of the Territorial road through Princeton to Mille Lacs Lake, thought it
best that the family remove to Princeton and we came with a six ox team.
Princeton at that time with the outlying settlements of Estes Brook,
Germany and Battle Brook, had perhaps one hundred and fifty people.
Indians in blankets and paint were a daily, almost hourly sight.
They outnumbered us many times, but gave us no trouble. In the summer of
'57 two Sioux warriors came in by the way of Little Falls to the falls
in Rum river just above the mouth of Bradbury brook, where they shot and
scalped "Same Day" brother of Kay-gway-do-say and returned home to the
Sioux country south of the Mississippi. Soon after this occurrence one
hundred and twenty-five Chippewas came down Rum river on foot armed and
painted for war. They stayed with us in Princeton over night and had a
war dance where Jay Herdliska's house now stands, which was witnessed by
the entire population then here.
Among the Indians were Mo-zo-man-e, Noon-Day, Kay-gway-do-say, Benjamin,
Keg-wit-a-see and others. The next morning they killed Dexter Paynes'
cow for beef and took their departure down the east side of the river.
In about twenty days they came back in a hurry somewhat scattered and
badly licked. They had found the Sioux at Shakopee and had been
defeated, it was said with the aid of the whites living near there,
which was probably so, as we should have aided the Chippewas under
similar circumstances.
I remember nothing more worth repeating until 1862, the year of the
Sioux massacre. We, at Princeton, had heard of that outbreak, that the
Chippewas had been urged to join, that "Hole-in-the-day" had been
sending runners to Mille Lacs asking that band to join with him in
extermination of the whites, and we were all getting nervous. Finally
all the people in the outlying settlements came into Princeton and
camped in and about the old log hotel near the big elm (which still
stands, the largest and most beautiful tree in the city). Captain
Benedict Hippler, an old soldier who had seen service in Germany, took
command, and men and boys armed with all sorts of guns were drilled
continually by the Captain, who was a martinet and at one time
threatened to shoot me and a companion for sleeping on our post. It was
found that Stevens the Indian trader at Mille Lacs had a large stock of
powder, and H. A. Pemberton was sent to haul it away, which he did with
Stevens mules, bringing it to Princeton where it was stored in my
brother's cellar. About this time it was determined to build a stockade
fort. I hauled the poplar logs from which it was built with my father's
oxen from just across the East Branch, and I made many loads in a day.
We moved a small house within the enclosure for the women and children
and had the fort, such as it was, about completed when one day as
Captain Hippler was putting us through one of his drills an Indian face
appeared at a port hole and Kay-gway-do-say said, "What you do here,
this no good, pooh!" He then told us that Hole-in-the-day had sent his
runners to Mille Lacs urging war and that the Mille Lacs band had held a
council and that "some young men" had urged war but the older heads led
by Mun-o-min-e-kay-shein (Ricemaker) and others had counseled against it
and that there would be no trouble.
This eased our minds somewhat and the settlers gradually returned to
their homes. Soon we were reinforced by Co. F. of the Eighth Minn., who
stayed with us two winters in "The old quarters" across the river, but,
save their effect in overawing the Indians, their mission was peaceful.
That same fall, '62, the Government concluded to make a display of force
at a delayed payment to be made to the Chippewas at Mille Lacs and an
Iowa regiment was sent with several cannon to accompany the paymaster to
Mille Lacs.
Stevens, the trader at Mille Lacs had a large stock of Indian goods at
Princeton and just before the payment my father sent me, then sixteen
years of age, with four oxen and a wagon to haul these goods to Mille
Lacs some fifty miles over what was then and for twenty years
afterwards, was one of the worst roads in the state. After several days
on the road I was reaching the trading post at night and as I neared
there, was puzzled by the great number of lights to be seen. Finally as
I approached the post I passed through a line of torches on each side,
held by Indians who had heard that oxen were coming for beef and were
ready to make beef of my team, had not the trader Stevens explained to
them that their share would come later.
The next morning I set out on my return. Night found me at the upper
crossing of Rum river where I drew my wagon a few rods out of the road,
tied my oxen and tried to sleep, but was disturbed all night by drunken
Indians "going to payment." The next day I met the paymaster and an
escort, who, after inquiring if I were not afraid passed along up river.
That evening I met the troops at the lower crossing of Rum river
encamped on the east bank.
The quartermaster at once told me that in the morning I must turn about
and help draw his supplies to Mille Lacs and upon my refusal I was
placed in a tent under guard. The next morning after we had again
discussed the matter, I partially assented and gained permission to
drive my oxen unyoked to the river for water, which, as soon as they had
drank, they waded and struck out for Princeton and no one could head
them. The quartermaster then used my yokes and wagon for four of his
beef oxen and went his way allowing me to come home. After some days,
with much labor the troops reached Mille Lacs, where, it was said, the
discharge of the cannon into the lake made a great scattering among the
Indians, it being the first cannon they had ever seen. Upon the return
of the troops to Princeton the quartermaster returned my yokes and wagon
and paid for the use of them.
I have spoken several times in this story of Kay-gway-do-say, who was
always a great friend of mine and of the whites in general. During the
Sioux war he served with others, as a scout, was always a great friend
of Captain Jonathan Chase, whom he always spoke of as "Me and Jock." He
visited in my father's family many times and one of my sisters tried to
teach him to read. It was not a success but he was much amused at his
own mistakes. A few years before he died he visited me, inquired for my
sisters, hunted them out and visited them, and on his return said to me
"Be-she-ke-o-ge-ma," my Indian name, "you and your sisters seem just
like my own folks." Poor old "Kaig," like about all his associates has
gone to the "Happy Hunting Ground." Peace to his ashes.
Mrs. Colbrath.
My father, Roswell P. Russell came to the region of Mendota as a boy and
was employed by Gen. Sibley. At one time, Mrs. Sibley sent him on an
errand to St. Paul and he ventured to make the trip on the ice, with a
horse and cutter. Coming suddenly upon a crack in the ice, he lashed the
horse, thinking he might spring over it, but the poor animal was caught
and swept under the ice, while he and the cutter remained on the ice and
were saved. This narrow escape made a great impression, naturally and
the story was handed down to his children.
My father married a Miss Patch of an old family of pioneers and they
were the first couple married at the Falls of St. Anthony.
CAPTAIN RICHARD SOMERS CHAPTER
St. Peter
MISS EMILY BROWN
Mrs. Mary B. Aiton.
When the treaty was made at Mendota in 1851, the Indians who ceded the
land gave up their settlement at Kaposia, (South St. Paul), leaving
behind them their dead, buried on the hill, and the land endeared to
them by association. With them, when they moved westward to Yellow
Medicine, went their faithful missionary and teacher, Doctor Thomas
Williamson. That same year his sister, familiarly know as "Aunt Jane,"
made a visit to her old home town in Ohio, where I lived, and her
interesting accounts of her experiences so filled me with missionary
zeal that I went west, with her, as a teacher to the Indians.
With "Aunt Jane," I landed at Kaposia, and after a short rest, we began
the overland journey to Yellow Medicine. The last night of our journey,
two of our horses strayed away, and in the morning the ox-teams with the
freight, and us women went on, leaving Dr. Williamson to search for the
runaways. When we rode down into the valley, we saw ahead of us, the
missing horses. We two women volunteered to go back to tell Dr.
Williamson, and the rest of the party went on. We found the doctor, and
to save us fatigue, he suggested that we take a short-cut across country
to the agency, while he followed the road to rejoin the travelers.
Somehow we failed to follow directions and traveled all the rest of the
day, coming at night to a river. Here on the bank we decided to rest. In
the distance we could see a prairie fire, gradually eating its way
towards the river; but we felt safe near the water and lay down to
sleep. Just after we fell asleep, I was awakened by a loud call, and I
realized the joy of knowing that we were found. The men who had been
sent in search of us were calling, in hopes that we would answer and we
continued our journey without further incident.
One morning in the spring of 1851, our little mission house at Kaposia
was full of bustle and confusion, for we were busy preparing for an
Indian wedding. The prospective bride was a pretty Sioux maiden, and her
fiance was a white trader. Everything was in readiness for the ceremony,
but no groom appeared. The hours wore on; the bride wept; but no news of
the groom came until late in the afternoon a rumor reached us that he
was celebrating the occasion by a drunken revel, and was not in
condition to take his part in the ceremony. A white mother would have
wept over daughter's grief, but not this Indian mother. When told that
the ceremony must be postponed, she replied with stoical Indian
patience: "It is well; I like his white skin; but I hate his drunken
ways."
Dr. A. C. Daniels.
When I was agency physician at Lac qui Parle, I often saw the humorous
side of Indian life. One day when the Indians had received their
government allowance, a party of them too freely indulged their
appetites for liquor; and one, a big brave, who had adopted the
patriotic name of George Washington, led a band of Indians to the home
of the Catholic sisters, and demanded food. The sisters saw the Indians'
condition, barred the door, and told the braves to go away. George,
however, was insistent in his demands, and finally put his giant
strength against the door, and splintered the upper part. He had put his
head into the opening, and was about to crawl through it, when one of
the sisters seized a rolling pin, and rained sturdy blows upon his head
and shoulders. He raised a yell that brought me to the spot just in time
to see a funny sight. Just as George was about to beat a retreat, his
squaw came running up and began to belabor him from the rear, while the
nun continued the assault. There he was with part of his body in the
house and part of it out, crying out in a manner most unseemly for an
Indian brave. When the women desisted, he was both sober and repentant.
In early days, the Indian agent at Lac qui Parle hoisted the American
flag each morning over the agency. During a serious drought, the Indians
conceived the idea that the Great Spirit was displeased at the sight of
the flag, and begged the agent to take it down. The patriotic agent
tried to reason with them but to no avail, so one afternoon he took the
flag down for a time. In a little while, a black cloud appeared and then
a heavy downpour of rain followed. The Indians, as you know were very
superstitious, and they were firmly convinced that the flag was a true
barometer, so the agent had to be cautious in his display of the flag.
Mr. Z. S. Gault.
One morning as I rode a horse down to the Minnesota River to water it, I
noticed a stolid looking Indian, with a gun by his side, sitting on a
boulder by the river bank. Just as my horse began to drink, the Indian
raised his gun and fired; the horse kicked up his heels, and I promptly
became a Baptist by immersion. I can still show you the boulder, but you
will have to imagine the Indian.
When I was a small boy, a party of Sioux Indians returned to Traverse
from an attack upon the Chippewas at Shakopee, and proceeded to
celebrate the event with a scalp dance. This dance and the whoops of the
Indians attracted spectators from Traverse and St. Peter; and with
boyish curiosity, I was as near as possible to the dancers. Suddenly I
spied one brave, dancing about, with a skunk skin tied to his heel and
trailing on the ground behind him. Obeying a mischievous impulse, I
jumped upon the trailing skin, and stopped the wild dancer. The savage
wheeled, quickly raised his tomahawk, and was ready to strike; but when
he saw a white boy, he merely kicked me out of the ring, and kept on
with the dance.
Mr. J. C. Bryant.
When Governor McGill, came to St. Peter as a young man, he was obliged
to practice strict economy to make both ends meet. The revenue he
derived from teaching was so very meager, that he had to do without some
of what we regard as actual necessities. Late in the fall he was passing
Jack Lamberton's store, when the warm-hearted proprietor noticed that
the school-master wore no overcoat. He guessed the reason; but he asked
Mr. McGill why he wore no overcoat. "Well, I haven't one, and I am not
able to buy one yet," he replied with sturdy honesty. "Just come right
in, and help yourself to one, and pay for it when you can," said Mr.
Lamberton with characteristic generosity. This kindness was a bond that
made the two men friends for life, although later they were often
arrayed against each other politically.
When certain men in the state were trying to steal the Capital from St.
Peter for St. Paul, Captain Dodd is said to have traveled on foot from
St. Peter to St. Paul between sunrise and sunset in the interests of St.
Peter. This feat would seem to me a physical impossibility, but it was a
story current when I was a boy in St. Peter. It is a matter of history,
too, that all the attempts to save the Capital were futile, and the
indomitable Captain Dodd had his long walk in vain.
Captain Dodd was considerable of a mimic and an actor. During a
political campaign, he took the platform against a certain Tom Corwin of
Ohio, who was considered a great political orator. On one occasion
Corwin was the first speaker, and to emphasize his speech, he danced
about on the stage, gesticulated freely, and made a great impression.
When Mr. Dodd's turn to speak came, he arose, and without a word,
gravely gave a pantomimic reproduction of the orator's acts and
gestures. Then he sat down amid roars of laughter, that completely
spoiled the effect of his opponent's speech.
Mrs. Nancy Kiethley Bean.
When Edward Eggleston, the author of the "Hoosier Schoolmaster," was
obliged to come west for his health, he was, for a number of years, a
resident of Traverse, and St. Peter. Here on week days he engaged in the
humble occupation of soap-making, and on Sundays he went out to the
country communities to preach the gospel. His church was often the one
room of some farmer's log cabin, and he missed the pulpit upon which to
pound, to emphasize the points in his sermon in the good orthodox style
of the exhorter. One Sunday early in his ministry, he came to our home
near Cleveland, to preach, and that day he strongly felt the need of a
pulpit. "Why can't you make me a pulpit?" he asked my father after the
service. "I can and I will before you come again," father replied.
Father went to work, and from the trunk of a tree, he hewed out a rough
pulpit! The young preacher exhorted with such fervor from his new pulpit
that I was the first convert of the man who afterwards became famous.
In the fall of that same year, the annual Methodist conference was held
at Winona, and Mr. Eggleston prepared to go. Before he went my father
met him, and asked him whether he was going to the conference. "Yes,"
was the reply, "I am going." Now father knew that money was scarce and
that Mr. Eggleston's preaching and soap-making yielded him little
revenue, so he went to one of the brethren, a certain Mr. Arter, who had
recently come from the east, bringing with him gold coin, and told of
Mr. Eggleston's desire to go to Winona. Mr. Arter was interested and
offered Mr. Eggleston five dollars to help defray the expense of his
trip, but was met with a polite but none the less firm refusal.
"I shall not need money," said Mr. Eggleston. "I can walk part of the
way, some one will give me a lift now and then and the brethren will
give me food and lodging when I require it."
However, Mr. Arter insisted that he should take the gold, and he finally
prevailed, but Mr. Eggleston started on foot for the conference. Upon
his return, he gave the gold to its original owner, for with sturdy
pioneer independence, he had traveled the distance to Winona on foot,
except for an occasional lift from some traveler, driving a slow ox
team.
Mrs. Mary Davis Fenton.
One summer morning in 1852, a man on horseback rode rapidly up to the
door of our farm house, shouted the news of the uprising of the Indians,
and then rode on to warn others of the danger. We hastily gathered
together a few necessary articles, and fled to St. Peter. When we
returned home after the danger was over, we found that our house had
been looted, and father discovered that his pet razor had disappeared.
"I will never shave again," he declared, "until the man who stole my
razor, brings it back."
Naturally the thief failed to return, and to the day of his death in
1911, father wore his patriarchial beard, and kept his vow never to
shave again.
NATHAN HALE CHAPTER
St. Paul
GRACE RANDALL LYMAN
(Mrs. G. C. Lyman)
GERTRUDE KAERCHER
(Mrs. A. B. Kaercher)
Mrs. Frederick Penny.
We lived about four miles from Shakopee, at what was called Eden
Prairie. My father was William O. Collins. The Sioux Indians' old
camping ground and home was on the river bottoms at Shakopee. Three
miles below our place was Hennepin Landing where the boats landed coming
from St. Paul. The trail of the Sioux led directly past our house, so we
saw a great deal of the Indians.
At one corner of my father's land was a big boulder called Red Rock,
held sacred by the Indians. Whenever the Sioux were going into battle
against the Chippewas, they came to this rock and if they were
successful, they brought their trophies of war and placed them on the
rock. There was room for one Indian to lie down close to the rock. The
others would dance around or sit in council. As soon as they had gone,
the white settlers would take everything of value.
One thing we were taught was never to show fear of Indians. They knew
very quickly and loved to scare anyone who showed they were afraid.
Chaska and five of his men had been out duck hunting and stopped at our
house for supper the night before the outbreak in 1862. The Indians were
always friendly with all members of my father's family, and never asked
for a meal unless they were willing to pay with ducks or in some way.
Next morning after Chaska had supper with us, a man came riding from St.
Peter telling everyone to flee. Twenty families (ours among the others)
remained.
My oldest brother had enlisted and the very day after Chaska was at our
house, he was ordered back from Fort Snelling to go to Fort Ridgely.
The most disgraceful thing to an Indian is to be struck with a whip or a
stick. One day I was holding the baby in my arms when an Indian put his
head in through the window close to my face before I knew anyone was
near. I was so frightened I ran to my mother. The Indians thought we
were afraid so started for the garden to destroy the melons, squash and
pumpkins growing there. My mother put on father's coat, took a big cane
and went after them saying, "Get out, these are to feed papoose" over
and over. There were forty in the party but they went without further
trouble.
One day on my way to school, I heard the children calling to me to run,
but the grass was so high I could see no one and did not know an Indian
was near. When I saw him, I was not afraid. I went on to the school
house door, but the teacher was so frightened she had locked the door
and I could not get in. I stood waiting, and the Indian patted me on the
head and said, "Heap brave papoose" and went on down the trail.
One family by the name of Dorr and another by the name of Horner were
both very well to do. When a man rode to their places at the time of the
outbreak telling them the Indians were coming, they took what they could
in wagons and started for Eden Prairie where the Dorr family stayed with
the Neals. Mrs. Dorr was a Neal girl. The Horners stayed with us until
the trouble was over. The Dorr house and barns were burned to the
ground, but the soldiers stopped the Indians before they reached the
Horner place. Both families went back and rebuilt what had been
destroyed, living there for many years.
Mr. James Clark of St. Peter.
I came to St. Peter in March 1856. I was in the livery business, so was
among the Indians more or less until the outbreak in 1862. I made the
first trip from the Agency to Faribault with Bishop Whipple. Also the
last when we took a number of Indian girls from Faribault to the Sioux
Agency in August 1862.
I had enlisted and was with my company in line at Fort Snelling, being
sworn in when a man came riding in to tell us the Indians were on the
war path. We were ordered to St. Peter at once and found the families
all sheltered in stone houses and the men barricading the town with cord
wood and digging rifle pits in the bluffs. But none of the families was
molested within a radius of about seven miles. Everyone who was left in
town had to help. All the lead pipes were taken out of the wells and
slugs were cut from pieces of iron.
Jim Powell, a young man left in charge of the cattle at the Agency,
waiting for the Indians to receive their pay, said to me when I came up
on my last trip, "Jim, I am afraid there will be trouble. The Indians
are getting ugly. They shot an ox and skinned it and we can't say a
word." When the outbreak came Jim Powell was sitting on a mule at the
Agency. Five Indians shot at him. He tried to make his mule go down to
the ferry. He would not go, so Jim slipped off and ran for the ferry.
The boat had started across to Fort Ridgely, but he swam out and climbed
on. He went across, then the twelve miles to the fort and enlisted.
Before this the Indians were driven to beg for food, their rations had
been so slow in coming from the government.
I often think there is many a man that should have a monument to
commemorate his brave deeds. There was Duncan Kennedy of St. Peter, one
of the bravest men I ever knew. During the outbreak he carried messages
back and forth from St. Peter to Fort Ridgely, alone. When asked why he
did not take someone with him, he said it was safer alone for if he saw
an Indian he would know what to do; he would lie down and be quiet. If
some one was with him, he would have to tell them to be quiet.
Mrs. John Crippen[4] was an early settler in the country, coming here by
way of the Morris trail. There were two trails, one by way of
Hutchinson, and the other following along the Minnesota River, the
latter being the trail used during the Sibley Expedition.
[Footnote 4: Mrs. Kaercher's work begins with Mrs. Crippen.]