preparing beans for dinner. Like all good housewives she first parboiled
them with pork before baking. She stepped into the pantry for something,
when one of the braves slipped his hand into the kettle and stole the
pork. He was just tucking it under his blanket when she, suspecting
something, whirled around, caught up the teakettle of boiling water and
poured some on the Indian's hands. He roared with pain and
mortification, but the other braves thought it very amusing. One of them
slipped up, and patting her on the back said, "Tonka squaw! Tonka
squaw!" Tonka meaning big or brave. The Indians reversed their words,
like Minnetonka--water-big--Minne meaning water.
That Indian never came into the house again. The men at the mill were a
little afraid. They thought it unwise of her and kept close watch. The
Indians would come in from hunting and sit around on our floor. Mother
would give them a good kick if they got in the way. This made her more
popular than ever. They considered her a very fine lady because she was
not afraid of them, but cudgelled them about. There were always three or
four of them sitting around on the kitchen floor.
The Indians' sense of humor was very keen. Mrs. Maxwell's little girl
was tow-headed. The Indians always stroked her head and laughed. My
older brother had beautiful curly hair. The Indians called it "Ha-ha
hair"--curling or laughing. He was very fond of the Indians and used to
tumble about them examining their powder horns, until one day an Indian
pulled up his top curl and ran around it with the back of his knife as
if to say what a fine scalp that would be. The frightened boy never
would go near them again.
"Washta Doc" pronounced gutturally and meaning North Bay is the original
of Wayzata, pronounced, Waytzete.
Colonel A. P. Connolly--1857.
By rail and boat we reached St. Paul on Friday, in May '57. A party of
us who had become acquainted on the steamer, chartered a small
four-wheel craft, two-horse affair and headed toward St. Anthony. We
came up to the old government road passing the "Half Way House" and the
well known Larpenteur and Des Noyer farms. It had been raining and the
roads were bad. Four times we had to get out, put our shoulders to the
wheels and get our little craft on the terra firma.
The palatial Winslow house built at this time was largely patronized in
summer by the slave-holding aristocracy of the South. I remember one
southerner, Colonel Slaybeck, by name, who used to come each year with
his family and servants. He would always say to his slaves, "Now you are
in the north where they do not own slaves, and if you wish to escape,
this is your chance to run away." Not one of his servants ever took the
opportunity.
My first unpleasant experience was in connection with this house. I was
one of its builders for I put on lath at 4 cents a yard. By working
early and late, I made $4 a day. I was very economical and trusted my
employer to hold my hard earned money. So far as I know, he is holding
it yet, for he "skipped" in the night, leaving his boarding mistress to
weep with me, for we had both been too confiding.
Somewhat cast down by the loss of my first earnings, but not totally
discouraged, I shipped with six others on board a prairie schooner, well
supplied with provisions and three good horses and headed for the north
and fortune. After thirteen days of frontier hardships, we landed at the
mouth of the Chien River where it empties into the Red River of the
North. Here we erected two or three good log houses, surveyed and
platted our town, and planted common vegetables. They grew wonderfully
well. We caught fish and shot ducks and geese. On paper our town could
not be excelled, with its streets and boulevards, its parks and drives,
its churches and schools and public buildings. It was so inspiring to
look at, that we each took one hundred and sixty acres adjoining the
town, intending them as an addition to plat and sell to the on-rushers
when the boom should commence.
We also built a boat here, or rather made a dugout, so we could explore
the river. We had amusements in plenty, for wolves, Indians, mosquitoes
and grasshoppers were in great abundance. The wolves were hungry and
told us so, congregating in great numbers for their nightly concerts. We
had to barricade our doors to keep them out and burn smudges on the
inside to keep mosquitoes out as well. Sixty-five Indians paid us a
visit one day and they were not at all pleasant. We had a French half
breed with us and he influenced them to leave. They only intended to
take our yoke of cattle, but finally, after much parleying they moved
on, and we breathed easier.
All things come to an end, and so did this wild goose chase after riches
and in time we got back to God's country and St. Anthony. I will not
worry you by reciting our experiences in getting back, but they were
vexatious and amusing.
To sum up my reward for this five months of hard work, privation and
danger, I had one red flannel shirt, one pair of boots, one pair of
white duck pants and $13 worth of groceries. Wasn't this a jolt?
It was late in the fall, with a long cold winter ahead and things looked
rather blue. Judge Isaac Atwater was the owner of "The St. Anthony
Express," a good looking weekly paper of Whig politics. I went to work
in this office at four dollars a week and as I advanced in efficiency,
my salary was increased to twelve dollars. About this time an important
thing happened. I married the daughter of Alonzo Leaming, who had come
here in 1853. My wife was the first teacher of a private school in
Minneapolis. The school being located near Minnehaha, she boarded with
the Prescott family who lived on a farm not far from the Falls. After
the Indian outbreak in August 1862, as we were marching up to the Lower
Agency, we found Mr. Prescott's body about twelve miles out from the
fort, and I helped bury him. His wife and children were prisoners at
that time, held by the hostile Sioux.
I think it was in 1858, the people got clamorous for railroads and voted
the State credit for Five Million Dollars. The pamphlet exploiting the
celebrated "Five Million Dollar Loan Bill," was printed in the "St.
Anthony Express" office and I pulled the issue off on a very antiquated
hand press, known as the "Foster". It was too early for railroads. Times
were too hard. But half the issue was made, and a foundation laid for
some of our great railroad systems. The St. Paul and Pacific was built
and operated for a few miles and was the pioneer of the Great Northern
system. The first locomotive landed in St. Paul was the "William
Crooks," named in honor of the Civil Engineer of the road, Col. William
Crooks, who was the Commander of the "Sixth Minnesota," in which I
served. Colonel Crooks is buried in Oakland, St. Paul and the locomotive
is on the retired list.
As I said, one half of these bonds were issued and after several
legislatures had bandied them about and pigeonholed them, the debt was
wiped out at fifty cents on the dollar with interest, which gave the
holders par, and the credit of the state was saved. The bonds were
thrown about as worthless and I had an opportunity to get some of them
at $1 each.
I erected the first street light in St. Paul. You could not see it a
block away. All the rest of the town was in darkness. Minneapolis had
one of these lights also, located on Bridge square. Burning fluid for
lamps was one dollar a gallon. Candles were mostly used. Matches, hand
made, were sold for five cents a bunch--five cents being worth
twenty-five cents now.
In 1858 Minnesota was overrun with "Wild Cat" money. Perhaps I had
better explain this. It had no value outside the state and was not a
sure thing in it. You took money at night, not knowing whether it would
be worth anything in the morning. However, it looked well and we all
took chances. Any county could issue money by giving some sort of a
bond, so we had among others "Glencoe County," "Freeborn County",
"Fillmore County," "Chisago County," "La Crosse and La Crescent," and
many others. Daily bulletins were issued telling what money was good. In
the final round up, the only money redeemed at face value was "La Crosse
and La Crescent." I printed a directory with a Mr. Chamberlain of
Boston. I sold my book and took "Wild Cat" in payment and, after paying
the printer, had quite a bunch of it on hand, but merchants would not
take it at its face value. We had no bank of exchange then. Orin Curtis
had a little place he called a bank, but I never saw money go in or out
of it.
I found what was termed a bank on the west side of the river--a two room
affair, up one pair of stairs, and presided over by J. K. Sidle, who
afterwards was president of the First National Bank. He was at that time
loaning money at three per cent a month. The nearest bank of Exchange
was that of Borup & Oakes of St. Paul, and the only way to get there was
to walk or pay Allen & Chase one dollar and a half for the round trip. I
preferred to walk, and so did, to receive an offer of eighty five cents
on the dollar for my "Wild Cat." "No, sir," I said, "I'll go back home
first," and walked back. I made three other trips and finally took
twenty-five cents on the dollar and was glad to get it, for in a short
time, it was worthless. Merchants issued their own individual scrip and
payed many local bills that way. For instance: "David Edwards will pay
five dollars in goods at his store upon presentation of this paper,
etc." Times were hard, but pioneers never desert. They are always on
deck. Hence our Minneapolis of today.
While on this subject of three and five per cent, I will relate an
incident. There was a great revival in the First Methodist Church on the
East Side, J. F. Chaffee, pastor. We all got religion, and I thought I
had a call to preach, so with a dozen others, took on theological
studies. We were very studious and zealous with a prospective D. D.
ahead; but, I "flunked," got disgusted, side tracked the call, and in
time enlisted for the war and went fighting rather than preaching. But,
during the same revival and while it was at white heat, old Squire Geo.
E. H. Day was in the fore front. Now brother Day was very zealous and at
times thought he got at the very foot of the throne; but, he loaned
money at five per cent a month. I really think he was in dead earnest,
especially in the per cent business. On this particular night he was on
his knees and was calling very loudly on the Lord, in his extremity, he
said, "Oh, Lord give us more interest in Heaven." The crowd was so great
they were in the door and at the windows. A wag, Al Stone, was among the
outside crowd, and heard this urgent appeal of old Squire Day, and he
cried out: "For God's sake, isn't five per cent enough?"
Among the enterprising men of the Falls was Z. E. B. Nash, or "Zeb" as
we called him. He operated a line of steamers from Fewer's Landing, on
the East Side above the present bridge, to St. Cloud. There were only
two small boats, but they served the purpose well.
[Illustration: MRS. MARGARET KING HERN (ST. PAUL)]
[Illustration: Medal presented to Margaret King Hern by the State in
1896. (See page 143.)]
[Illustration: Late type Red River Cart, taken in the Fifties. Earlier
Carts had tires eight inches wide. (See pages 14-22-218)]
Colonel Levi Longfellow--1851.
One day back in my old home in Machais, Maine, when I was six years old
and my sister Mary nine, my father said to her, "I will give you ten
cents for your little tin trunk." This trunk was one of her most
treasured possessions, and she asked him what he wanted it for. He
answered, "I am going to save money to take you all out to Minnesota and
I want the trunk to hold the pennies and dimes we shall save for that
purpose." She was so delighted with the idea that she readily gave up
the trunk and contributed a dime to start the famous fund. Many times we
emptied the contents of that little trunk and counted to see how much we
had, though we all knew that not more than one or two dimes had been
added since we last counted. It took us three long years to save enough
for the eventful trip. In those days, instead of a run of two or three
days, it took a month to make the journey.
One bright day in June, an ox team drove to our door and took us, a
family consisting of my father, mother, two boys and two girls with our
luggage to the Boston boat. From Boston, a train carried us to Albany,
New York, and from there by canal boat we went to Buffalo. Here we
boarded a lake steamer for Chicago. This place I remember as the
muddiest hole I had ever seen. A plank road led from the boat landing to
the hotel. One railroad ran west out of Chicago for a distance of about
ten miles. Beyond this lay the unexplored country we were to enter. We
hired a man with a team and a covered farm wagon to drive us across the
prairies to Galena. One week was occupied in this part of the journey.
This same man three months later drove a herd of cattle from his home to
St. Anthony Falls. From Galena we took a steamboat to St. Paul where we
were met by my grandfather, Washington Getchell, who had come west with
his family three years previous. He brought us to St. Anthony Falls with
his ox team. Among our luggage was a red chest. Every family in those
days owned one, and I remember in unloading our things from the boat,
the bottom came out of the chest scattering the contents about. Men,
women and children scrambled to pick up the things but mother always
said one half of them were lost.
On the second of July, 1851 we arrived, receiving a hearty welcome from
our relatives. My grandfather had built the second frame house erected
in the town.
Early in the winter of 1854 at nine at night I was crossing the
unfinished bridge one evening with a schoolmate named Russell Pease. We
had been over to see his father who lived on the west side of the river.
When we had reached the middle, Russell slipped and fell through onto
the ice beneath. I ran back and down the bank to where he was lying, but
he was unconscious and I could not lift him, so I ran back for help,
found some men and they carried him home.
One day, before there was a bridge of any kind across the river, my
father carried two calves over on the ferry, to pasture on the west
shore. Several days later as he stood on the river bank, he noticed
something moving on Spirit Island, the small island below the falls.
Going out in a boat he found the two calves running about seeking a way
to reach the east bank. They had evidently become homesick and started
to swim across above the falls, and in some miraculous manner had been
carried over the falls and landed safely on the island. Father rescued
them, bringing them to shore in a boat.
I remember the greatest excitement each summer was the arrival of the
caravans of carts from the Red River of the North. They would come down
to disperse their loads of furs, go into camp in St. Anthony and remain
three or four weeks while selling their furs and purchasing supplies.
The journey and return required three months.
In the spring of 1853 our family moved from St. Anthony to a farm in
Brooklyn Center, about nine miles out from town. Roving bands of Indians
often used to camp near our home. We never enjoyed these visits, but
neither did we wish them to think we were afraid, so we never locked our
doors or refused them anything they demanded in the way of food. Often
my mother has fed a troop of those hideously painted fellows.
In those days the only means of communication between the settlers was a
messenger, going from house to house. The people of our community wished
to have some way of signaling each other in case of danger. So a number
of tin horns were purchased, each family being given one, with the
understanding that if a blast was heard from one of these horns, the men
would ride as fast as possible to the home giving the signal for help.
Among the settlers was an old German who was given his horn along with
the rest. After a few days, this old fellow became curious to know what
sort of a sound the horn would make. Not wishing to give any alarm, he
went into his cellar, thinking to be out of hearing, and blew a
tremendous blast to test the power of the horn. The effect was far from
what he had anticipated. The neighbors hearing the signal came from all
directions, expecting to find serious trouble. My brother, Nathan, with
his friend Will Fisher, mounted their horses as quickly as they could
and rushed to the scene. In about an hour the boys came back disgusted,
and what the settlers said and did to the old German, I leave to your
imagination.
This same German figured in another amusing incident. When my father was
building one of the roads in Brooklyn, he hired this man to work for
him. One Sunday morning the old fellow reported for duty. My father
informed him they did not work on Sunday. The man threw up his hands and
exclaimed "Mine Gott! is this Sunday? My ole woman is at home washing;
she tinks it is Monday too!"
I enlisted in '62 expecting our regiment would be ordered immediately to
the Army of the Potomac, but within a week after the formation of the
regiment, news was received of the Sioux outbreak on the frontier. We
were ordered to report at once to St. Peter where we arrived August 24.
Four days later we were hurried across country forty miles to Fort
Ridgely which was then in a state of siege. After a sharp skirmish with
the Indians, we drove them off on the second of September. We were
ordered to Birch Cooley, sixteen miles away. Capt. Grant, with his
command had been sent out to bury the victims of the Indian massacre,
including twenty-seven men of Capt. Marsh's Fifth Minnesota troops. He
had gone into camp at Birch Cooley when the Indians attacked him. The
firing was heard across the plain at Fort Ridgely and we were sent to
his relief. We arrived early in the morning and the command was halted
to wait for daylight. With the break of day the Indians opened fire, but
after a hard fight we drove them off and made our way into the camp. It
was a sickening sight. Twenty-three men lay dead with fifty or sixty
wounded. In the camp was a woman lying in a wagon. She had been picked
up on the prairie where the Indians had left her for dead. After the
Indians had gone she had managed to crawl to a rock which had a cleft in
it, and there had fainted. One of our boys jumped up on this rock and
noticing what seemed to be a bundle of rags lying in the opening, poked
his gun into it. To his horror he found it was a woman's body. He called
and another of the boys, Comrade Richardson, now living in Champlin,
Minn., sprang up beside him and together they lifted her out and she was
placed in a wagon. When the Indians attacked the camp, the wagons were
drawn around in a circle with the camp inside and this poor woman laid
there for thirty-six hours all through the fight. The wagon was riddled
with bullets and she herself had been hit in the arm, though she was
scarcely conscious of what was going on, having not yet rallied from her
terrible experience in the massacre. I understand she afterwards
recovered and lived in Minnesota.
At Wood Lake, I also helped to bury the dead, among them sixteen Indians
killed in the fight there. At Camp Release situated on the west side of
the Mississippi river opposite where Montevideo is now located, we
surrounded an Indian camp and compelled them to give up over one hundred
captive women and children. We were also sent out with a small squad
and surrounded and captured another camp of hostile Indians, bringing
them in to our camp. Col. Crooks, of our regiment, was appointed Judge
Advocate and I was present at the trial of over one hundred of these
Indians. All were found guilty and sentenced to be hung. President
Lincoln commuted the sentence of all but thirty-nine, the rest being
sent to the government prison at Rock Island where they were kept as
prisoners of war. At that time my wife who was then Olive Branch, was
attending High School in Moline, and she went with some friends to see
these Indians in the Rock Island prison. She recalls distinctly the
interest the people felt in seeing the savages who had been the authors
of such atrocities.
In February of 1863, our regiment was sent to Forest City to build a
stockade for the protection of the settlers. From there we marched
across country to Camp Pope, where the main forces were being assembled,
preparatory to our expedition across the plains to the Missouri river a
few miles below where Bismarck now stands. We had no fresh water on this
trip and were also on half rations for two months. When we finally
reached the river we rushed in to fill our canteens, when the Indians
suddenly opened fire on us from the opposite bank. Fortunately they
fired over our heads with but few casualties. While we were halted at
the river, Gen. Sibley, who had remained at his headquarters, two miles
in our rear, sent a message to Col. Crooks, carried by an officer with
his orderly. Col. Crooks received the message, wrote his answer leaning
on his saddle, and the messengers started back to Gen. Sibley with the
reply. On our return trip we found the bodies of this officer and his
orderly horribly mutilated. The Indians had come up in our rear and
encountered them as they rode back to camp.
MINNEAPOLIS CHAPTER
CAROLINE ROGERS SHEPLEY
(Mrs. O. H. Shepley)
FLORENCE SHEPHERD LITTLE
(Mrs. F. W. Little)
MARY SHERRARD PHILLIPS
(Mrs. Alonzo Phillips)
Mrs. Helen Godfrey Berry--1849.
My part in the history of the Godfrey house is the first chapter. My
idea of geography in 1847--at the age of eight years--was that Maine was
the only state and that Bangor was not far from Boston in size and
importance. "Out West" was a wonderland in my child mind. I did not
realize when or how my father, Ard Godfrey, went so far from home as to
St. Anthony Falls, but I did realize his return to take my mother and us
children west. My father was obliged to leave us with our relatives,
Alex. Gordon's family. We stayed in Beloit, Wisconsin for the winter.
He, with Capt. John Rollins and some others went through on ponies, or
as best they could travel. Cold weather had stopped the boats from
running. That trip was one they did not forget and often told of it.
In the spring of '49 we took a stage coach from Beloit, with our baggage
strapped on behind. I remember well the black mucky mud we rode through,
the wheels sinking in to the hubs first on one side then the other.
Father met us in St. Paul and we children at once got on the calico
covered settee of the Bass House, too sleepy to eat. My next idea of
being anywhere was in a room given up, very kindly, by Mrs. Calvin
Church to my mother, in what was called the "messhouse," Main St. S. E.
It was the most comfortable place to be had. We were hungry for
mother's cooking. Our first meal was of biscuits, salt and tea with
strawberry jam, mother had found in the blue chest. This was in April.
If the work had not been already begun on our house, it must have been
hurried as in May my sister was born in the house.
There was considerable concern because there was no doctor nearer than
St. Paul to call on in case of need, but a few days before my sister,
Harriet was born, someone said there was an old gentleman living on the
lower island, a Doctor Kingsley, so he was called in. There was no
foot-bridge and but one way to get to the island, that of fording the
river.
The house was built before the time of baloon frames. The principal
workmen were Chas. Merceau and James Brisette, who must have worked
faithfully and well. Doors and window-sash were done by hand, the lumber
having to be seasoned after it was hauled to the spot. I was so
interested in the many kinds of planks and tools used by these
carpenters, every floor board being tongued and groved by them. The
cellar under the whole house was dug after the house was partly built. I
have a faint recollection that a limekiln was built near the old landing
and lime burnt before the walls and plastering could be done. A brick
oven was built, which did good service while we lived there.
When it came to the painting of the outside of the house, father and
mother wondered if the natural color of Minnesota pine was not a shade
or two different from that of the old state of Maine. They were so
impressed they concluded to paint the house as near the shade of this
new pine as possible, but were hardly satisfied because not a perfect
imitation.
My mother was favored with much-needed help most of the time. The house
was often a hospital. Two years after we built, the brother of the young
woman who was helping my mother, came with a bad attack of cholera. He
was brought in, cared for and sent away comfortable. Many families came
from the far east with sickness from the long journey, many of them
cases of typhoid fever. My mother was not behind in extending a welcome
and assistance to these sufferers.