soldiers, but as more and more refugees came in with the terribly
mutilated, our fears increased. We knew a small group of the savages
could finish us. Just at dusk, Jim Dunn, a soldier of nineteen who
always helped us about our work, came reeling in, caked with blood and
sweat. I said, "For God's sake, what is the news, Jim?" He only panted,
"Give me something to eat quick." After he had swallowed a few
mouthfuls, he told us that nearly all of the boys had been killed by the
Indians. He said, "The devils got us in the marsh by the river. Quinn
told the Captain not to go down there, but he held his sword above his
head and said, 'All but cowards will follow me.'" The Indians on the
other side of the river were challenging us to come by throwing up their
blankets way above their heads. Only three more of the boys came in that
night.
All of us who were living outside, had gone into the stone barracks with
the refugees. That night we were all sitting huddled together trembling
with fear. We had helped feed the hungry and cared for the wounded all
day long and now were so fatigued we could hardly keep awake. I had
brought my little kerosene lamp with me. I lit it and brought out of the
darkness the sorrowful groups of women and children. Some one called
"Lights out." I turned mine down and set it behind the door. We sat in
darkness. A voice called, "Up stairs." I gathered my baby in my arms,
told Walter to hold on to mother's dress on one side and Minnie on the
other, and up stairs we went, all pushed from behind so we could not
stop. We were pushed into a large room, dark as pitch. There we all
stood panting through fear and exertion. How long, I do not know. A
voice in the room kept calling, "Ota! Ota!" meaning "Many! Many!" We
knew there were Indians with us, but not how many. I had the butcher
knife sharpened when the first refugees came and covered with a piece of
an old rubber. It was now sticking in my belt. I asked Mrs. Dunn what
she had to protect herself with. She said she had nothing, but found her
shears in her pocket. I told her to put out their eyes with them, while
they were killing us, for we expected death every minute after hearing
those Indian voices. I heard Jim Dunn's voice and called him and told
him where my lamp was and asked him to bring it up. He brought it to me.
This was the crucial moment of my life. I sat the lamp on the floor, and
with one hand on the butcher knife, slowly turned up the light. I saw
only three squaws and three half breed boys, instead of the large number
of Indians I expected. Each declared "Me good Injin! Me good Injin!"
All was confusion. William Hawley was inside guard at the door of the
room we were in upstairs. He was just out of the hospital and was very
weak. In spite of this he had gone with the soldiers to Redwood and had
just returned after crawling out from under his dead companions and
creeping through the brush and long grass those dreadful miles. He was
all in. His gun had a fixed bayonet.
My eyes never left those squaws for a moment. I was sure they were
spies who would go to the devils outside and tell them of the weakness
of the fort. Two of the squaws began to fight about a fine tooth comb.
The more formidable of the two, with much vituperation, declared she
would not stay where the other one was. Just at the height of the fight,
a gun outside was fired. The minute it was fired, the squaw started for
the door. I suspected that it was a signal for her to come outside, and
tell what she knew. Hawley had left his post and come in among us. Our
babies were on a field bed on the floor. Calling to Mrs. Dunn to look
after them, I sprang to the door and grabbed the discarded gun. At that
moment, the squaw tried to pass. I ordered her back. She called me a
"Seechy doe squaw" meaning "mean squaw" and tried to push me back. I
raised the bayonet saying, "Go back or I'll ram this through you." She
went back growling and swearing in Sioux. Probably in half an hour I was
relieved of my self-appointed task. Martin Tanner taking my place, I
said to him, "Don't let that squaw get away." I sat down on a board over
some chairs and made the squaw sit beside me. There we sat all that long
night with my right hand hold of my knife and the other holding her blue
petticoat. Didn't she talk to me and revile me? None of the others even
tried to leave. At last we saw the dawn appear.
Have you ever been in great danger where all was darkness where that
danger was? If so, you will know what an everlasting blessing that
daylight was.
From our upper windows we could look out and see that our foes were not
yet in sight. All night long among the refugees, praying, supplicating
and wailing for the dead, was constant, but as the light came and we
began to bestir ourselves among them, nursing the wounded and feeding
the hungry, this ceased and only the crying of the hungry children was
heard.
The Indians had driven away all the stock so there was no milk. My baby
had just been weaned. All those ten days we stayed in the fort, I fed
her hard tack and bacon; that was all we had. I chewed this for her.
There were many nursing mothers, but all were sustaining more than their
own.
There was no well or spring near the fort. All water had to be brought
from the ravine by mule team. Early that morning, under an escort, with
the cannon trained on them, the men drove the mule teams again and again
for water. Busy as all the women who lived at the fort were, I never let
that squaw out of my sight. I kept hold of a lock of her hair whenever I
walked around. She swore volubly, but came along.
About ten o'clock in the morning Lieutenant Gere, a boy of nineteen, who
was left in command when the senior officers were killed, called on me.
On a hill to the northwest, a great body of Indians were assembled. He
wanted me to look through the field piece and see if Little Crow was the
leader. I knew him at once among the cavorting throng of challenging
devils. I knew too, whose captive I would be if the fort fell, for he
had offered to buy me from my husband for three ponies. He loved so to
hear me sing. Mr. Gideon Pond had tried to teach him to sing. We watched
them breathlessly as they sat in council knowing that if they came then
we were lost. The council was long, but finally after giving the blood
curdling war whoop, they rode away.
They were hardly out of sight before the soldiers who had been with us
and had just left for Fort Ripley before the outbreak, filed in. Captain
Marsh had sent for them just before leaving the fort for Redwood. Those
noble fellows, nearly exhausted from the long march, with no sleep for
thirty hours, immediately took their places with the defenders, without
rest or sleep the night before. Gere had sent to St. Peter for the
Renville Rangers and some of our own men. They came in the evening.
The prayers of thanksgiving that could be heard in many tongues from
that mournful group of refugees, as they knew of the soldiers return,
could never be forgotten. Mrs. Dunn and I had asked for guns to help
fight, but there were none for us. There was little ammunition too. The
blacksmith, John Resoft, made slugs by cutting iron rods into pieces.
Mrs. Mueller, Mrs. Dunn and I worked a large share of that day making
cartridges of these, or balls. We would take a piece of paper, give it a
twist, drop in some powder and one of these, or a ball, and give it
another twist. The soldiers could fire twice as fast with these as when
they loaded themselves. All the women helped.
My squaw was still with me. The others made no effort to escape. Just as
night came, she broke away and when she really started she could run off
with me, as she was big and I only weighed one hundred and three pounds.
When I found I could not stop her, I screamed to Sargeant MCGrew, "This
squaw is going to get away and I can't stop her." He turned his gun on
her and shouted, "If you don't go back, I'll blow you to h---." That
night I had to sleep and she got away.
With a hundred and sixty soldiers in the fort, all were so reassured
that we all slept that night.
The next morning was a repetition of Tuesday. The care of the wounded
under that great man, Doctor Mueller and his devoted wife, was our work.
One woman who was my especial care had been in bed with a three day's
old baby when the smoke from the burning homes of neighbors was seen and
they knew the time to fly had come. A wagon with a small amount of hay
on it stood near the door with part of a stack of hay by it. Her husband
and the hired man placed her and the baby on this and covered them with
as much hay as they could get on before the savages came, then mounted
the horses and started to ride away. They were at once shot by the
Indians who then began a search for her. They ran a pitch fork into the
hay over and over again, wounding the woman in many places and hurting
the child so that it died. They then set fire to the hay and went on to
continue their devilish work elsewhere. She crawled out of the hay more
dead than alive and made her way to the fort. Besides the pitchfork
holes which were in her legs and back, her hair and eyebrows were gone
and she was dreadfully burned.
None of the women seemed to think of their wounds. They lamented their
dead and lost, but as far as they themselves were concerned were
thankful they were not captives. The suffering of these women stirred me
to the depths. One poor German woman had had a large family of children.
They all scattered at the approach of the Indians. She thought they were
all killed. She would sit looking into space, calling, "Mine schilder!
Mine schilder!" enough to break your heart. I thought she had gone crazy
when I saw her look up at the sound of a child's voice, then begin to
climb on the table calling, "Mine schilder! Mine schilder!" In a group
on the other side she had seen four of her children that had escaped and
just reached the fort that Wednesday morning.
Early in the afternoon the long expected fighting began. We were all
sent up stairs to stay and obliged to sit on the floor or lie prone. All
the windows were shot in and the glass and spent bullets fell all around
us. I picked up a wash basin heaping full of these and Mrs. Dunn as many
more. By evening the savages retired, giving their awful war whoops.
Thursday there was very little fighting as the rain wet the Indians'
powder. Mrs. Dunn, Mrs. Sweatt and I spent the time making cartridges in
the powder room in our stocking feet. We also melted the spent bullets
from the day before and ran them in molds. These helped out the supply
of ammunition amazingly.
Friday was the terrific battle. A short distance from the fort was a
large mule barn. The Indians swarmed in there. Sergeant Jones understood
their method of warfare, so trained cannon loaded with shell on the
barn. At a signal these were discharged, blowing up the barn and setting
the hay on fire. The air was full of legs, arms and bodies, which fell
back into the flames. We were not allowed to look out, but I stood at
the window all the time and saw this. Later I saw vast numbers of the
Indians with grass and flowers bound on their heads creeping like snakes
up to the fort under cover of the cannon smoke. I gave the alarm, and
the guns blew them in all directions. There was no further actual
fighting, though eternal vigilance was the watchword. It was those
hundred and sixty men who saved even Minneapolis and St. Paul, and all
the towns between. If Fort Ridgely had fallen, the Sioux warriors would
have come right through. General Sibley did not get there with
reinforcements until the next Thursday after the last battle.
You can imagine the sanitary condition of all those people cooped up in
that little fort. No words I know could describe it.
Note.--Mrs. Hern has a medal from the government for saving the fort.
Mrs. Mary Ingenhutt--1858, Minneapolis.
Mrs Ingenhutt, now one hundred years old, for ninety years has made
"Apfel Kuchen," "Fist Cheese" and wine as follows:
Apfel Kuchen--Mix a rich dough using plenty of butter and rich milk.
Line a pan with this, cut in squares and cover with apples sprinkled
thick with sugar and cinnamon. Bake until apples are thoroughly cooked.
Fist Cheese--Take a pan of clabbered milk. Set over a slow fire. When
the whey comes to the top, strain off and shape in balls. Let stand in
warm place until it is ripe--that is, until it is strong.
Wine--Grape, currant, rhubarb and gooseberry wine: Mash home grown fruit
with a home made potato masher, squeeze it through a coarse cloth, add
sugar and place in warm spot to ferment. Draw off in kegs and allow to
stand at least two years.
I used to love to go to the picnics in the early days. Everyone had such
a good time, and was trying to have everyone else have one, too. Then,
all were equal. Nowadays, each one is trying to be prouder than the next
one.
Captain L. L. McCormack.
Georgetown on the Red River was the Hudson Bay post. After the railroad
was built to St. Cloud the Red River carts crossed there on a ferry and
then on the Dakota side went from point to point on the river in the
timber to camp. The river is very crooked. A days journey with one of
these carts was twelve miles. The first stop was at Elk River, now
Dalyrimple, then to Goose River, the present site of Caledonia and then
to Frog Point and from there to what is now Grand Forks. The freight was
teamed to and from St. Cloud and Benson.
Mr. Charles M. Loring--1860.
On the 20th day of September 1860, I reached Minneapolis with my wife
and little son, and went to the Nicollet Hotel where I made arrangements
for board for the winter. The hotel was kept by Eustis & Hill. They
fixed the price at $6.00 a week including fire and laundry for the
family, i. e. $2.00 a week for each person. Mr Loren Fletcher occupied
the rooms adjoining and paid the same price that I paid, notwithstanding
there were but two in his family, but his rooms were considered to be
more favorably located being on the corner of Hennepin and Washington
Avenues.
The cook at the hotel was a Mrs. Tibbets from New England who was an
expert in preparing the famous dishes of that section of our country,
and in the many years that have elapsed since that time, I have never
been in a hotel where cooking was so appetizing.
Our first winter in Minnesota was passed in the most delightful and
pleasant manner.
The following spring, I rented the house on the corner of what is now
Third Avenue and Sixth Street, for the sum of $6.00 a month. This house
is still standing and is a comfortable two story New England house. At
that time it stood alone on the prairie with not more than three or four
houses south of it. One of these is still standing at the corner of
Tenth Street and Park Avenue and is occupied as a "Keeley Cure."
There were few luxuries in the market, but everything that could be
purchased was good and cheap. There was but one meatshop which was kept
by a Mr. Hoblet. He kept his place open in the forenoon only, as his
afternoons were spent in driving over the country in search of a "fat
critter." The best steaks and roasts were 8c a pound and chickens 4 to
6c a pound. Eggs, we bought at 6c a dozen and butter at 8 to 10c a
pound. In winter, we purchased a hind quarter of beef at 3 and 4c a
pound, chickens 3c and occasionally pork could be bought at 6c a pound,
but this was rarely in market. Mutton was never seen. Prairie chickens,
partridges, ducks and venison was very plentiful in the season and very
cheap. We used to purchase these in quantities after cold weather came,
freeze them and pack them in snow. This worked well provided we had no
"January thaw" and then we lost our supplies.
The only fruit we had for winter use was dried apples, wild plums, wild
crab apples and cranberries. In the season, we had wild berries which
were very plentiful. There was a cranberry marsh a half mile west of
Lake Calhoun, on what is now Lake Street, where we used to go to gather
berries. One day a party of four drove to the marsh and just as we were
about to alight, we saw that a large buck had taken possession of our
field. We did not dispute his claim, but silently stole away. That same
autumn a bear entered the garden of W. D. Washburn, who lived on Fifth
Street and Eighth Avenue and ate all of his sweet corn.
About this time the settlers on Lake Minnetonka were clearing their
claims in the "Big Woods" burning most of the timber, but some of the
hard maple was cut as cordwood and hauled to Minneapolis and sold for
from $2.00 to $2.50 a cord.
The winters were cold but clear and bright. The few neighbors were
hospitable and kind and I doubt if there has been a time in the history
of Minneapolis when its citizens were happier than they were in the
pioneer days of the early sixties.
There were few public entertainments, but they enjoyed gathering at the
houses of their neighbors for a game of euchre and occasionally for a
dance in Woodmans' Hall which was situated on the corner of Helen
Street, now Second Avenue, and Washington Avenue. One violinist
furnished the music. Sleighing, horse racing on the river and skating
were the out-of-doors amusements for the winter. A favorite place for
skating was in a lot situated on Nicollet Avenue between Fourth and
Fifth Streets. Nicollet Avenue had been raised above the grade of this
lot, causing a depression which filled with water in the fall. There was
a small white house in the center of the lot and the skaters went around
and around it, and no skating park was more greatly enjoyed.
At the time the war broke out, the town began to show signs of
recovering from the effects of the panic of 1857 and its wonderfully
beautiful surroundings attracted new settlers and the foundation of the
great commercial city was laid.
Dr. Stewart of Sauk Center.
I was government physician for many years and so was back and forth all
the time. I used to meet old man Berganeck, an old German, who carried
supplies for the government. He always walked and knit stockings all the
way. This was very common among the German settlers. The government paid
such an enormous price for its freighting that one could almost pay for
an outfit for supplies in one trip. Berganeck became very wealthy.
I often passed the night near the bivouac of the Red River drivers. They
knew me and were very glad to have me near. I never saw a more rugged
race. They always had money even in the panic times of '57. If I treated
them for any little ailment, I could have my choice of money or furs.
The mosquitoes did not seem to bother them, though they would drive a
white man nearly crazy.
I started for Fort Wadsworth, a four company post, in January '68. The
winters, always severe, had been doubly so in '67 and '68. I went by
team, leaving Sauk Center with the mercury at forty below zero. It never
got above forty five below in the morning, while we were on the trip.
The snow was three feet on a level and we broke the roads. It took us
twelve days to make this three day's trip. My driver was drunk most of
the time. There were no trees from Glenwood to Big Stone Lake on the
trail. When I drove up to Brown's station, a big log house with a family
of about forty people, Nellie met me. To my inquiry as to whether I
could stay over night, she answered, "Yes, but there is no food in the
house. We have had none for three days. My father is somewhere between
here and Henderson with supplies. He knows we are destitute, so will
hurry through." About three o'clock, we heard an Indian noise outside.
It was Joe with his Indian companions. All he had on that big sled was
half a hog, a case of champagne and half a dozen guns. These men were
always improvident and never seemed to think ahead.
His daughters, Amanda and Emily, twins, had a peculiarity I never knew
before in twins. One day, one would be gay, the other sad. The next day,
it would be reversed.
Mrs. J. M. Paine, Minneapolis.
During the early days of the war my husband raised a company of cavalry
and wanted me to inspect them as they drilled. I was only a girl of
seventeen, but had instructions enough how to behave when they were
drilling, for a regiment. I was mounted on one of the cavalry horses and
was to sit sedately, my eye on every maneuver and a pleased smile on my
face.
I was ready with the goods, but unfortunately when I was ready, my
steed was not. At the first bugle call he started on a fierce gallop,
squeezing himself in where he had belonged, while a terrified bride
clung to his neck with both arms. The only reason that I did not cling
with more was that I did not have them.
I went once on a buffalo hunt with my husband. It does not seem possible
that all those animals can be gone. The plains were covered with them.
The steaks from a young male buffalo were the most delicious I have ever
tasted.
Miss Minnesota Neill.
My father, the Reverend Mr. J. D. Neill, first came to St. Paul in April
'49, then returned east to get my mother. In July, when they arrived at
Buffalo on their way west, at the hotel, they met Governor and Mrs.
Ramsey who were on their way to Minnesota to take up their duties there.
They were delighted to meet my father as he was the first man they had
ever met who had seen St. Paul. When they arrived, they were much
surprised at the smallness of the place. My mother was not easily
consoled over the size of their metropolis. Among other supplies she had
brought a broom as she had heard how difficult it was to get them. Mr.
H. M. Rice, who came down to meet them, chided her for being
disappointed and putting the broom over his shoulder with pure military
effect, led her along the little footpath which led over the bluff to
the town, and to the American House. Although this was a hotel par
excellence for the times, the floor was made of splintered, unplaned
boards. My mother was obliged to keep her shoes on until she had got
into bed and put them on before arising, to escape the slivers. The
furniture of the bedroom consisted of a bed and wash stand on which last
piece, the minister wrote powerful sermons. My mother wished to put down
a carpet and bring in some of her own furniture, but the landlady would
not allow this, saying, "There was no knowing where it would stop, if
one was allowed to do the like."
They early began the construction of a small chapel and a large brick
house which later became the stopping place of all ministers entering
the state. In the fall of '49 the house was not completed, but the
chapel was. They felt that the Scotts, where they then lived, needed
their room, so moved into the chapel and putting up their bed on one
side of the pulpit and stove on the other, kept house there for six
weeks. The only drawback was that the bed had to be taken down every
Sunday. In all the six weeks it never rained once on Sunday.
My mother used often to go alone through a ravine at night to see the
Ramsey's. She carried a lantern but was never molested or afraid
although it was often very dark. Their storeroom, in those days everyone
had one, was stocked in the fall with everything for the winter. My
father would buy a side of beef and then cut it up according to the
directions his wife would read from a diagram in a cook book. This was
frozen and placed in an outside storeroom.
One Sunday my father announced from the pulpit that if anyone was in
need they always stood ready to help. That night everything was taken
from the storehouse. It was thought the act was done by someone who
respected my father's wishes as expressed in his sermon.
Their first Christmas here, the doorbell rang. When it was answered, no
one was there, but a great bag containing supplies of all kinds hung
from the latch. A large pincushion outlined in black was among the
things. It was years before the donor was known.
Once some eastern people came to see us and we took them for a long
drive. The bridges were not built, so we had to cross the Mississippi on
a ferry. We went first to Fort Snelling which seemed to be abandoned. In
one of the rooms we found some peculiar high caps which had belonged to
the soldiers. My father took one and amused the children much when he
went under Minnehaha Falls by leaving his own hat and wearing that funny
cap.
Mr. L. L. Lapham.
When we were coming to Houston County, if we couldn't get game we
breakfasted on codfish. I think it was the biggest slab of codfish I
ever saw when we started. It made us thirsty. The fish called for water
and many's the time mother and I knelt down and drank from stagnant
pools that would furnish fever germs enough to kill a whole city
nowadays, but I suppose we had so much fresh air that the germs couldn't
thrive in our systems.