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 Caesar; 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.