off a Chippewa chief. It was stretched on a sort of hoop, formed by a
green twig, or limb. It was all very weird. This was in '54.
The Indians enjoyed frightening the white women. They often found them
alone in their homes. They were always hungry, would demand something to
eat, and would take anything that pleased their fancy. My mother, Mrs.
Sherrard, was very much afraid of the Indians. Once one of the braves
shook his tomahawk at her through a window.
I have seen a dog train in St. Paul, loaded with furs from the Hudson
Bay Fur Company.
WENONAH CHAPTER
Winona
JEANETTE THOMPSON MAXWELL
(Mrs. Guy Maxwell)
Mr. H. L. Buck--1854.
In the spring of '54 Cornelius F. Buck and his young wife, located a
claim and built a log cabin on the present highway just before it enters
the village of Homer in Winona County. Homer at that time seemed a much
more promising place than Winona. The few incidents I give are those I
heard from my mother's and father's lips during my childhood. The
country had been opened for settlement a year or two before, but few
settlers had arrived at this time and everything that went to make a
frontier was present, even to native Indians. They were peaceable enough
but inclined to be curious and somewhat of a nuisance. One spring
morning shortly after the cabin had been built, my mother was dressing,
when, without warning of any kind, the door was opened and in stalked a
great Indian brave. My father had already gone out and my mother was
greatly frightened, but her indignation at having her privacy thus
disturbed exceeded her fright and she proceeded to scold that Indian and
tell him what she thought of such conduct, finally "shooing" him out. He
took the matter good naturedly, grinning in a sheepish sort of way, but
my mother had evidently impressed him as being pretty fierce, for among
all the Indians of the neighborhood she became known as the "Little
Hornet."
The second spring my father and another settler securing some brass
kettles, went to a maple grove a mile below their homes on the river
bank and commenced gathering sap for sugar. During the night their
kettles were stolen and suspecting some Indians who were encamped on
the Wisconsin side of the river, they armed themselves to the teeth with
guns, revolvers and bowie knives and taking a canoe, crossed the river,
entered the Indian camp and demanded to see the chief.
He was told that some of his cowardly "braves" had stolen the paleface's
kettles. The chief denied the theft. My father, allowing all his weapons
to be plainly seen, again demanded the return of his kettles, and said
if they were not returned by the next morning he would make war on the
chief's whole tribe and annihilate them. This was too much for the
natives and the next morning the kettles were returned.
My mother, who had spent her childhood and youth in the prairie country,
had never seen any hills worth mentioning. She told me that when she
landed from the steamboat on which she had traveled from Galena and took
up her abode under the overtopping bluffs that lined the banks of the
river and the boat disappeared in the distance, she had an overpowering
feeling that she had been imprisoned far from the world, that she was
shut out from civilization and would never be able to get out of these
"mountains" and for several years that feeling stayed with her. The
river was the only highway over which came human beings. In the winter
the river still was the main traveled road, but with sleighs instead of
boats. It was a rare treat for her to go as far as La Crosse. In the
winter this trip was often accompanied with danger, from the uncertainty
of the strength of the ice. I recall one trip she and my father made
going to La Crosse one day upon the ice in the month of February. They
had planned to stay over night in the latter place and return in the
morning. In the morning they hitched up the horse and drove to the river
bank, but the ice had entirely disappeared during the night and the
steamboating was again good.
In '62 when the Indian outbreak occurred in the west, while Winona was
far removed from the danger zone, much excitement prevailed here. My
father organized a company of men of which he became captain and the
Winona Rangers marched west to help in driving back the Indian forces.
They met thousands of settlers fleeing to the east. Assisting them in
such ways as they might they continued westward until they reached Lake
Shetek where they were stationed for several months. They met no Indians
but were of assistance in restoring confidence in the returning
settlers.
Mrs. Harriet Gleason--1854.
I was twenty-seven years old when I came to Minnesota, landing at a
townsite on the Mississippi River then known as Manton, but now known as
La Crescent. My brother, Samuel Spalding had come the year preceding and
had taken a claim near that place and at his request I came and took a
claim there also and kept house for him.
The country at that time was one almost unbroken wilderness. There were
no roads of any kind, only "blazed trails" through the timber from one
place to another.
There were wild animals in those days, and still wilder Indians, though
there were some "Good Indians." One morning a "Good Indian" came to our
place and wanted a needle and some thread, which I gave him. He said he
was going away hunting and thanked me. In the evening he came back and I
lost confidence in the "Good Indian" pretty quick. He had been drinking
and wanted me to give him more whiskey. I told him that I had none, but
that did not satisfy him. He kept asking for whiskey. I thought, "What
must I do?" I gave him the camphor bottle which he threw away; also
water, with which he did the same, repeating his request for whiskey and
flourishing his tomahawk over my head. I was now thoroughly frightened
but tried not to let him see that I was. I then gave him a loaf of
bread, which he took and then he wanted me to go with him to his wigwam.
I opened the door and told him to "Get out quick," which he did with a
whoop and a run. From that time on the Indians did not trouble us.
Mrs. Bradley--1854.
When our family, the Grants, came to Winona, there were more Indians
here than whites and to one who had never seen the Red Skins, a vivid
impression which can never be forgotten was left. There were very few
houses and the inhabitants were limited to a dozen families.
Mr. Oliver K. Jones--1857.
In the summer of '62 I enlisted in Company G of the Eighth Minnesota
Infantry. Before the six regiments required of Minnesota were fully
organized the Sioux Indian massacre occurred. As fast as a company was
organized it was rushed off somewhere on the frontier to protect the
white settlers and drive back the Indians. My company and Company D of
the 7th Regiment were sent on a forced march to Fort Abercrombie, two
hundred and fifty miles northwest of St. Paul on the Red River, twelve
miles down the river from Breckenridge. This garrison was besieged by
Indians. All the white people in that vicinity who had not been killed
or captured had fled there for protection. There was but one company of
soldiers there at this time under command of Captain Vanderhorck, who
had himself been wounded. This fort was nothing but a few buildings
located on the open prairie on the Dakota side of the river. Earthen
breast-works had been hastily thrown up for the better protection of the
people within. It required constant vigilance on the part of all the
soldiers to hold the garrison for the three or four weeks before our
arrival. The only water supply they had was the river, some rods outside
of the fort embankment. Their supply of rations had become nearly
exhausted, so that on our arrival about the middle of September, we
found a very hungry and badly scared lot of people. There were some
unburied dead, some badly wounded and some sick. One woman who had been
wounded by the Indians at Breckenridge a few days before and left for
dead, had regained consciousness and crawled on her hands and knees the
entire twelve miles to the fort where she was taken care of and finally
recovered. Two mornings some Indians concealed themselves among the
willows which grew on the Minnesota side of the river and fired upon
some teamsters who were watering their horses. One teamster died the
next day; the other, although wounded, recovered after several weeks
treatment at the fort hospital. These teamsters were citizen farmers who
had been pressed into service to help haul the supplies of grain and
provisions to the starving people and animals at the fort.
On our way to the fort, Sauk Center was the last place at which we found
any settlers. Many from the surrounding country had assembled here for
safety. A station with soldiers to guard it was established there and
one also at Alexandria, some miles beyond.
We did not see any Indians until the day before our arrival when a few
were seen by our scouts. A mile or so from the fort, before we came to
the river, we found in the woods the mutilated remains of two soldiers
who had been killed the day before by some Indians who attacked the
escort of eight soldiers who were returning to the fort after taking a
messenger through the woods on his way to Fort Snelling to officially
notify the officers in charge there, of the conditions at Abercrombie.
Other messengers had been sent but it was not known whether or not they
had gotten through, communication having been entirely cut off between
that garrison and the settlements below. The messenger, having met our
expedition, returned with us to the fort.
Immediately after our arrival, details of men were set to work cutting
logs to put a twelve foot stockade around the fort to provide better
protection against the Indians. Scouting parties were sent out every few
days to scour the country round about from ten to fifty miles in all
directions. Our company remained at Abercrombie until the spring of
'64. We never saw another Indian except the few captured by the scouting
parties and brought to the fort for safe keeping.
About the middle of October when we had been at the fort about a month,
a call for volunteers was made to form a guard to some thirty Indian
prisoners and take some cattle to Sauk Center. I was one of the four
from our company; not that I was more brave or reckless than many
others, but I preferred almost anything to doing irksome guard and
fatigue duties at a fort. So a little train of wagons in which to carry
our camping outfit, our provisions and the few squaws and children, was
made up. The guards, cattlemen and Indian men had to walk. While on this
trip we did not suppose there was an Indian in the whole outfit who knew
or could understand a word of English, so we were not at all backward
about speaking our minds as to Indians in general and some of those whom
we were guarding in particular. On the second or third day out I was
walking along behind the wagons near one of the big buck Indians who was
filling up his pipe preparatory to having a smoke. When ready for a
light he walked up alongside of me and said, "Jones, have you got any
matches?" Before this, no matter what we said to him or any of the
others, all we could get from them would be a grunt or a sullen look. We
arrived at our destination without seeing any Indians. We turned ours
over to the officer in charge of Sauk Center post. Here we had to wait a
long time for a train of supplies which was being made up at St. Cloud
to be taken to Abercrombie. By this time winter had set in and there was
no need for guards, so each man of our squad was assigned a six mule
team to drive up to the fort. If anyone thinks it is all pleasure
driving and caring for a six mule team from St. Cloud to Fort
Abercrombie, one hundred and seventy miles, in midwinter, with nothing
to protect him from the cold but an ordinary army uniform, including an
unlined tight blue overcoat, let him try it once.
That spring our company was ordered to go to Fort Ripley, nobody ever
knew what for. We stayed there until sometime in May when we were
ordered to Fort Ridgely, to get ready for an expedition across the
plains after the Indians who were somewhere between Minnesota and the
Bad Lands of Dakota and Montana.
In the June battle of Killdeer Mountain '64, a cavalry boy sixteen years
old, as soon as the Indians were in sight, put spurs to his horse. He
rode in among the Indians, killing two with his sword, picked up the
lariat ropes of their ponies and returned to our firing line leading the
ponies, and never received a scratch of injury to himself. The boy hero
said the Indians had killed his father and mother and he enlisted on
purpose to avenge their death.
On August 8, 1864, General Sully was sick and turned the entire command
over to Colonel Thomas. Before noon Indians were reported all around us.
Colonel Thomas put strong guards in front, rear and on the flanks.
Firing soon commenced on all sides, the soldiers having orders to fire
at an Indian whenever one was in sight. The Indians always appeared
singly or in small bands on the hills and higher ground. This mode of
battle was continued until dark, when we were obliged to stop and go
into camp with a strong guard all around. In the morning not an Indian
was in sight. It was learned afterward that there were some eight
thousand warriors engaged and that they lost three hundred and eleven
killed and six hundred or seven hundred wounded. Our losses were nine
killed and about one hundred wounded. The battle was named
"Waho-chon-chaka" and was the last fighting we had with the Indians for
that summer.
Mrs. Arabella Merrit--1859.
My father's family were among the early pioneers in Martin county,
Minnesota. I well remember an emergency that tried our wits and I
suppose was equal to golf for developing arm muscle in a young girl--it
certainly developed patience.
Much snow had fallen during the winter of 1858-9 and the sloughs of
which there were legions in that country, had frozen up in the fall,
full of water. Toward the last of February, the snow began to melt. A
heavy rain setting in on February 28th caused it to melt very rapidly
until at last the whole prairie was flooded, making it impossible for us
to leave our homes for any great distance. It was during this time that
the flour and meal gave out. What could we do? Bread we must have! At
last I thought of the coffee mill (one of the old fashioned kind,
fastened to the wall.) I filled it with wheat and went to work. Never
shall I forget those long hours of grinding to furnish bread for five in
the family. Never bread tasted sweeter. Some of the time I would grind
corn for a change and make meal, not, to be sure, the fine meal of
today, but we pronounced it good then. Our coffee was parched rye. While
I was grinding the wheat we had bread only twice a day. At noon, for
three weeks, there was nothing on the table except baked potatoes and
salt. Finally the salt gave out and for four meals we had only potatoes.
At last the flood abated and my father started for Mankato, forty miles
distant, to procure some provisions. The roads were something awful, but
after three days he returned with flour, meal and other needed supplies.
What a rejoicing to see him safely back! I was glad to be released from
my job as miller.
On Aug. 21, '62 a messenger came through our little settlement situated
on East Chain Lakes in Martin County, telling us there seemed to be
trouble at the Indian Agency. It was feared it might prove serious. Our
settlement consisted of six families. As there was scarcely any
ammunition in the neighborhood one of the men started to Mankato, forty
miles distant, to procure some. When he reached Gordon City, half way,
he was told that it would not be safe to proceed. Even if he did he
could get no ammunition, as Gordon City could not secure any and
Minnesota was short. The massacre had begun on outlying country round
New Ulm. Our little settlement awaited anxiously his return. He had left
Saturday morning, Aug. 22nd. Late in the afternoon of that day my father
and mother were away some little distance from the house. I was alone.
Chancing to look out I saw twenty mounted men coming across the prairie.
My heart stood still. Where could I hide? At last I decided to run to
our nearest neighbor's about a quarter of a mile away, warn her and we
could die together. She and her three little children were alone, as it
was her husband who had gone for ammunition. I ran, glancing back once,
I could see the horsemen were increasing their speed. I reached her
house and rushing in said, "Mrs. Fowler, the Indians are coming!"
Calmly, she stood up and with a white face said. "Well we can die here
as well as anywhere." Just then her little girl of eight years with a
child's curiosity ran out and peeped around the corner of the house. She
came running back saying, "Why, they are white men." The reaction nearly
took all our strength. I stepped out. Just then two of our friends from
Winnebago City, twenty miles east of us, rode up. They had seen me
running and hurried after me guessing my fear that they were Indians.
I went back home where there were twenty mounted men from Winnebago
City, their objective point being Jackson, fourteen miles west of us
where there was a small Norwegian settlement. My mother and I got supper
for them and they went on their way. During the night a messenger came
from Winnebago asking how long since they had left. He said there were
orders for them to go to Madelia. He found them before morning and
turned their course for Madelia. Had they gone to Jackson they would
have been in time to prevent the massacre of fourteen persons which took
place where they were holding church services. A few escaped and told
that it was a band of five Indians that did that awful work of killing
and mutilating. We were not aware of that cruel work so near us on that
bright Sabbath day.
Early in the spring, a son of Dr. Mills of Red Wing came, bringing with
him his pretty wife and two children, two and three years old. They had
taken land six miles north of us and with the exception of an old
trapper, who resided alone near them, our settlement was their nearest
neighbors. On that morning my mother said to father, "I think it would
be best to go up and bring Mrs. Mills and children down here for a few
days." When father reached the Mills' home he found that Mr. Mills had
gone out on the prairie that morning to look for his yoke of oxen that
had strayed away during the night. Mrs. Mills left a note for him
telling where she and the children had gone and gladly came to our home.
About four o'clock our neighbor returned saying there was no ammunition
to be had and that we must all leave our homes at once. It was not safe
to stay. In those days every settler had hoops and canvas for his wagon,
as those were what he had come into that part of the country with. So
with all haste the "prairie schooners" were prepared. With true eastern
forethought for her family my mother put in food enough for several
days, a bed and trunk of clothes. One wagon, we found, would not hold
all our goods and us too. Meantime no word came from Mr. Mills. We left
our home just at dusk, a sad band of six families. We took Mrs. Mills
and family with us, she not knowing what might have been the fate of her
husband, but bravely and quietly going with us. Every farmer drove his
herd of cattle and horses. It was all they could move.
One of our neighbors, Mrs. George Fowler, sister of the late Mrs. J. J.
Hillmer, was confined to her bed with a babe two weeks old. She had to
be carried on a bed in their wagon. Mr. Fowler's father, mother and
sister from New Haven, Conn., were spending the summer in the west with
their son. We started for Winnebago City, our nearest town east. We
traveled all night to make that twenty miles, making slow progress with
our heavy wagons, poor roads and herds. That country was full of sloughs
at that time. Often during the night, the wagon would become stuck, and
the men would unhitch the horses, we would walk out on the tongue of the
wagon to more solid ground, then they would hitch chains to the end of
the tongue and pull it out. We reached Winnebago in the morning and
found the people had fled in fright like ourselves. There were only a
few men left to guard the post office and store. We could not find
safety there. We felt more fright. Thinking we were left behind to
danger, we continued our course east all that day. From all cross roads
wherever the eye turned we could see wagon loads of people and herds of
stock coming. Ask anyone where they were going, the answer would be,
"Don't know. Going where the crowd goes." On our second day out Mr.
Mills found us and his wife and children. I often wonder how he did in
that crowd.
At night the women and children slept in the wagons while the men lay
under the wagons and kept guard. Every settlement we came to was
deserted, every farm house empty, desolation everywhere. We traveled on
until the afternoon of Aug. 25th when we reached the town of Albert Lea.
Much to our joy we found this not deserted. There were five hundred of
that frightened crowd camped near Albert Lea that night. We camped near
a farm house on the outskirts of the town. We found there some fine
people who kindly took Mrs. Mills and children into the house. Five days
after our arrival at this farm house, Mrs. Mills gave birth to a fine
boy. We stayed here several days when the news came that it was thought
the trouble was over and it would be safe to return. Only, three
families returned to our settlement, the others going to relatives
farther east.
On the second night after reaching home we were awakened toward morning
by our neighbor saying, "There are buildings burning on the farms west
of us." We arose and dressed, lighting our lamps. My father and the
neighbor, Mr. Holmes Fowler, said they would creep up carefully and see
what it meant. Mother and I were left alone. Father returned shortly
saying, "The vacant houses are all burned. I shall send you and mother,
Mrs. Fowler and her three children to Winnebago to get men to come to
our rescue. We will stay here and guard our stock." Four miles east and
near our road leading to Winnebago lived two young men. Said father,
"You stop there and send one of the neighbors for help." We started just
at break of day. When two miles from home a sight met our gaze that
surely froze the blood in our veins. There, a short distance from the
road, quietly grazing in the tall slough grass, were three Indian
ponies. Every moment we expected to see their riders rise from the grass
and make a dash for us. Quietly we drove on feeling more dead than
alive, expecting every moment to hear that awful Indian yell. But
nothing happened.