the graves of her parents, finding them in good order with the
exception of the railing which enclosed the mounds. Her youngest child,
fifteen months old, was then very ill; he had been named Thomas, after
his grandfather. He died and was buried beside his brave ancestor.
During the winter of their stay there, the sister, Eliza M. Hunt, was
married to Mr. Soulard, a French gentleman of great worth.
In the following summer, Snelling was promoted Colonel of the 5th
regiment, and ordered up the Mississippi, to relieve Lieut. Colonel
Leavenworth, who was also promoted to another regiment. He had
conducted the 5th regiment from Detroit to within eight miles of
the Falls of St. Anthony. The journey was exceedingly tedious and
disagreeable, in a keel boat laboriously propelled by men with long
poles, placed against their shoulders, along a gangway on each side of
the boat. The weather was very warm and the musquitoes numerous day
and night. The cabin was very low, confined, and uncomfortable. It was
three weeks or more before they arrived at Prairie du Chien, during
which time very little sound sleep was obtained by the young mother,
from fear of the Indians, the Sac and Fox, the most savage looking and
ferocious she had ever seen. They seemed to be very fond of dress, and
their faces were painted of all colors; the hair cut close to within
an inch of the top of the head, and that decorated with a variety of
ribbons and feathers, and often a small looking-glass suspended from
the neck. Many of them were certainly great beaux, but they looked
hideous, and were terrific objects to a timid woman.
When the voyagers arrived at Prairie du Chien, they found Gov. Cass
and his party; he held councils with the Indians, for the purpose
of bringing about a peace between the Sac and Fox tribes, Chippewas
and Sioux. Our friends were detained there several weeks by a
court-martial, of which Col. Snelling was President. They had still
three hundred miles to go before they reached the encampment of the
5th regiment, and there were several Indian villages on the route. The
magnificent scenery of this river has been often described. Lake Pepin
is a beautiful expansion about twenty-four miles in length, and from
two to four broad. At length they arrived safe through many fatigues to
the end of their journey, and received a hearty welcome from friends
they had never seen before, and from Capt. Gooding and his wife, whom
they were again delighted to meet. Their daughter had been married a
few days previous to the Adjutant of the regiment.
Great solicitude was felt to have a temporary garrison erected with
such defences as could be then made, before the long and severe
winter set in. The traders brought news that the Indians were very
insolent, and it was said a white man had been killed on the St.
Peter’s river. A council was called and the murderers were demanded,
hostages being taken from the council until they were delivered. They
were confined in the guard room, and narrowly watched. All felt that
the little community was exposed and almost at the mercy of an enemy,
and great exertions were made to complete the temporary barracks for
the winter with blockhouses and other defences. Indians meanwhile were
collecting in great numbers, and would sometimes show themselves at
a distance. The traders in the vicinity often came in, and said the
friendly Indians had gone in pursuit of the murderers, and no doubt
would succeed in taking them; but if they did not, the friends of
the hostages would attempt to rescue them. Scouts were accordingly
kept out every night, and the troops slept on their arms. For the
mother--trembling for her little ones more than herself, no sooner
would she close her eyes at night, than she would start, thinking she
heard the war whoop of the savages. The wolves too, half-starved, were
extremely daring, and if the cook happened to leave a bucket of swill
at the back door, they were sure to empty it of its contents.
As soon as the log barracks were finished, the families moved into
them. They were built in four rows forming a square, a blockhouse on
either side; and situated where the village of Mendota now stands. The
Indian hostages were now put in greater security. They were evidently
becoming impatient of restraint, and perhaps had doubts as to the
result. One morning as usual, they were taken a short distance into the
woods under guard, when suddenly one of them (there were three) started
and ran for his life. Those behind set up a yell and the guard fired at
him, but he was beyond reach. The others were immediately taken back
to the guard-house, and an interpreter sent for, who enquired of them
if it was a preconcerted plan of the whole; they declared it was not,
and that until the fugitive started to run, they were ignorant of his
design, and supposed it merely a sudden desire for freedom. They said
further that he would no doubt urge the immediate surrender of the
guilty parties, and laughingly said the lad was so fat, from being so
well fed, they were surprised to see him run so fast!
Col. Snelling and the Indian agent thought it advisable to send the
murderers to the agent at St. Louis, as soon as they should be brought
in and before navigation closed. At length they came, conducted by a
large number of their own tribe. There were two, but only one was sent
to St. Louis, as there was but one white man killed. It was represented
to the Indians in council, that when one white man killed another,
his life paid the penalty; and since one of their people had killed a
white man his life must pay the forfeit, unless their great father in
Washington should pardon him. The savages signified assent by a “ugh!”
As soon as the criminal was gone quiet was restored among the Indians
for the winter.
In September, 1819, Mrs. Snelling’s fifth child was born. Her sick
room was papered and carpeted with buffalo robes, and made quite warm
and comfortable. There were three ladies besides her in the garrison,
and they were like one family, spending their time instructing their
children, and receiving instruction in the French language from a
soldier who it was said had been an officer in Buonaparte’s army. Mrs.
Snelling, Mrs. Clark and an officer, comprised the class. During the
winter, parties of men were sent off to cut down trees, hew timber,
&c., for the permanent fort, which was to be built on the high point
of land between the mouth of the St. Peter’s and Mississippi, a point
selected by Gen. Pike when he explored the river, as a good site for a
fort, and on which Col. Snelling at once decided it should be built.
There was a tree standing at the extreme point, with the name of Pike
carved on it by his own hand. Strict orders were given “to spare that
tree” for it was looked upon by the officers as sacred to his memory,
and was carefully guarded, but the care was in vain. One morning it was
found cut down, and great was the lamentation. It never was known who
had done the deed; there was a mystery about it that was never solved.
The first row of barracks that were put up, were of hewn logs, the
others of stone. The fort was built in a diamond shape, to suit the
ground at the extreme point. Where the tree had stood, was a half-moon
battery, and inside this was the officers’ quarters, a very neat stone
building, the front of cut stone; at the opposite point a tower. The
fort was enclosed by a high stone wall, and is well represented in the
drawings of it.
At the expiration of two years, the regiment moved into the fort,
although not completed. The families of the officers occupied quarters
in the row assigned to them. It was just before this time that Mrs.
Snelling lost her youngest child--thirteen months old. In June,
1823, the first steamboat made its appearance at the fort, much to
the astonishment of the savages, who placed their hands over their
mouths--their usual way of expressing astonishment, and called it a
“fire-boat.” A salute was fired from the fort, as it was expected
that the Inspector general was on board; and it was returned from the
boat. The Indians knew not what to make of it, and they were greatly
alarmed, until all was explained. Additions were made to the society
of the garrison; several officers, who had been absent, returned to
their regiment, bringing wives and sisters, so that at one time the
company numbered ten ladies. There were six companies, which fully
officered, would have given eighteen or twenty officers, but there
were seldom or never that number present at one time. An Italian
gentleman came on the boat, who professed to be travelling for the
purpose of writing a book, and brought letters of introduction from
Mrs. Snelling’s friends in St. Louis. The Colonel invited him to his
house to remain as long as he pleased, and he was with them several
months. He could not speak English, but spoke French fluently, and
seemed much pleased when he found his fair hostess could speak the
language, she having learned it when a child at St. Louis. A French
school was the first she ever attended, and she thus early acquired a
perfectly correct pronunciation. She lamented on one occasion to Mr.
Beltrami, that her teacher had received his discharge, and was about
leaving, and he politely offered his services in that capacity. She
was then translating the life of Caesar in an abridged form, and from
the emotion betrayed by the foreigner at a portion of the reading, it
was concluded he had been banished from the Pope’s dominions at Rome,
and that the lesson reminded him of his misfortunes. The passport he
showed, gave him the title of “Le Chevalier Count Beltrami.”
About this time, Major Long’s expedition arrived, to explore the St.
Peter’s river, and when they left Beltrami accompanied them. When his
book was published at New Orleans, he sent Mrs. Snelling a copy. While
at the fort he was busy in collecting Indian curiosities. One day he
brought a Sioux chief into Mrs. Snelling’s room, who had on his neck a
necklace of bears’ claws highly polished, saying, “I cannot tempt this
chief to part with his necklace, pray see what you can do with him, he
will not refuse you.” “He wears it,” answered the lady, “as a trophy
of his prowess, and a badge of honor; however, I will try.” After some
time, Wanata said, “On one condition I will consent; if you will cut
off your hair, braid it, and let it take the place of mine you may have
the necklace.” All laughed heartily at his contrivance to get rid of
further importunity.
One day a call was heard from a sentinel on the river bank, to the
corporal of the guard, that a child had fallen into the river, and
several ran in the direction the sentinel pointed. The gardener who
was at work at a short distance, cried out, “It is the Colonel’s son,
Henry! Save him!” His mother heard the cry, “A child is drowning!”
and ran out upon the battery to see and hear what was the matter. She
saw them draw the boy out, place him on a blanket, and hasten up the
hill; they approached her house, when the Colonel hastened towards her
saying, “We came near losing our child!” and she saw it was indeed her
own. He was pale as death, but soon recovered, and lives to tell the
story of an immense catfish dragging him into the river while fishing.
In 1823, news was brought by the traders that two white children were
with a party of Sioux, on the St. Peter’s. It appeared from what they
could learn, that a family from Red River--Selkirk’s settlement--had
been on their way to the Fort, when a war party of Sioux met them,
murdered the parents and an infant, and made the boys prisoner. Col.
Snelling sent an officer with a party of soldiers to rescue the
children. After some delay in the ransom, they were finally brought.
An old squaw, who had the youngest, was very unwilling to give him up,
and indeed the child did not wish to leave her. The oldest, about eight
years old, said his name was John Tully, and his brother, five years
old, Abraham. His mother had an infant, but he saw the Indians dash its
brains out against a tree, then kill his father and mother. Because he
cried, they took him by his hair, and cut a small piece from his head,
which was a running sore when he was re-taken. Col. Snelling took John
into his family, Major Clark the other, but he was afterwards sent to
an orphan asylum in New York. The eldest died of lockjaw, occasioned
by a cut in the ankle while using an axe. His deathbed conversion was
affecting and remarkable. One day, after he had been ill several weeks,
he said, “Mrs. Snelling, I have been a very wicked boy; I once tried to
poison my father because he said he would whip me. I stole a ring from
you, which you valued much, and sold it to a soldier, and then I told
you a lie about it. I have given you a great deal of trouble. I have
been very wicked. I am going to die the day after to-morrow, and don’t
know where I shall go. Oh, pray for me.”
His benefactress answered, “John, God will forgive you, if you repent;
but you must pray, too, for yourself. God is more willing to hear than
we are to pray. Christ died to save just such a sinner as you are, and
you must call upon that Saviour to save you.” All his sins appeared to
rise before him as he confessed them, and he seemed to feel that he
was too great a sinner to hope for pardon. Mrs. Snelling read to him,
and instructed him. He never had received any religious instruction,
except in the Sunday school taught by Mrs. Clark and herself, and being
accustomed to say his prayers with her children, and always to be
present when she read the church service on Sundays. The next morning
after the above conversation, when she asked him how he had rested
during the night, he said, “I prayed very often in the night; I shall
die to-morrow, and I know not what will become of me.” For several
hours he remained tranquil, with his eyes closed, but would answer
whenever spoken to; then suddenly he exclaimed, “Glory! glory!” His
friend said, “John, what do you mean by that word?” “Oh! Mrs. Snelling,
I feel so good--I feel so good! Oh! I cannot tell you how good I feel.”
She knew not that he ever heard that word unless from her prayer-book.
He lost all consciousness on the day he said he should die, and expired
at the succeeding dawn.
During this year the commandant was visited by Gen. Scott and suite,
and the fort was completed. Heretofore it had been called Fort St.
Anthony, but Gen. Scott issued an order giving it the name of Fort
Snelling. He expressed his approbation of the construction and site of
the fort, etc., spent a week with his friends, and visited the falls
and a chain of lakes where they were used to amuse themselves fishing,
and where the water was so clear they could see the fish playing about
the hook. One of the lakes Mrs. Snelling named Scott Lake.
Another of her amusements was riding on horseback. When a child she had
been accustomed to ride every morning with her father, and acquired
great confidence in the management of a horse. Her husband seldom would
ride with her, but Capt. Martin Scott was in the regiment, and often
accompanied her. One day they saw a wolf; the dogs gave chase, and they
followed until they ran down the poor creature, the bonnet of the fair
huntress having fallen back, and her hair streaming loose in the wind.
In 1825, the family left Fort Snelling to visit their friends in
Detroit. It was late in the season, October, before they set out
homeward, by the way of Green Bay, where Mrs. Snelling’s brother,
Lieut. Wellington Hunt, was stationed. They spent a week in his family,
and when they reached Lake Pepin the ice was running so rapidly they
were compelled to stop; the ice had cut through the cabin so that it
leaked. A small log cabin was put up, and an express sent to the fort,
one hundred miles, for sleighs to convey them thither, and provisions,
as they had nothing but corn, which they boiled in ash-water with a
little salt. Fears were entertained by Col. Snelling that the express
might not reach the fort, and another was sent a week after. One day,
after two weeks, there was a sound of sleigh bells, and Henry, who
was the first to hear, ran to meet them, and soon returned with two
loaves of bread, which he threw into his mother’s lap, crying, “eat,
mother, eat.” The children ate bread as if famished, and even the
little Marion, but eight months old, partook of the general joy. They
had seen no Indians, who had all gone to their winter grounds. Some of
the officers came to meet the Colonel’s family, and they were soon on
the move again. They were welcomed back joyfully by all their friends,
and many of their favorite Indians came to see them. One poor savage,
who always furnished them with game, came leaning on his staff, looking
pale and emaciated; he was very sick, he said, and came to see them
once more before he died. He could scarcely crawl back to his lodge,
and the next day expired.
At this time a party of the Chippewas and Sioux held a council with the
Indian agent. There had been war between the two nations for a long
time; the agent desired to act as mediator between them, and sent for
them to meet him. After the council the two parties smoked the pipe
of peace. The Chippewas killed a dog, made a feast, and invited the
Sioux to their lodges, which were under the guns of the fort. In the
evening, about nine o’clock, the firing of guns was heard; the sentinel
called “corporal of the guard” repeatedly, in quick succession. The
wild cries of women and children were heard, for the Chippewas had
their families with them, and several Indians came rushing into the
hall of the commanding officer, trying to tell what was the matter.
The officer of the day reported that the Sioux, after partaking of the
hospitalities of the Chippewas, and being apparently good friends,
had some of them returned, placed their guns under the wigwams, and
fired, killing some and wounding others. The wounded were conveyed into
the hospital to have their wounds dressed. Other particulars of this
occurrence, with the determination of the Chippewas to have vengeance,
the action of the commanding officer, and the surrender and punishment
of the perpetrators of the deed, are related in another memoir. The
traders said the Sioux were perfectly satisfied, much more so than if
the offenders had been imprisoned and sent to St. Louis.
In 1826, Capt. Thomas Hunt, who was residing at Washington, wrote
to his sister, urging her and the Colonel to send their two eldest
children to him to be educated. Their daughter Mary was now fourteen,
and as Capt. Plympton and his wife were going, her parents got her in
readiness to accompany them. Her mother thought not it would cost so
many tears to part with her child; but when she returned home from the
boat, she told Mrs. Clark it “seemed like a death in the family.” Soon
an opportunity offered, and they sent Henry also.
In 1827 the Indians began to show signs of hostility near Prairie du
Chien; they murdered two white men and a young girl, the daughter of
one of them, and attacked two boats with supplies for Fort Snelling,
killing and wounding several of the crew. Col. Snelling ordered out
as many of his command as could be spared from the fort, and with his
officers descended the river to the relief of Fort Crawford, or to
attack any hostile force of Indians he might meet. There were two large
villages of Indians between the two forts, and it was expected, when
they approached, they would be attacked, but there was not an Indian
to be seen. When they reached Prairie du Chien, they ascertained that
the outrage had been committed by Winnebagoes and not Sioux. When Gen.
Atkinson heard this at St. Louis, he sent and seized the chief, Red
Bird, and one or two others, who were tried, convicted, and executed.
After an absence of six weeks, the party returned without being obliged
to fire a gun.
One day soon after his return, the Colonel came in to tell his wife the
express had brought them a mail, holding in his hand a letter sealed
with black. She exclaimed, “My Mary is dead.” “No,” said her husband,
“the letter is from Detroit.” It brought the intelligence of her much
loved brother Henry’s death. He was much loved and respected by all
who knew him; was mayor of the city and colonel of the militia, and
his funeral was the largest ever known in Michigan. After the massacre
at Frenchtown by the Indians, in 1813, he had spent a great deal of
money in ransoming prisoners, many of whom still affectionately cherish
his memory. He had proved a father to his sister and family, and was
mourned by them deeply and long.
In the fall of 1827, the regiment was ordered to Jefferson Barracks.
When the family arrived at St. Louis, they took lodgings for the
winter. Colonel Snelling having obtained leave to go to Washington to
settle some public accounts and to bring home his daughter. He wrote to
her mother in glowing terms of her improvement in person and mind, and
that she received much attention for one of her age, not yet sixteen.
“As Mary will not again,” he concluded, “have so good an opportunity, I
have encouraged her to accept invitations to the different soirées; she
has had cards for the season from all.” Mary wrote, “I have attended
many parties, but I do not enjoy them, for my dear mother is not with
me, and I am so impatient to embrace her.” Alas! the All Wise Disposer
of events had ordered it otherwise. One more letter her mother received
from her, and hoped before many weeks to see her, but at the time she
was expecting her arrival, a letter was written to her sister, Mrs.
Soulard, that Mary was dead!
Col. Snelling wrote afterwards, that on the 2d of February she had been
at Mrs. Clay’s party and danced, and had taken cold while standing to
wait for the carriage; the cold terminating in a brain fever. Mrs.
Adams, the wife of the President, showed great interest in the young
stranger, as did many others, and every attention was paid her that
could be desired; but there was no solace for the deep wound in the
mother’s heart. She had felt a presentiment that she should never more
see her daughter, and was in some measure prepared for the stroke which
almost crushed her: she was enabled to look with faith to Him from
whose hand it came, to feel that He was too wise to err--too good to
afflict willingly, and to bow in humble submission to the most painful
dispensation of his Providence. Her husband wrote that he should be
obliged to remain still longer in Washington; it would improve her
health to travel, and she must join him without delay. In May she left
St. Louis with her three children and nurse, found her husband and son
well, the latter much grown, and received a cordial welcome from her
brother and sister-in-law.
Her cup of affliction was not yet full; in two months her husband was
seized with inflammation of the brain and died in three weeks. In
communicating the sad event to the army, the General-in-Chief thought
it but an act of justice to make a public acknowledgment of his
services.[38]
At this period of distress Mrs. Snelling’s youngest child, Josiah, was
not expected to live. She resigned him willingly; but he was spared
to her, and lived to be her great comfort. In a month she was on her
way to Detroit. A farm three miles up the river belonged to her, and
thither she took her children. Her brother, George Hunt, took charge
of the farm and lived in her family. After residing two years upon it,
Mrs. Snelling found it necessary to remove into the city, where she
took a few boarders, and rented her farm. In 1835 she sold it for nine
thousand dollars, purchased a lot in the city and built a brick house.
Her son Henry, who had gone to New York on business, became acquainted
with Miss Putnam, the sister of the publisher, a lady of high literary
ability and intelligence, and they were soon afterwards married. Capt.
Thomas Hunt was at this time residing in Detroit. He died very suddenly
in consequence of a fall, leaving a very interesting family. Gov. Mason
offered Mrs. Snelling a high rent for her house, and she consented to
let it, provided he would purchase her new furniture, which he did. She
then accepted an invitation from her brother, Gen. Hunt, at Maumee
city, to reside in his family, having now only her daughter Marion
(afterwards Mrs. Hazard) and her youngest son with her. Her son James
had gone to West Point.