1843-1846.--Great Sorrow.--Thomas Drowned.--Mary's Letter.--The
Indians' Thoughts.--Old Gray-Leaf.--Oxen Killed.--Hard
Field.--Sleepy Eyes' Horse.--Indian in Prison.--The Lord Keeps
Us.--Simon's Shame.--Mary's Letter.--Robert Hopkins and
Agnes.--Le Bland.--White Man Ghost.--Bennett.--Sleepy Eyes'
Camp.--Drunken Indians.--Making Sugar.--Military
Company.--Dakota Prisoners.--Stealing Melons.--Preaching and
School.--A Canoe Voyage.--Red Wing.
Suddenly, at the very commencement of our new station, we were called
to meet a great sorrow. Mary had come back from Lac-qui-parle with the
two little girls, and our family were all together once more. Mr.
Huggins and his sister, Miss Fanny Huggins, and Mr. Isaac Pettijohn
had come down along. Mr. Pettijohn helped us much to forward the log
cabin. Saturday came, the 15th of July--and the roof was nearly
finished. We should move into its shelter very soon. No one was
rejoicing in the prospect more than the young brother, Thomas Lawrence
Longley. He sang as he worked that morning.
Mr. Huggins had the toothache, and, about 10 o'clock, said he would go
and bathe, as that sometimes helped his teeth. Brother T. proposed
that we should go also, to which I at first objected, and said we
would go after dinner. He thought we should have something else to do
then; and, remembering that once or twice I had prevented his bathing,
by not going when he wished, I consented. We had been in the water but
a moment, when, turning around, I saw T. throw up his hands and clap
them over his head. My first thought was that he was drowning. The
current was strong and setting out from the shore. I swam to him--he
caught me by the hand, but did not appear to help himself in the
least--probably had the cramp. I tried to get toward shore with him,
but could not. He pulled me under once or twice, and I began to think
I should be drowned with him. But when we came up again, he released
his grasp, and, as I was coming into shallow water, with some
difficulty, I reached the shore. But the dear boy Thomas appeared not
again. The cruel waters rolled over him. In the meantime, Mr. Huggins
had jumped into a canoe, and was coming to our relief. But it was too
late--_too late_!
Mary's first letter after the 15th of July, 1843:--"_Traverse des
Sioux_, Friday noon: What shall I add, my dear parents, to the sad
tidings my husband has written? Will it console you in any measure to
know that one of our first and most frequent petitions at the throne
of grace has been that God would prepare your hearts for the news,
which, we feared, would be heart-breaking, unless 'the Comforter'
comforted you and the Almighty strengthened you? We hope--indeed, some
small measure of faith is given us to believe--that you will be
comforted and sustained, under this chastening from the Lord. And oh,
like subdued, humbled, and penitent children, may we all kiss the rod,
and earnestly pray that this sore chastisement may be for our
spiritual good!
"I feel that this affliction, such as I have never before known, is
intended to prepare us who are left for _life and death_. Perhaps some
of us may soon follow him whom we all loved. When I stand by his
grave, overshadowed by three small oaks, with room for another person
by his side, I think that place may be for me.
"The last Sabbath he was with us was just after my return from
Lac-qui-parle. I reached here on Saturday, and having passed through
distressing scenes on our way to Lac-qui-parle, occasioned by an
attack of the Chippewas on some Sioux who were coming to meet us, I
felt uncommon forebodings lest something had befallen the dear ones I
had left here. But I endeavored to cast my care upon the Lord,
remembering that while we were homeless and houseless we were more
like our Saviour. And that if _he_ was despised and rejected of men,
_we_ surely ought not to repine if we were treated as our Master. With
such feelings as these, as we came in sight of husband's tent, I
pointed it out to Isabella, when she asked, 'Where's papa's house?'
and soon I saw Mr. Riggs and brother Thomas and little Alfred coming
to meet us.
"Not quite one week after that joyful hour, Mr. Riggs came home from
the St. Peter's, groaning, 'Oh, Mary, Thomas is drowned--Thomas is
drowned!' I did not, I could not receive the full import. I still
thought his body would be recovered and life restored; for your sakes,
I cried for mercy, but it came not in the way I then desired. Still, I
tried to flatter myself, even after search for the body had been given
up for the day, that it had floated down upon a sand-bar, and he would
yet live and return in the dusk of the evening. But when I lay down
for the night, and the impossibility of my illusive hopes being
realized burst upon me, oh--
"The hand of the Lord had touched us, and we were ready to sink; but
the same kind hand sustained us. May the same Almighty Father
strengthen you. One thought comforted me not a little. 'If brother
Thomas had gone home to our father's house in Massachusetts, I should
not have grieved much; and now he had gone to his Father's and our
Father's home in Heaven, why should I mourn so bitterly? I felt that
God had a right to call him when he pleased, and I saw his mercy, in
sparing my husband to me a little longer, when he was but a step from
the eternal world. Still, I felt that I had lost a brother, and _such
a brother_!
"Before I went to Lac-qui-parle, I had confided Alfred to his special
care. I knew that the rejection of our offer of stopping at the Little
Rapids, by the Indians there, had been exceedingly painful and
discouraging to Mr. Riggs, and the rumor that the Indians here would
do likewise was no less so; and I should have felt very unpleasantly
in going for Isabella at that time, but it seemed necessary, and I
felt that brother Thomas would be, what he was, 'a friend in need.' On
my return, on recounting the scenes I had passed through, the killing
by the Chippewas of the eldest brother of one of our young men, as he
was coming to meet him--the shooting of one of our horses by a Sioux
man, who pretended to be offended because we did not pursue the
Chippewas, when we were more than three miles from the mission, and
that I carried Martha there in my arms, one of the warmest afternoons
we had--Thomas said, 'I see you have grown poor, but you will improve
from this time.'
"On Saturday morning, as we were busily engaged near each other, he
sang, 'Our cabin is small and coarse our fare, But love has spread our
banquet here!' Soon afterward he went to bathe, and of course our roof
and floor remained unfinished, but that evening we terminated in
sadness what had been to us a happy feast of tabernacles, by moving
into our humble dwelling. For a little while on Sabbath, his remains
found a resting-place within the house his hands had reared. I kissed
his cheek as he lay upon a plank resting on that large red chest and
box which were sent from home, but, owing to the haste and excitement,
I did not think to take a lock of hair. It curled as beautifully as
ever, although dripping with water, and the countenance was natural, I
thought, but it has rather dimmed my recollections of him as he was
when living. I felt so thankful that his body had been found before
any great change had taken place, that gratitude to God supplanted my
grief while we buried him. Mr. Huggins and Fanny sang an Indian hymn
made from the 15th chapter of First Corinthians, and then, 'Unveil thy
bosom, faithful tomb.' We came _home_ just after sunset. It is but a
little distance from our dwelling, and in the same 'garden of roses,'
as Thomas called it, where he now sleeps."
* * * * *
Only a few additional circumstances need to be noted. The sad story
was carried speedily to the Indian tents, and those who were in the
neighborhood came to look on and give what sympathy and help they
could. That was not much. The deep hole was too deep to be reached by
any means at our command. The waters rolled on, and to us, as we gazed
on them, knowing that the dear brother, Thomas, was underneath them,
they began more and more to assume a frightful appearance. For months
and months after, they had that frightful look. I shuddered when I
looked. The Indians said their water God, _Oonktehe_, was displeased
with us for coming to build there. _He_ had seized the young man. It
did seem sometimes as though God was against us.
The Saturday's sun went down without giving success to our efforts,
and on Sabbath morning the Indians renewed the search somewhat, but
with no better result. Toward evening the body was found to have risen
and drifted to a sand-bar below. We took it up tenderly, washed and
wrapped it in a clean linen sheet, and placed it in the new cabin, on
which his hands had wrought. A grave was dug hastily under the
scrub-oaks, where, with only some loose boards about it, we laid our
brother to rest until the resurrection. That was our Allonbachuth. We
were dumb, because God did it. That was the first great shadow that
came over our home. It was one of ourselves that had gone. The sorrow
was too great to find expression in tears or lamentations. The Dakotas
observed this. One day old _Black Eagle_ came in and chided us for it.
"The ducks and the geese and the deer," he said, "when one is killed,
make an outcry about it, and the sorrow passes by. The Dakotas, too,
like these wild animals, make a great wailing over a dead friend--they
wail out their sorrow, and it becomes lighter; but you keep your
sorrow--you brood over it, and it becomes heavier." There was truth in
what the old man said. But we did not fail to cast our burden upon the
Lord, and to obtain strength from a source which the Black Eagle knew
not of.
The old men came frequently to comfort us in this way, and it gave us
an opportunity of telling them about Christ, who is the great
Conqueror over death and the grave. Sometimes they came in and sat in
silence, as old Sleepy Eyes and Tankamane often did, and that did us
good. Old Gray Leaf had a gift of talking--he believed in talking.
When he came in, he made an excited speech, and at the close said, "I
don't mean anything."
* * * * *
About this time Mary wrote: "A few days after T. was drowned, some of
the Indians here, entirely regardless of our affliction, came and
demanded provisions as pay for the logs in our cabin. Mr. Riggs had
previously given them two barrels of flour, and it was out of our
power to aid them any more then, although Mr. R. told them, after
their cruel speeches, that he would endeavor to purchase some corn,
when the Fur Company's boat came up. They threatened killing our
cattle and tearing down our cabin, and husband's proposition did not
prevent their executing the first part of their threat. Just one week
after dear T. was drowned, one ox was killed, and in eight days more
the other shared the same fate. Then we _felt_ that it was very
probable our cabin would be demolished next."
* * * * *
The summer was wearing away. We were getting some access to the
people. On the Sabbath, we could gather in a few, to be present while
we sang Dakota hymns and read the Bible and prayed. But there was a
good deal of opposition. As our oxen had been killed and eaten, and we
were approaching the winter, it was necessary that we have some means
of drawing our firewood. So I bought _one_ ox, and harnessed him as
the Red River people do. He was a faithful servant to us during that
winter, but the next summer he too was killed and eaten. This time
they came boldly, and broke open our stable, and killed and carried
away the animal. It seemed as if they were determined that we should
not stay. Did the Lord mean to have us give up our work there? We did
not want to decide that question hastily.
In the meantime, the field was proving to be a very unpromising as
well as difficult one, because of the great quantities of whiskey
brought in. St. Paul was then made up of a few grog-shops, which
relied chiefly on the trade with the Indians. They took pelts, or
guns, or blankets, or horses--whatever the Indian had to give for his
keg of whiskey. The trade was a good one. The Lower Sioux bought for
the Upper ones, and helped them to buy; and those at the Traverse and
other points engaged in the carrying trade. When a keg was brought up,
a general _drunk_ was the result; but there was enough left to fill
with water, and carry up farther and sell for a pony. This made our
work very discouraging. Besides, we were often annoyed by the visits
of drunken Indians. Sometimes they came with guns and knives. So that
we all felt the strain of those years, and we often asked one another,
"What good is to come of this?"
One winter night, Sleepy Eyes had come in from Swan Lake, and placed
his horse at our haystack, while he himself went to the trader's to
spend the night. Just before we retired to rest, we heard voices and
feet hurrying past our door. I went out and found that two men and a
woman were at the stable--the men were shooting arrows into Sleepy
Eyes' horse. One of the men said, "I asked uncle for this horse, and
he did not give it to me--I am killing it." They had done their work.
Perhaps I had interfered unnecessarily--certainly unsuccessfully. As
they returned and passed by our cabin, I was behind them, and, as I
was stepping in at the door, an arrow whizzed by. Was it intended to
hit?
The next morning that Indian started off for whiskey, but a white man
passed down the country also, and told the story at Fort Snelling. The
result was that the man who killed his uncle's horse was put in the
guard-house. Not for that, but for shooting at a white man, he was to
be taken down into Iowa, to be tried for assault. The commandant of
the post at Snelling doubted whether good would come of it, and I
fully agreed with him. And so, in the month of March, Tankamane (Big
Walker) and I went down to the fort and procured his release. He
promised well--he would drink no whiskey while he lived--he would
always be the white man's friend. He signed the pledge and went back
with Big Walker and myself. A captain's wife asked how I dared to go
in company with that man. I said, "Madam, that man will be my best
friend." And so he was. He went up to the Blue Earth hunting-grounds,
and brought us in some fine venison hams.
But still intemperance increased. A drunken man went to the mission
singing, and asked for food. They gave him a plate of rice and a
spoon, but he did not feel like eating then. After slobbering over it
awhile, he compelled the white women to eat it. They were too much
afraid to refuse. One time Mr. Hopkins and I were both away until
midnight, when my friend, Tankamane, while drunk, visited the house
and threatened to break in the door. But we reached home soon
afterward, and the women slept. Thus we had the "terror and the
arrow," but the Lord shielded us.
These were very trying years of missionary work. It was at this time
our good friend and brother, Simon Anawangmane, who had come from
Lac-qui-parle, gave way to the temptation of strong drink. We were
grieved, and he was ashamed. We prayed for him and with him, and
besought him to touch it not again. He promised, but he did not keep
his promise. He soon developed a passion for "fire water." It was not
long before he put off his white man's clothes, and, dressed like an
Indian, he too was on his way to the western plains, to buy a horse
with a keg of whiskey. There were times of repenting and attempted
reformation, but they were followed by sinning again and again. Shame
took possession of the man, and shame among the Dakotas holds with a
terrible grip. He will not let go, and is not easily shaken off.
_Shame_ is a shameless fellow; it instigates to many crimes. So eight
years passed with Simon. Sometimes he was almost persuaded to attempt
a new life. Sometimes he came to church and sat down on the door-step,
not venturing to go in; he was afraid of himself, as well he might be.
"TRAVERSE DES SIOUX, July 13, 1844.
"... The Indians and the babies, the chickens and the mice,
seem leagued to destroy the flowers, and they have wellnigh
succeeded. Perhaps you will wonder why I should bestow any of
my precious time on flowers, when their cultivation is attended
with so many difficulties. The principal reason is that I find
my mind needs some such cheering relaxation. In leaving my
childhood's home for this Indian land, you know, my dear
mother, I left almost everything I held dear, and gave up
almost every innocent pleasure I once enjoyed. Much as I may
have failed in many respects, I am persuaded there was a
firmness of purpose, to count no necessary sacrifice _too
great_ to be made. I do not think I have made what should be
called _great sacrifices_, but I am using the phrase as it is
often used, and I am conscious that, in some respects, I have
tasked myself too hard. I feel that I have grown old beyond my
years. Even the last year has added greatly to my gray hairs. I
have been spending my strength too rapidly, and I have often
neglected to apply to Him for strength of whom Isaiah says, 'He
giveth power to the faint; and to them that have no might he
increaseth strength.' How beautiful and precious is the promise
to those who wait upon the Lord! When 'even the youths shall
faint and be weary, and the young men shall utterly fall';
'they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength, they
shall mount up with wings, as eagles, they shall run and not be
weary, they shall walk and not faint.' Oh, if we could _live by
faith_, the difficulties and the trials of the way would not
greatly trouble or distress us."
In the spring of 1844, Robert and Agnes Hopkins came down from
Lac-qui-parle, and, for the next seven years, were identified with the
missionary work at Traverse des Sioux. The opposition to our remaining
gradually died away and was lived down. Louis Provencalle, the trader,
_alias_ Le Bland, had probably tried to carry water on both shoulders,
but he was thoroughly converted to our friendship by an accident which
happened to himself. The old gentleman was carrying corn, in strings,
into his upper chamber by an outside ladder. With a load of this corn
on his back, he fell and caught on his picket fence, the sharp-pointed
wood making a terrible hole in his flesh. For months I visited him
almost daily and dressed his wound. He recovered, and, although he
was not the less a Romanist, he and his family often came to our
meetings, and were our fast friends. Perhaps some seeds of truth were
then sown, which bore fruit in the family a score of years afterward.
Thus we had, occasionally, an opportunity to help a fellow white man
in trouble. It was one Saturday in the early part of September, while
we were at work on our school-house, that an Indian runner came in
from Swan Lake, to tell us that a "ghost" had come to their camp. A
white man had come in in the most forlorn and destitute condition. The
story is well told by Mary in her letters home.
"TRAVERSE DES SIOUX, Oct. 10, 1844.
"We have just returned in safety, after spending a week very
pleasantly and profitably at Lac-qui-parle. An armed force,
from Forts Snelling and Atkinson, have recently passed up to
Lake Traverse, to obtain the murderers of an American killed by
a Sisseton war-party this summer.
"The circumstances of the murder were very aggravating, as
communicated to us by the only known survivor. A gentleman from
the State of Missouri, Turner by name, with three men, were on
their way to Fort Snelling with a drove of cattle for the
Indians. Being unacquainted with the country, they wandered to
the north-west, when they were met by a war-party of Sisseton
Sioux, returning from an unsuccessful raid upon the Ojibwas.
Finding them where they did, on their way apparently to the Red
River of the North, they supposed they belonged to that
settlement, with whom they had recently had a quarrel about
hunting buffalo. And so they commenced to treat these white men
roughly, demanding their horses, guns, and clothes. One man
resisted and was killed, the others were robbed. Shirts,
drawers, hats, and vests were all that were left them. Some of
the cattle were killed, and the rest fled. One of the
Americans, with some Indians, were sent after them, but he made
his escape, and was never heard of again. The next morning, the
other two were permitted to leave, but the only requests they
made, for their coats, a knife, and a life-preserver, were not
granted.
"The second and third day after this escape, they saw the
cattle, and if only a knife had been spared them, they might
have supplied themselves with provisions, but as they were, it
was safest, they thought, to hasten on. On the fourth day they
came to a stream too deep to ford, and Turner could not swim.
Poor Bennett attempted to swim with him, but was drawn under
several times, and, to save his own life, was obliged to
disengage himself from Turner, who was drowned. Bennett came on
alone five days, finding nothing to eat but hazel-nuts, when at
length he came in sight of the Sioux Lodges at Swan Lake. He
lay awake that night deliberating whether he should go to them
or not. 'If I went,' he said, 'I expected they would kill me;
if I did not go, I knew I must die, and I concluded to go, for
I could but die.'
"The next morning he tottered toward the Sioux camp. Ever and
anon he stopped and hid in the grass. The Dakotas watched his
movements. Some young men went out to meet him, but Bennett was
afraid of them, and tried to crawl away. When the old man
Sleepy Eyes himself came in sight, his benevolent, honest
countenance assured the young white man, and he staggered
toward the Dakota chief. His confidence was not misplaced.
Sleepy Eyes took the _wanage ghost_, as they called him, to
his tent, and his daughter made bread for him of flour, which
the old man had bought of us a few days before; and Bennett
declared he never ate such good bread in his life. Mr. Riggs
brought him home, for which he said he was willing to be his
servant forever. We furnished him with such clothing as we had,
and after three weeks recruiting we sent him home. At Fort
Snelling, he was furnished with money to go to his parents,
whom he had left without their consent.
"Since our return from Lac-qui-parle, the Indians have been
drunk less than for some time before. At one time quite a
number of men came in a body and demanded powder, which Mr.
Riggs intended giving them. I buttoned the door to prevent
their entrance, as Mr. Riggs was not in at the moment, but the
button flew into pieces as the sinewy arm of Tankamane pressed
the latch. Some of the party were but slightly intoxicated.
Those Mr. Riggs told positively that he should not listen to a
request made by drunken men, notwithstanding their threatening
'to soldier kill' him--that is, to kill his horse. Tankamane
was so drunk that he would not be silent enough to hear, until
Mr. R. covered his mouth with his hand and commanded him to be
still, and then assured them that he was not ready to give them
the powder, and that they had better go home, which they did
soon.
"I am not usually much alarmed, though often considerably
excited. Some Sabbaths since, a party of Indians brought a keg
of whiskey, and proposed drinking it in our new building, which
is intended for a chapel and school-room. But the Lord did not
permit this desecration. One of their number objected to the
plan, and they drank it outside the door."
When our school-house was erected and partly finished, our efforts at
teaching took on more of regularity. It was a more convenient room to
hold our Sabbath service in. In religious teaching, as well as in the
school, Mr. Hopkins was an indefatigable worker. He learned the
language slowly but well. Often he made visits to the Indian camps
miles away. When the Dakotas of that neighborhood abstained for a
while from drinking, we became encouraged to think that some good
impressions were being made upon them. But there would come a new
flooding of _spirit water_, and a revival of drinking. Thus our hopes
were blasted.
"TRAVERSE DES SIOUX, March 15, 1845.
"At the present time our Indian neighbors are absent, some at
their sugar camps, and others hunting musk-rats. Thus far the
season has not been favorable for making sugar, and we have
purchased but a few pounds, giving in return flour or corn, of
which we have but little to spare. Last spring, we procured our
year's supply from the Indians, and for the most of it we gave
calico in exchange. Not for our sakes, but for the sake of our
ragged and hungry neighbors, I should rejoice in their having
an abundant supply. They eat sugar, during the season, as
freely as we eat bread, and what they do not need for food they
can exchange for clothing. But they will have but little for
either, unless the weather is more favorable the last half than
it has been the first part of this month. And they are so
superstitious that some, I presume, will attribute the
unpropitious sky and wind to our influence. Mr. Hopkins visited
several camps about ten miles distant, soon after the first and
thus far the only good sugar weather. One woman said to him,
'You visited us last winter; before you came there were a great
many deer, but afterward none; and now we have made some sugar,
but you have come, and perhaps we shall make no more.'"
"June 23, 1845.
"_My Dear Mother_:--
"Having put our missionary cabin in order for the reception of
Captains Sumner and Allen, and Dr. Nichols, of the army, I am
reminded of home. I have not made half the preparation which
you used to make to receive military company, and I could not
if I would, neither would I if I could. I do, however,
sometimes wish it afforded me more pleasure to receive such
guests, when they occasionally pass through the country. We
have so many uncivilized and so few civilized, and our
circumstances are such that I almost shrink from trying to
entertain company. I sometimes think that even mother, with all
her hospitality, would become a little selfish if her kitchen,
parlor, and dining-room were all _one_."
This was the second military expedition made to secure the offenders
of the Sisseton war-party. The one made in the fall of 1844 secured
five Indians, but not the ones considered most guilty. But they made
their escape on the way down to Traverse des Sioux. The expedition, to
which reference is made above, was more successful. The Indians
pledged themselves to deliver up the guilty men. They did so. Four men
were delivered up and taken down to Dubuque, Iowa, where they were
kept in confinement until winter. Then they were permitted to escape,
and, strange to say, _three_ of them died while making their way back,
and one lived to reach his friends. It was very remarkable that
_three Indians_ should be placed over against _three white men_ in the
outcome of Providence.
"Aug. 15, 1845.
"Our garden enclosure extends around the back side and both
ends of our mission house, while in front is a double log
cabin, with a porch between. Back of the porch we have a _very
small_ bedroom, which our children now occupy, and back of our
cabin, as it was first erected, we have a larger bedroom,
which, by way of distinction, we call the _nursery_. The door
from this room opens into the garden. The room does not extend
_half_ the length of the double log cabin, so that Mr. Hopkins
has a room corresponding with our nursery, and then, between
the two wings, we have two small windows, one in the children's
bedroom, and the other in our family-room. Shading the latter
are Alfred's morning-glories and a rose-bush. A shoot from this
wild rose has often attracted my attention, as, day after day,
it has continued its upward course. It is now _seven feet
high_--the growth of a single season--and is still aspiring to
be higher. Bowed beneath it is a sister stalk laden with
rose-buds. Last year it was trampled upon by drunken Indians,
but now our fence affords us some protection, and we flattered
ourselves that our pumpkins and squashes would be unmolested.
But we found, to our surprise, one day, that our garden had
been stripped of the larger pumpkins the night previous. Our
situation here, at a point where the roving sons of the prairie
congregate, exposes us to annoyances of this kind more
frequently than at other stations among the Sioux. I can
sympathize very fully with Moffat in like grievances, which he
mentions in his 'Southern Africa.'"
"Jan. 29, 1846.
"For several Sabbaths past we have had a _small_ congregation.
It encourages us somewhat to see even a few induced to listen
for a short time to the truths of the Gospel. But our chief
encouragement is in God's unfailing promises. The Indians here
usually sit during the whole service, and sometimes smoke
several times.
"For some weeks I have been teaching the female part of our
school. Some days half a dozen black-eyed girls come, and then,
again, only one or two. Their parents tell them that we ought
to pay them for coming to school, and, although there have been
no threats of cutting up the blankets of those who read, as
there was last winter, they are still ridiculed and reproached.
We have in various ways endeavored to reward them for regular
attendance, in such a manner as not to favor the idea that we
were hiring them."
In the spring of 1846, Mary wanted to get away for a little rest. We
fitted up a canoe, and, with a young man of the fur-trade, we started
down the Minnesota. Mary had her baby, our fourth child, whose name
was Anna Jane. We had scarcely well started when we met drunken
Indians. Their canoe was laden with kegs of whiskey, and they were on
shore cooking. They called to us to come over and give them some food;
but we passed by on the other side. One man raised his gun and poured
into us a volley of buckshot. Fortunately, Mary and the baby were not
touched. The canoe and the rest of us were somewhat sprinkled, but not
seriously hurt.
That canoe voyage was continued down the Mississippi River as far as
Red Wing. At Mr. Pond's station we took in Jane Lamonte, afterward
Mrs. Titus. Where the city of St. Paul now is, we made a short stop,
and I hunted up one of our Dakota church members, the wife of a
Frenchman. A half a dozen log houses, one here and one there, made up
the St. Paul of that day. At Pine Bend, Mr. Brown left us. After that,
the rowing was heavy, and the muscles were light. Just above the mouth
of the St. Croix, we found a house, where we spent the night
comfortably. The next day, we reached Red Wing, a Dakota village, or
Hay-minne-chan, with much difficulty. We had to row against a strong
head wind, and I, who was the principal oarsman, fell sick. But, as
Providence would have it, we came upon a wood-man, who took us to the
village.
Red Wing was the station of the Swiss mission, occupied by the
Dentans. Mrs. Dentan had been a teacher in the Mackinaw mission
school. Here we found good Christian friends, and spent two weeks in
helping them to do missionary work. While we were there, I went to see
a young man whom the medicine-men were conjuring. The Dakota doctor
claimed that the spirit which caused the disease was greatly enraged
at my presence. And so, at their earnest request, I retired. That sick
young man is now one of our excellent native pastors. We have since
talked over the event with much interest.