nothing of them; they were
out of sight. He returned and said he would go back to Sioux Falls, if
I would. I told him, if he thought he would be any safer to return,
to do so, by all means: but that I would rather he would leave me to
go onward, to New Ulm, which I supposed must be a place of safety.
He said he would go there with me. I urged him not to run any risks
for my sake, for we might all get killed if we went on, but he would
not leave me behind, alone. We then all started on again, with the
mail-carrier some distance in advance. As we neared the place where
we had seen the supposed Indians, he took a circuitous route, telling
me to wait until he could go to the top of a hill, and look out for
them. After looking in every direction, he motioned to me to go on,
and soon rejoined me. But when we had traveled about a mile further,
on ascending an eminence, I saw at a long distance the objects that
had alarmed us, which appeared to be a woman and two children. When we
arrived near to them, the woman looked to me like Mrs. Duly: I beckoned
to her to stop, and, on coming up, it proved to be Mrs. Hurd, with her
two children. She was unable to speak, for some time, but shook hand
with us all, and finally told me that my Merton was a short distance
ahead, just out of sight, and was carrying Johnny. I could stay to
hear no more, and, urging the horse along, I soon came up with them.
Merton stopped, gazed upon me, but spoke not a word. The mail-carrier
took Johnny, who was sleeping, in his arms, and gave him to me; I
clasped him to my breast, and, with tears of joy, I thanked God--Oh!
how fervently--for sparing my children thus far. How I longed to press
to my bosom my poor Merton, but could not, for I was unable to get off
the sulky; all I could do was to press his wasted hand, and call him
my dear brave boy. He, though only eleven years old, had carried the
child, who was fifteen months old, fifty miles, but now he could hardly
stand alone; for he felt no fear now, and had nothing to excite him
or keep up his strength. He was the poorest person I ever saw, able
to stand alone. Two weeks of hard sickness could not have altered his
looks more. And little Johnny, too, was sadly changed; his face was
entirely covered with a scab, where the musquitoes had bitten him and
he had scratched off the skin: he lay stupid in my arms, and seemed not
to notice anything; and he had pulled the hair all out of the back of
his head. They had both been two days without food. After Merton had
left Mr. Ireland, exhausted upon the prairie, he soon found the road to
“Dutch Charley’s,” and reached Buffalo Lake before dark, on the day of
the massacre, and stopped there all night. He laid his little brother
on the ground, and bent over him to protect him from the cold rain. The
wolves came around in the night, and he was obliged to halloo at them
with all his power of voice, to scare them away. Think of it, mothers,
and fancy your own cherished darlings sleeping thus!
Thus he spent the long, cold, weary night, and at day-light, started
on his way. All day long he carried little John, resting at intervals,
until about five p. m. he overtook Mrs. Hurd, near the house of the
German. Together they proceeded to the house, where they found and
ate some cheese full of skippers, which was the first morsel they had
tasted for two days. The people of the house had left, taking with them
all their provisions, that were fit to eat. At about dark they went and
concealed themselves in the corn-field for the night.
Mrs. Hurd, also, had had a very hard time since the beginning of her
troubles. After the Indians had driven her from her home, she wandered
on till she became bewildered, and lost her way, while the rain poured
in torrents. At night she laid her children on the ground, tried to
shield them from the storm with her body, and spent the night in
watching over them. Next day, after wandering round for a long time,
and crossing numerous sloughs, she found the road, but her eldest child
became very sick, and vomited often. Soon he became unable to walk,
and then she was obliged to carry him. But having two to carry, and
being quite weak, she was under the necessity of carrying one of them a
quarter or half mile, laying him down and returning for the other one,
so that, for every mile that her children got along, she was obliged to
walk three miles. Her oldest child cried bitterly for bread, but she
cheered him by promising that he should have some when they reached
“Dutch Charley’s.” She traveled thus till she reached the house, when
she was almost discouraged by finding them all gone. Her boy reminded
her of her promise, but she could find no bread for him. Next morning,
after returning from the corn-field, they resumed their search for
food, and at last found in an old building some spoiled ham, which they
fed to the little ones. Merton pulled some carrots in the garden, and,
after making their breakfast of carrot, ham and cheese, they started
again, taking what provision they had left. Thus they traveled, with
but little to eat and nearly destitute of clothing, and sleeping on the
ground at night. Johnny’s sole clothing was a dress, with a very low
neck: Merton had, at first, a shirt, pants, and hat, but the hat was
shot to pieces in the slough, and he had torn his pants nearly off, in
walking, so that he replaced them with an old pair which were picked up
at the German’s.
At about noon we reached Brown’s place, which was two miles from where
I met with my children, but found the house deserted, and the family
gone. From the appearance of things, they were judged to have left
the house of their own accord, and had taken most of their goods with
them. The mail-carrier, being unable to enter the door, which was
fastened, climbed in at the window, which had been broken in, and found
some bread on the table, which he distributed among us, reserving but
a small piece for himself. After feeding his horse, he started alone
for New Ulm, leaving us around the house, and promising to send some
one after us. He said that about seven miles from there, lived a man
who owned a pair of horses, and he would send him after us. After he
was gone, being afraid to stay around the house, we went about eighty
rods from the house, into the brush that grew along the bank of the
Cottonwood river. Here we staid until near sunset, when we returned
to the house, crawled in through the broken window, and examined the
premises. The house looked as though it had just been left; it was
quite clean, and everything was placed in good order. There were one
feather bed and three straw beds in the house, some forty pounds of
pork and a crock of lard in the cellar; in short, we found enough to
make us comfortable, and, though there was nothing that would make
bread, we were still very thankful. In the garden, Mrs. Hurd and Merton
dug some potatoes, and found plenty of such vegetables as onions,
turnips, cabbage, beets, tomatoes and melons. Mrs. Hurd then cooked
some potatoes, fried some pork and onions, and we all made a hearty
meal, which was the first one I had had since Tuesday night. As soon as
dark, we all gladly went to bed, and found clothes enough to keep us
quite comfortable. I slept but little, however, for I felt not so safe
here as on the prairie, and fear of the red-skins kept sleep from my
eyes.
Here we remained at Mr. Brown’s house, from Sunday p. m. till Wednesday
night, when the mail-carrier returned. He reported that all the
settlers on the Cottonwood river were driven away by the Indians, or
killed; that he had gone in sight of New Ulm, on foot, leaving his
horse some miles behind; that he could see the ruins of a great many
burnt houses there, and people, of some kind, walking about the street,
but could not determine whether they were Indians or whites; that as he
was traveling along, on foot, he suddenly came upon six Indians, two of
whom shot at him and pursued him; that he ran and concealed himself in
a slough, till his pursuers were weary of hunting for him, and gave up
the search. He came back and reached Brown’s on Tuesday night, but,
on listening for us, he heard nothing, so he concluded that we were
either killed by the Indians, or had gone away, and, perhaps, the house
contained Indians, so he went to the corn-field and staid there for the
rest of the night, and part of the next day, till he ventured to come
to the house. After hearing this tale, we all knew we were not safe a
moment in the house. But now I was no longer able to walk; my wounded
foot had become much inflamed and swollen. So our kind protector put me
upon his horse and took Johnny and myself to a thicket, about a fourth
of a mile from the house. He also brought the feather bed and placed
it for me to lie upon, among some wild plum bushes. Having done all he
could to render us comfortable, he shook hands and bade me farewell,
saying that he never expected to see me again. He started to return to
Sioux Falls, to send some soldiers to rescue us, and, if he had good
luck in getting through, he thought the soldiers could reach us in one
week from that day. When he left me I wept like a child, for he had
been so very kind to me, he seemed like a brother, and, now that he
was gone, I felt that the last of my hopes was gone with him. I knew I
could not get away without help, and I feared lest the Indians should
come along and find us: if they did our lives would not be worth a
farthing. After cooking a pail of potatoes, some meat and parched corn,
Mrs. Hurd came to me; Uncle Tommy and Merton also came, bringing some
bed clothes to cover us with. But the night proved so sultry, that we
could not bear to cover our faces, and the mosquitoes seemed to draw
the last drop of blood from our veins. I slept but very little, during
this long and tedious night. The prospect was discouraging beyond
measure, and I feared that the mail-carrier would never reach his
destination. But I afterwards learned that when he reached Sioux Falls,
the settlers there had all been murdered by the savages, as also all of
the soldiers but two, who escaped: finally, however, he reached Fort
Clark in safety.