1862.--General Sibley's Expedition.--I Go as Chaplain.--At Fort
Ridgely.--The Burial Party.--Birch Coolie Defeat.--Simon and
Lorenzo Bring in Captives.--March to Yellow Medicine.--Battle of
Wood Lake.--Indians Flee.--Camp Release.--A Hundred Captives
Rescued.--Amos W. Huggins Killed.--We Send for His Wife and
Children.--Spirit Walker Has Protected Them.--Martha's Letter.
When Mary and the children had safely reached friends and civilization
at Mr. Pond's, I was pressed in spirit with the thought that I might
have some duty to perform in the Indian country. At Lac-qui-parle,
twenty-five miles beyond our station at Hazelwood, were Amos W.
Huggins, with wife and children, and Miss Julia La Framboise. They had
been in the employ of the government as teachers at Wakanmane's
village. What had befallen them, we knew not; but we knew that white
men had been killed between our place and Lac-qui-parle. Then, our
native church members--they might need help. And so I took a boat at
Shakopee, and went down to St. Paul, and offered my services to
Governor Ramsay, in whatever capacity he chose to put me. He
immediately commissioned me as chaplain to General Sibley's
expedition. The last day of August I was at St. Peter, where I learned
from Mr. Huggins' friends the story that he had been killed, and that
his wife and children were captives. In regard to them I received a
special charge from Mrs. Holtsclaw, and I conceived a plan of
immediately sending for Mrs. Huggins. But circumstances made it
impossible to carry out that plan for several weeks.
The next day, Sabbath though it was, I rode up with Colonel Marshall
and others to Fort Ridgely, where General Sibley's command was
encamped. He was waiting for reinforcements and ammunition supplies.
At the first news of the massacres, a large number of citizens had
impressed their neighbors' horses, and had started for the Indian
country. Many of them were poor riders, and they were all poorly
armed. They were without military organization and drill, and were
felt to be an element of weakness rather than strength. A night or two
before I reached the camp, a couple of shots had been fired, supposed
to have been by Indians. The drum beat the "long roll," and the men
that formed this "string-bean cavalry," as they were called, crawled
under the wagons. The next morning many of them had had a clairvoyant
communication with their families at home, and learned that their
wives were sick. They were permitted to depart.
Three days before, a detachment of cavalry and infantry had been sent
up as far as the Lower Sioux Agency, to find and bury the dead. They
had done their work, as they supposed, and crossed back to the north
side of the Minnesota, without seeing any Indians. As the sun was
setting on that Sabbath evening, they ascended the hill and made their
camp on the top of the Birch Coolie bluff. But the Sioux had
discovered them, and that night they were surrounded by twice their
own number of the enemy. In the early morning the attack was made and
kept up all day. The report of the musketry was heard at General
Sibley's camp, eighteen miles away, but the reverberation made by the
Minnesota hills placed the conflict apparently within six or eight
miles. A detachment sent to their relief soon returned, because, after
they had gone a short distance, they could hear nothing. But the
firing still continued, and another detachment, with a howitzer, was
sent, with orders to go on until the absent ones were found.
The sun was low when a messenger came from the troops last sent. The
Indians were in such large force that they did not dare risk a
conflict, and so had retired to the prairie. General Sibley's whole
force was then put in readiness, and we had a night march up to Birch
Coolie. The relief detachment was reached, and an hour or two of rest
obtained before the morning light.
When our camp was in motion, the Indians came against us and
surrounded us; but, soon perceiving that the force was not what they
had seen the night before, they commenced making their escape, and we
marched on to the original camp. It was a sad sight--dead men and dead
horses lying in the hastily dug breastworks. Twelve men were found
dead, whom we buried in one grave. Thirty or forty were wounded, and
nearly the whole of the ninety horses were lying dead. The camp had
suffered greatly for want of water, as the Indians had cut them off
entirely from the stream.
This defeat showed more clearly than before the necessity of being
well prepared before an advance was made upon the hostile Sioux. It
also served to rouse Minnesota thoroughly--a number of the killed and
wounded in this battle were St. Paul men. But the middle of September
had come and gone before General Sibley felt ready to move up the
river. In the meantime, while we were still at Ridgely, Simon
Anawangmane came down by land, and brought Mrs. Newman and her
children to our camp. And Lorenzo Lawrence brought in canoes Mrs. De
Camp and children and others.
Mrs. Newman had been taken captive by the Lower Sioux, and when they
reached the Yellow Medicine, she was apparently allowed by those who
had her to go where she pleased. One day she came to Simon's tent,
and, hearing them sing and pray, she felt like trusting herself and
children rather to Simon than to the others. When the camp started to
go farther north, Simon stayed behind, and then, placing Mrs. N. and
her children in his one-horse wagon, and hitching to his horse, he and
his son brought them down. Mrs. De Camp's husband had been severely
wounded in the battle of Birch Coolie, and had died only a couple of
days before she and the children were brought in. Lorenzo also brought
with him a large English church Bible, and my own personal copy of
Dakota grammar and dictionary, which I prized very highly.
The 21st of September, or five weeks after the outbreak commenced, we
were marching by the Lower Sioux Agency and Red Wood, and getting an
impression of what the _émeute_ had been, in occasionally finding a
dead body, and seeing the ruins of the buildings. The Sioux were now
watching our movements closely. Indeed, they had kept themselves
informed of our motions all along. It was this day, at the Red Wood,
John Otherday went into a plum-orchard and left his horse a little way
out. One of the hostiles who had been hidden there jumped on it and
rode off. This made Otherday greatly ashamed. The night of the 22d we
camped on the margin of Wood Lake, within three miles of the Yellow
Medicine. Here we were to rest the next day and wait for a train that
was behind.
At the Yellow Medicine were fields of corn and potatoes, and some of
our men mere anxious to add to their store of provisions. Accordingly,
before our breakfast was over at General Sibley's tent, some soldiers
in a wagon were fired upon and two of them killed by Sioux concealed
in a little ravine about a half a mile from our camp. This brought on
the battle. Almost immediately the hills around were seen to be
covered with Indians on foot and on horseback. The battle lasted for
two or three hours. The Sioux had compelled every man in their camp,
which was twenty miles above, to come down, except John B. Renville.
They were playing their last card, and they lost. When it was over, we
gathered up and buried sixteen _dead_ and _scalped_ Indians, and four
of our own men. Besides, we had a large number of wounded soldiers.
This battle made H. H. Sibley a brigadier-general.
Thus the Indians were beaten and retired. During the fight John
Otherday captured a Dakota pony, and so made good the loss of his
stolen horse. Simon Anawangmane was wounded in the foot in passing out
to the hostile Sioux and back to our camp; and the younger Simon was
brought in wounded, and died some days afterward. The day following
this battle, our camp was removed to a point beyond the mission
station at Hazelwood. As I rode down to see the ruins of our
buildings, some of our soldiers were emptying a _cache_ near where our
house had stood. The books they threw out I found were from my own
library. A part of these and some other things which were in good
condition I secured. They had been buried by our friends.
The next day was the 26th of September, when we pushed on to Camp
Release, where the friendly Dakotas were encamped. The hostiles and
such as feared to remain had fled to the British Possessions. The
friendly Indians had by some means come into the possession of almost
all the captive white women and children. One of our chief objects in
pursuing the campaign had been to prevent the killing of these
captives. Little Crow had written to General Sibley that he had many
captives; and General Sibley had replied, "I want the captives."
Now they came into our hands, nearly a hundred, besides half-breeds,
many of whom had been in a kind of captivity. The white women had
dressed up as well as they could for the occasion, but many of them
only showed their white relationship by the face and hands and
hair--they were dressed like Indians. It was a time of gladness for
us. White men stood and cried for joy. We took them all to our camp,
and wrapped them up as well as we could. Some of the women complained
because we did not furnish women's clothing; but that was
unreasonable. This was _Camp Release_.
Mr. Amos W. Huggins was the eldest child of Alexander G. Huggins, who
had accompanied Dr. Williamson to the Sioux country in 1835. Amos was
born in Ohio, and was at this time over thirty years old. He was
married, and two children blessed their home, which, for some time
before the outbreak, had been at Lac-qui-parle, near where the town of
that name now stands. It was then an Indian village and planting
place, the principal man being Wakanmane,--Spirit Walker, or Walking
Spirit. If the people of the village had been at home, Mr. Huggins and
his family, which included Miss Julia La Framboise, who was also a
teacher in the employ of the government, would have been safe. But in
the absence of Spirit Walker's people three Indian men came--two of
them from the Lower Sioux Agency--and killed Mr. Huggins, and took
from the house such things as they wanted.
The women and children were left uninjured. But after they had, in a
hasty manner, buried the father and husband, whither should they go
for protection? At first they thought to find safety with a French and
half-breed family, living across the Minnesota, where our old
mission-house had been. But there, for some reason, they were coldly
received. Soon the brother of Julia La Framboise came up from Little
Crow's camp and took her down. Spirit Walker had now returned, and
Mrs. Huggins took refuge in his friendly teepee, where she found a
welcome, and as good a home as they could make for her and her
fatherless children.
Spirit Walker would probably have attempted to take them to the white
soldiers' camp if she had been decided that that was the wisest
course. But Mrs. Huggins was timid, and preferred rather that her
Dakota protector should decide which was the best way. And so it
happened that when the flight took place, Spirit Walker's folks
generally were drawn into the swirl, and Mrs. H. found herself on the
journey to Manitoba.
Immediately after we had reached Camp Release, and had learned the
state of things, I presented the matter to General Sibley, whereupon,
the same night, he authorized the selection of four Dakota young men
to be sent after Mrs. Huggins. Robert Hopkins, Daniel Renville, Enos
Good Hail, and Makes Himself Red were sent on this mission, which they
fulfilled as expeditiously as possible. In a few days we were
gladdened by the sight of Mrs. Huggins and her two children, and a
child of a German woman, which they also brought in. The mother was
with us, and was overjoyed to find her little girl.
While these things were taking place on the Upper Minnesota, Martha,
now Mrs. Morris, still under the inspiration of the events, was in St.
Anthony, writing the following letter to the Cincinnati _Christian
Herald_:--
"In fancied security we had dwelt under our own vine and
fig-tree, knowing naught of the evil which was to come upon us,
until the very night of the 18th of August, 1862. Friendly
Indians, who knew something of the evil intent of chiefs and
braves, had given Miss Jane Williamson hints concerning it
during that day. More than that they _dared_ not tell. But few
of our own Indians had known much more respecting the coming
storm than ourselves. When intelligence came of the bloody work
which that morning's sun had looked upon, at the Lower Sioux
Agency, thirty-five miles below, our good friends came to us,
and, in an agony of fear for our lives and for theirs, besought
us to flee. We would certainly be killed, and they would be in
danger on account of our presence. Some believed, but more
doubted. We had heard Indian stories before; by morning light we
were confident this too would prove nothing but a drunken
frolic, and we would only lose our worldly possessions if we
should depart. The believing ones made ready a little clothing
and provision, in case of need. The principal men gathered in
council. _Could_ they protect us? They would _try_, at least
until the morning. We sang 'God is the Refuge of his Saints,'
commended ourselves to our Father's safe-keeping, and most of us
retired to rest. An hour or two passed in peaceful slumber by
some--in nervous anxiety by others.
"One o'clock had passed: a heavy knock at the door. Our friends
had learned more of the extent of the outbreak, and felt that
their protection would be worse than useless. 'If you regard
your own lives or ours, you must go.' To their entreaties we
yielded, and made hasty preparations to depart. In a quarter of
an hour we had left our homes forever. Our company consisted of
my father's family, Mr. Cunningham's, and Mr. Pettijohn's, and
a Mr. and Mrs. Moore from New Jersey; in all twenty-one
persons. Mr. Cunningham had charge of the Hazelwood
boarding-school, and Mr. Pettijohn, a former missionary under
the American Board, had been recently a government teacher,
twelve miles farther up the river. He had been moving his
family down that day, on their way to St. Peter. As he drove my
father's team along, with the last of his goods, early in the
evening, he was met by two Indians, who took the horses from
him, and set him on an inveterately lazy horse belonging to
another Indian. Consequently our family had but a light buggy
and one horse left, which was to aid Mr. Cunningham's two-horse
team in carrying the _all_ of the party. Room was found in the
conveyances for the smaller children and all the women, except
my sister Anna and myself. We walked with the men and boys. Our
Indian friends guided us through the woods, the thick and
tangled underbrush, the tall, rank grass drenched with dew, to
the river side, where we were quickly and carefully conveyed to
a wooded island, and then our guides left us. One of them, Enos
Good-Voice-Hail, was in the East some three or four years
since--a brave, handsome man, whose eye you could not but
_trust_. Our teams could not cross at that place, so they were
kept for us until the morning. All the rest of that weary night
we sat on the damp grass, cold and dreary, wondering what the
day-dawn would bring. At length the morning came. My father and
Mr. Cunningham paddled across the river to learn the state of
affairs. We found we had neglected to bring the most of the
provisions prepared, and wondered what we should do, even if
permitted to go back home after a day or so spent on that
island. While still talking, a woman hailed us from the
opposite bank, who, as we found shortly, had brought several
loaves of bread and some meat on her back, all the way from our
houses. We received it as a Godsend, and soon after, my father,
returning, brought some more provision, which another friend
had secured for us. A longer, drearier day was never
passed,--its every hour seemed a day. The rain came down and
drenched us. My father went back and forth from the island to a
village where the friendly Indians were mostly gathered, to
find out what had been and what could be done. We learned that
Dr. Williamson had sent away the most of his family,
considering it his duty still to remain; that his wife and
sister were with him; but the others, with a number of cattle
for future need, were secreted in the woods, a mile or two
below us.
"By noon our houses had been rifled, and gradually the idea
fixed itself upon us that we _must_ leave if possible. We made
arrangements to join Dr. Williamson's family, and about three
o'clock took up our line of march, each carrying some bundles,
having left on the island the only trunk belonging to the
party. For more than a mile we walked along, with difficulty
keeping our footing on the side-hills, which we chose for
safety. When fairly out on the bluffs, we came up with one of
the two teams, in charge of Mr. Hunter, Dr. Williamson's
son-in-law. The baggage being transferred from our shoulders to
the wagon, the feebler ones were provided with seats, while
the stronger marched on. Soon we came up with the remainder of
the party,--Dr. Williamson's family, and half a dozen persons
from one of the government mills, who had cast in their lot
with them. We struck out on the prairie to save ourselves if
there was any chance. Our march was shortly rendered unpleasant
by a fiercely driving rain-storm, from the soaking effects of
which we did not recover until the next day, though it had the
good effect of obliterating our path. Our company was increased
by the arrival of a Mr. Orr, who had been engaged in trading
among the Indians, near the place Mr. Pettijohn had resided,
and who had been shot and stabbed that morning. It seemed a
marvel that he should ever have been able to walk that far, and
room was immediately made for him in a wagon, though it
curtailed that of others. Toward night we were overtaken by Mr.
Cunningham, bringing one of his horses and our buggy, which he
had succeeded in getting hold of, and which was the only
vehicle belonging to twenty-one out of the thirty-eight. Night
came on, and we lay down on the hard earth, with bed and
covering both scant and wet, to _rest_. In the morning dawn,
after our usual remembrance of Him who ruleth earth and sea, we
went on our way, having had but little food, as cooked
provisions were scarce, and we dared not kindle a fire, for
fear of attracting attention.
"Our day's march was slow but steady--only stopping when
necessary to rest the teams; and although we considered
ourselves in danger, we found it quite enjoyable, more
particularly after _we_ and the _grass_ got dry, so that we
could walk with ease. We had counted on having a fine night's
rest in spite of our scant bed-clothing, as we were all _dry_,
but we were disappointed. A slow, steady rain fall through all
the long night, completely saturating almost every article of
bed-clothing, and every person in the company. In that
comfortless rain we drank some milk, ate a crust or two, and
traveled on through the long, wet swamp grass, and the swamps
themselves, in wading which two or three of us became quite
accomplished. By noon of that day, which was Thursday, we came
to a wood, fifteen or sixteen miles east from a settlement on
the river, which was about twenty miles from home.
"Our progress had been very slow--without any road, the grass
so wet and the teams so heavily loaded. Still we could not but
feel that the God who had led us during these long days, would
neither suffer us to perish in this prairie wilderness nor be
taken by savages. At this place we stopped for the remaining
half day, killed a beef, and luxuriated on meat roasted on
sticks held over the fire. We also baked bread in quite a
primitive style. The dough being first mixed in a bag--flour,
water, and salt the only ingredients--and moulded on a box, it
was made into thin cakes about the size of a hand-breadth,
placed on forked sticks over the fire, to bake if possible, and
to be smoked most certainly.
"Here our party was immortalized by a young artist--a Mr.
Ebell--who had gone up into our region of country a few days
previous to our flight, for the purpose of taking stereoscopic
views. The next day we struck for the river, coming in not far
from a settlement called Beaver, about six miles from the Lower
Agency. Mr. Hunter had formerly resided at the place, and as we
had not at the time the remotest idea of the extent of the
massacres, he drove in to ascertain the whereabouts of the
settlers. He saw no signs of any dead bodies, but two or three
Indians employed in pillaging, informed him that all the people
had gone to Fort Ridgely, and advised him to hasten there, or
some other Indians would kill him. When just starting on after
our noon rest, some one spied a team in the distance, which
soon proved to be Dr. Williamson's, containing himself, wife,
and sister. Previously, some of us fancied that we might have
been unwise in fleeing, but when we saw them, we _knew we had
not started too soon_. They left on Tuesday evening, being
assisted to depart by two of the Christian Indians, Simon
Anawangmane and Robert Chaske, at the peril of their own lives.
They said they would gladly protect them longer, but it was
impossible.
"After holding council, we pursued our journey with the
intention of reaching Fort Ridgely that night; and when within
nine or ten miles, Mr. Hunter drove on to ascertain how matters
stood there. We felt ourselves in danger, but thought if we
were only inside the fort walls, we would be safe. The men
shouldered their arms, the daylight faded, and we marched on.
In the mysteriously dim twilight, every taller clump of grass,
every blacker hillock, grew into a blood-thirsty Indian, just
ready to leap on his foe. All at once, on the brow of the hill,
appeared two horsemen gazing down upon us. _Indians!_ Every
pulse stopped, and then throbbed on more fiercely. Were those
men, now galloping away, sent by a band of warriors to spy out
the land, or had they seen us by accident? We could not tell.
The twilight faded, and the stars shone out brightly and
lovingly. As we passed along we came suddenly on a dead body,
some days cold and stiff. Death drew nearer, and as we marched
on, we looked up to the clear heavens beyond which God dwells,
and prayed him to keep us. When within a mile and a half of the
fort, we met Mr. Hunter returning, who reported as follows: He
left the buggy in his wife's charge, outside the barracks, and
crawled in on his hands and knees. Lieut. Sheehan, commander of
the post, informed him they had been fighting hard for five
days; that the Indians had withdrawn at seven that evening, it
being then between nine and ten, and that, if not reinforced,
they could hold out but little longer. Some of the buildings
had been burnt; they had then five hundred women and children
inside, and if we _could_ go on--_go!_ We _went_, striking away
out on the prairie.
"Several of us girls had been mostly walking for the ten miles
back, but now, to give the least trouble, we climbed on the
wagons wherever we might find room to hold on, and sat
patiently with the rest. Ah! if a night of fear and dread was
ever spent, that was one. Every voice was hushed except to give
necessary orders; every eye swept the hills and valleys around;
every ear was intensely strained for the faintest noise,
expecting momentarily to hear the unearthly war-whoop, and see
dusky forms with gleaming tomahawks uplifted. How past actions
came back as haunting ghosts; how one's hopes of life faded
away, away, and the things of earth seemed so little and mean
compared to the glorious heaven beyond! And yet life was so
sweet, so dear, and though it be a glorious heaven, this was
such a hard way to go to it, by the tomahawk and
scalping-knife! Oh, God! _our_ God! _must_ it be? Then came
something of resignation to death itself, but such a sore
shrinking from the dishonor which is _worse_ than death; and we
could not but wonder whether it would be a greater sin to take
one's life than thus to suffer. So the night wore on until two
hours past midnight, when, compelled by exhaustion, we stopped.
Some slept heavily, forgetful of the danger past and present,
while others sat or stood, inwardly fiercely nervous and
excited, but outwardly calm and still. Two hours passed; the
weary sleepers were awakened by the weary watchers, and as
quietly as possible the march was renewed. It was kept up until
about nine in the day, when we struck the Fort Ridgely and
Henderson road.
"Having traveled thus far without being pursued, we felt
ourselves comparatively safe. I am sure there was not one who
did not in heart join in the song and prayer of thanksgiving
which went up from that lone prairie land, however much we may
have forgotten or murmured since. 'Jehovah hath triumphed; his
people are free, are _free_,' seemed to ring through the air.
As we pursued our journey, we noticed dense columns of smoke
springing up along the river with about the same rapidity we
traveled, which we afterwards learned were grain-stacks fired
by Indians. We rested for the night near a house, some fifteen
miles from Henderson, from which the people had fled. Here we
felt safe; but subsequently learned that we were not more than
five or six miles from the Norwegian grove, where that same day
a party of warriors had done their bloody work. Surely, _God
led us and watched over us_.
"The next day being the Sabbath, we went on only as far as we
deemed necessary for perfect safety. Toward evening my father
held divine service, which was almost the only outward reminder
that it was the Lord's Day. People coming and going--bustle
here, there, and everywhere--so different from our last quiet
Sabbath at home, the last time we and our dear Indians
gathered together around the table of our Lord, and perhaps
the last time we ever shall, until we meet in the kingdom. The
next morning our party separated, our family, with Mr. and Mrs.
Moore, Mrs. Williamson and second daughter, and two or three
others, continuing on the Henderson road, and the rest striking
across to St. Peter, where Dr. Williamson has found abundant
work in the hospitals. Near there his family expect to remain
during the winter.
"We arrived that afternoon in Henderson, a town a hundred miles
from home, and we had been a week on the way. 'Why, I thought
you were all killed!' was the first greeting of every one. A
shoe store was hunted up before we proceeded to Shakopee,
having first bidden a Godspeed to our friends, Mr. and Mrs.
Moore. By this time some of us 'young folks' had acquired such
a liking for walking that we consider it superior to any other
mode of locomotion to this day; and if it had not been that we
were so ragged and dirty and foot-sore, we should have
preferred to continue our journey. During that week our ideas
of paradise grew very limited, being comprised in having an
abundance of water, some clean clothes, plenty to eat, and a
nice bed to sleep in.
"Since our entering Shakopee, we have visited among kind
friends, until two weeks since, when we endeavored to set up
house-keeping in this town of St. Anthony. Notwithstanding the
kindness of friends and strangers, we, in common with others,
find it difficult to do _something_ with _nothing_, especially
as my father is with the expedition against the Indians. It
cannot but be that we should look back lovingly to the homes we
have left, which are all, even 'our holy and beautiful house,'
wherein we have worshiped, destroyed by fire; but I trust that
we all endeavor to 'take joyfully the spoiling of our goods.'
'We must through much tribulation enter into the kingdom of
God.' Among our many causes for thankfulness, one is suggested
by the verse 'Pray ye that your flight be not in the winter.'
Another cause is that there was so little loss of life among
those connected with the mission. We mourn for our dear friend,
Mr. Amos Huggins, son of a former missionary, and government
teacher at Lac-qui-parle. His young wife and two small children
were, at last accounts, in the hands of the Indians, as also
Miss Julia La Framboise, an assistant teacher who resided in
their family. Because of the influential relatives Miss La
Framboise has among the Dakotas, we hope for her, while for
Mrs. Huggins we can only _pray_.
"It was not my intention, when I began this article, to enter
at all into the causes of this outbreak; but what I have
written will excite your indignation against all Dakotas, and I
cannot bear that it should be so. It must be remembered that
the _church members_, as a whole, have had _no hand in it_.
One, John Otherday, guided a party of sixty-two across the
prairies. Two others, Lorenzo Lawrence and Simon Anawangmane,
have recently brought into Fort Ridgely three captive women and
eleven children; and we doubt not that others will also 'let
_their_ light shine'--_at the peril of their lives_, remember.
"The Indians have not been without excuse for their evil deeds.
Our own people have given them intoxicating drinks, taught them
to swear, violated the rights of womanhood among them, robbed
them of their dues, and then insulted them! What more would be
necessary to cause one nation to rise against another? What
_more_? I ask. And yet there are many who curse this people,
and cry 'Exterminate the fiends.' _Dare_ we, as a nation,
_thus_ bring a curse upon ourselves and on future generations?
"MARTHA T. RIGGS."