were "snowed in" for the winter, and I began to devise ways and means
for getting out. I had to get out; but how, was the question. To cross
the prairie was not to be thought of; we could not get an Indian to
venture over it on snowshoes, let alone driving over it. Nothing had
been heard of us below, and, as we learned afterwards, the St. Paul
papers had published an account of our all being frozen to death, with
full details of Andrew Myrick being found dead in his sleigh, with the
lines in his hands and his horses standing stiff before him.
I decided that an expedition might work its way through on the river
bottoms, and we could follow in its trail. So I sent out a party with
several heavy sleds, loaded with hay, and each drawn by four or five
yoke of oxen to beat a track. They returned after several days' absence,
and reported that the thing was impossible, and they could not get
through. I then called for volunteers, and the French Canadians came to
the front. I allowed them to organize their own expedition. They took
their fiddles with them, and the agreement was, that if we didn't hear
from them in five days, we were to consider that they were through, and
we could follow. The days passed one after the other, and at the
expiration of the time, we all started, and laboriously followed the
trail they had beaten. We noticed their camps from day to day, and saw
that they had not been distressed, and found them, at the end of the
journey, as jolly as such people always are, whether in sunshine or
storm.
It is much more agreeable to write about blizzards than to encounter
them.
LAW AND LATIN.
In the beginning of the settlement of the Minnesota valley, in the early
fifties, a man named Tom Cowan located at Traverse des Sioux. His name
will be at once recognized by all the old settlers. He was a Scotchman,
and had been in business in Baltimore. Financial difficulties had driven
him to the West, to begin life anew and grow up with the country. He was
a very well read and companionable man, and exceedingly bright by
nature, and at once became very popular with the people. His first
venture was in the fur trade, but not knowing anything about it, his
success was not brilliant. I remember that he once paid an immense price
for a very large black bearskin, thinking he had struck a bonanza. He
kept it on exhibition, until one day John S. Prince, who was an
experienced fur buyer, dropped in, and after listening to Cowan's eulogy
on his bear skin, quietly remarked: "He bear; not worth a d--n," which
decision induced Tom to abandon the fur trade.
There being no lawyer but one at Traverse des Sioux, and I having been
elected to the supreme bench, Mr. Cowan decided to study law, and open
an office for the practice of that profession. He accordingly proposed
that he should study with me, which idea I strongly encouraged, and
after about six weeks of diligent reading, principally devoted to the
statutes, I admitted him to the bar, and he fearlessly announced himself
as an attorney and counselor at law. In this venture he was phenomenally
successful. He was a fine speaker, made an excellent argument on facts,
and soon stood high in the profession. He took a leading part in
politics, was made register of deeds of his county, went to the
legislature, and was nominated for lieutenant governor of the state
after its admission into the Union; but, of course, in all his practice
he was never quite certain about the law of his cases. This deficiency
was made up by dash and brilliancy, and he got along swimmingly.
One day he came to my office and said: "Judgey, I am going to try a suit
at Le Sueur to-morrow that involves $2,500. It is the biggest suit we
have ever had in the valley, and I think it ought to have some Latin in
it, and I want you to furnish me with that ingredient." I said: "Tom,
what is it all about? I must know what kind of a suit it is before I can
supply the Latin appropriately, and especially as I am not very much up
in Latin myself."
He said the suit was on an insurance policy; that he was defending on
the ground of misrepresentations made by the insured on the making of
the policy, and he must have some Latin to illustrate and strengthen his
point.
I mulled over the proposition, looked up some books on maxims, and
finally gave him this, "_Non haec in federe veni_," which I translated
to mean, "I did not enter into this contract." He was delighted, and
said there ought to be no doubt of success with the aid of this
formidable weapon, and made me promise to ride down with him to hear him
get it off. So the next day we started, and in crossing the Le Sueur
prairie, Cowan was hailed by a man who said he was under arrest for
having kicked a man out of his house for insulting his family, and he
wanted Tom to defend him. The justice's court was about a mile from the
road, in a carpenter shop, the proprietor of which was the justice. Tom
told him to demand a jury, and he would stop on his way back and help
him out.
When we arrived at Le Sueur we found that the case could not be heard
that day, and, starting homeward, about four o'clock we reached the
carpenter shop. There we found the jury awaiting us. We hitched the
team, and I spread myself comfortably on a pile of shavings to witness
the legal encounter. The complaining party proved his case. Cowan put
his client on the witness stand, and showed the provocation. Then he
addressed the jury. His defense was, want of criminal intent. He dwelt
eloquently on the point that the gist of the offense was the intent with
which the act was committed, and when it appeared that the act was
justified, there could be no crime. Then, casting a quizzical glance at
me, he struck a tragic attitude, and thundered out: "Gentlemen of the
jury, it is indelibly recorded in all the works of Roman jurisprudence,
'_Non haec in federe veni_,' which means there can be no crime without
criminal intent." The effect was electrical; the jury acquitted the
prisoner, and we drove home fully convinced that the law was not an
exact science. With what effect Tom utilized his Latin in the insurance
suit I have forgotten, or was never advised.
INDIAN STRATEGY.
In the summer of 1856 I had the celebrated battery commanded by Major T.
W. Sherman of the United States Army (better known as the Buena Vista
Battery, from the good work it did in the Mexican war) on duty in the
Indian country, on account of a great excitement which prevailed among
the Indians. The officers of the battery were Major Sherman, First
Lieutenant Ayer, and Second Lieutenant Du Barry. Its force of men was
about sixty, including noncommissioned officers. I think it had four
guns, but of this I am not certain.
One day, after skirmishing about over considerable country, we made a
camp on the Yellow Medicine river, near a fine spring, and everything
seemed comfortable. The formation of the camp was a square, with the
guns and tents inside, and a sort of a picket line on all sides about a
hundred yards from the center, on which the sentinels marched day and
night. I tented with the major, and seeing that the Indians were allowed
to come inside of the picket lines with their guns in their hands, I
took the liberty of saying to him that I did not consider such a policy
safe, because the Indians could, at a concerted signal, each pick out
his man and shoot him down, and then where would the battery be? But the
major's answer was, "Oh, we must not show any timidity." So I said no
more, but it was just such misplaced confidence that afterwards cost
General Canby his life among the Modocs, when he was shot down by
Captain Jack. Things went on quietly, until one day a young soldier
went down to the spring with his bucket and dipper for water, and an
Indian who desired to make a name for himself among his fellows followed
him stealthily, and when he was in a stooping posture, filling his
bucket, came up behind him, and plunged a long knife into his neck,
intending, of course, to kill him; but as luck would have it, the knife
struck his collarbone and doubled up, so the Indian could not withdraw
it. The shock nearly prostrated the soldier, but he succeeded in
reaching camp. The major immediately demanded the surrender of the
guilty party, and he was given up by the Indians. I noticed one thing,
however; no more Indians were allowed inside the lines with their guns
in their hands.
When the prisoner was brought into camp a guard tent was established,
and he was confined in it, with ten men to stand guard over him. These
men were each armed with the minie rifle which was first introduced into
the army, and which was quite an effective weapon.
While all this was going on, we were holding pow-pows every day with the
Indians, endeavoring to straighten out and clear up all the vexed
questions between us. The manner of holding a council was to select a
place on the prairie, plant an American flag in the center, and all
hands squat down in a circle around it. Then the speechifying would
commence, and last for hours without any satisfactory results. Anyone
who has had much experience in Indian councils is aware of the
hopelessness of arriving at a termination of the discussion. It very
much resembles Turkish diplomacy. But the weather was pleasant, and
everybody was patient.
The Indians, however, were concocting plans all this time to effect the
escape of the prisoner in the guardhouse. So one day they suggested a
certain place for the holding of the council, giving some plausible
reason for the change of location, and when the time arrived, everybody
assembled, and the ring was formed. Those present consisted of all the
traders, Superintendent Cullen, Major Sherman, Lieutenant Ayer,--in
fact, all the white men at the agency,--and about one hundred Indians,
everyone of whom had a gun in his hands. I had warned the major
frequently not to allow an Indian to come into council with a gun, but
he deemed it better not to show any timidity, and they were not
prohibited. The council on this occasion was held about four hundred
yards from the battery camp, and on lower ground, but with no
obstruction between them. The scheme of the savages was to spring to
their feet on a concerted signal and begin firing their guns all around
the council circle, so as to create a great excitement and bring
everyone to his feet, and just at this moment the prisoner in the
guardhouse was to make a run in the direction of the council, keeping
exactly between the guard and the whites in the council ring, believing
that the soldiers would not fire for fear of killing their own people.
When the time arrived every Indian in the ring jumped to his feet and
fired in the air, creating a tremendous fusilade, and as had been
expected, the most frightful panic followed, and everyone thinking that
a general massacre of the whites had begun, they scattered in all
directions. Instantly the prisoner ran for the crowd, and an Indian can
sprint like a deer. Contrary to expectations, every one of the ten
guards opened fire on him, and seven of them hit him, but curiously not
one of the wounds stopped his progress, and he got away; but the bullets
went over and among the whites, one ricocheting through the coat of
Major Cullen. The prisoner never was caught, but I heard a great deal
about him afterwards. His exploit of stabbing the soldier and his almost
miraculous escape made him one of the most celebrated medicine men of
his band, and he continued to work wonders thenceforth.
After the return of the battery I was informed by my close friends among
the Indians that they had sat on the hills overlooking the camp and
concocted all kinds of schemes to take it, the principal one of which
was to fill bladders with water, and pour them over the touch-holes of
the guns, and, as they supposed, render them useless, and then open fire
on the men. Fortunately nothing of the kind was tried, but I was
convinced that no one can be too cautious when in the country of a
savage enemy. A good lesson can be learned from this narrative by the
people now occupying the country of the Filipinos.
One pleasing circumstance resulted from the presence of this battery in
the Indian country. About thirty years after the occurrences I have been
narrating I had occasion to transact some business with the adjutant
general of our state at his office in the capitol, and after completing
it I was about to retire, when the general said to me: "Judge, you don't
seem to remember me." I replied: "General, did I ever have the pleasure
of your acquaintance?" "Not exactly," he said, "but don't you remember
the time when you had the old Sherman Battery in the field, with its
tall first sergeant?" I said: "I recall the event quite clearly, but not
the sergeant." He said: "One day, after a long, hot march, I was laying
out the camp, and you were sitting on your horse observing the
operation, when you noticed me and called me to you, and pulling a flask
from your pocket or holster, you asked me to take a drink. That is a
long time ago, but I remember it as the best drink I ever had, and I
always associate you pleasantly with it." The tall sergeant had matured
into a most dignified and charming gentleman, with whom I have ever
since enjoyed the most agreeable relations.
The moral of this story is, that when you are in the country of hostile
savages, never accept any confidences or take any chances, and when you
have more drinks than you can conveniently absorb, divide with your
neighbor.
[Illustration]
THE FIRST STATE ELECTION RETURNS FROM PEMBINA.
The State of Wisconsin was admitted into the Union in the year 1848,
with the St. Croix river as its western boundary. This arrangement left
St. Paul, St. Anthony, Stillwater, Marine, Taylor's Falls and other
settlements, which had sprung up in Wisconsin west of the St. Croix,
without any government. The inhabitants of these communities immediately
sought ways and means to extricate themselves from the dilemma in which
they were placed. There were a great many men among them of marked
ability and influence--Henry M. Rice, Henry H. Sibley, Morton S.
Wilkinson, Henry L. Moss, John McKusick, Joseph R. Brown, Martin McLeod,
Wm. R. Marshall and others. Differences of opinion existed as to whether
the remnant of Wisconsin on the west side of the St. Croix still
remained the Territory of Wisconsin or whether it was a kind of "no
man's land," without a government of any kind. Governor Dodge of the
territory had been elected to the senate of the United States for the
new state. The delegate to congress had resigned, and the government of
the territory had been cast upon the secretary, Mr. John Catlin, who
became governor ex-officio on the vacancy happening in the office of
governor. He lived in Madison, in the new state, and would have to move
over the line into the deserted section if he proposed to exercise the
functions of his office. A correspondence was opened with him, and he
was invited to come to Stillwater, and proclaim the existence of the
territory by calling an election for a delegate to congress from
Wisconsin Territory. He accepted the call, moved to Stillwater, and in
the month of September, 1848, issued his proclamation. An election was
held in November following, and Henry H. Sibley was chosen delegate from
Wisconsin Territory to the congress of the United States.
Sibley procured the passage of an act, on March 3, 1849, organizing the
Territory of Minnesota, and we have had regular elections ever since.
There is a little unwritten history connected with the transaction above
related. The principal citizens west of the St. Croix fixed things up
among the settlements in a manner entirely satisfactory to themselves.
They divided the prospective spoils about as follows: Sibley lived at
Mendota, and that place was to have the delegate to congress, St. Paul
was to have the capital, Stillwater the penitentiary, and St. Anthony
the university, which comprised all there was to divide. The program was
faithfully carried out, and has been maintained ever since, although
various attempts have been made to violate the treaty by the removal of
the capital from St. Paul; but I am glad to be able to say, in behalf of
honesty and fair dealing, none of them have been successful.
The existence of this unwritten treaty has been denied, but there are
men yet living in the state who took part in it, and have publicly
affirmed its authenticity. Judge Douglas of Illinois, when chairman of
the senate committee on territories, insisted on placing the capital at
Mendota, with the building on the top of Pilot Knob, and had it not been
for the stern integrity of Sibley, he would have succeeded, to the
everlasting inconvenience and discomfort of our people.
There were really no politics worthy of the name during the years of the
territory. All the principal offices were filled by appointment by the
general government, and the rest of them determined by personal
rivalries. The main business of the territory was the fur trade, carried
on by warring companies, whose chief factors sought office more for the
sake of its influence on their business than for the principles they
represented.
I remember one year the legislature, in a spasm of virtue, passed a
prohibitory liquor law, which the supreme court, under the influence of
a counter spasm, immediately set aside as unconstitutional. Outside of
the cities, where the missionaries exerted a strong influence, the
contention was usually whisky or no whisky; in fact, there was very
little else to fight about.
The first government was appointed by the Whigs (the Republican party
being yet unborn), and as Governor Ramsey was from Pennsylvania, we had
a great influx of immigration from that state. The second governor
(Gorman) was appointed by the Democrats, and came from Indiana, and the
people of that state being much more migratory than the Pennsylvanians,
we were flooded with Hoosiers. These various influences caused
differences of opinion and interests sufficient to keep the political
pot boiling quite lively, but on lines that were necessarily personal
and temporary in their bearing. We soon, however, approached the more
important subject of statehood, and, strange as it may seem to the
present generation, the question of slavery was a strong factor. The
Republican party was born about 1854, and as its principal creed was
opposition to the extension of slavery, its followers naturally forced
the subject into the politics of the day. I can, however, positively
affirm that no one of any political faith had the slightest idea of
introducing slavery into Minnesota. A constitution for the proposed
state was framed in 1857, and in the fall of that year the election for
the officers of the first state government was held, and, of course,
great interest was manifested as to the result. The general election was
fixed by law for November in all of the counties of the territory except
one. The county of Pembina was so distant from the capital that it was
found to be difficult to get the returns in so as to be counted with
those of the rest of the state. The only transportation between the two
places was by Red River carts, drawn by oxen in the summer, and by dog
trains in the winter; the distance to be travelled was about four
hundred miles, and the time necessary to compass it nearly or quite a
month. The legislature had, in 1853, in order to remedy this difficulty,
and because the population was on its annual buffalo hunt in November,
passed an act fixing the time for holding elections in the county of
Pembina on the second Tuesday in September in each year, thus giving
ample opportunity to get the returns to the authorities in St. Paul in
time to be counted with those from the other districts. The result of
this was that no one outside of Pembina ever knew how many votes had
been polled in that district until long after the rest of the territory
had been heard from, and it became a common saying among the Whigs that
the Pembina returns were held back until it became known how many votes
were necessary to carry the election for the Democrats, and that they
were fixed accordingly, which the Democrats denounced as a Whig lie.
About all that was known of Pembina was that it was inhabited by a
savage looking race of Chippewa half-breeds, and that Joe Rolette lived
there, and Norman W. Kittson went there occasionally. It carried on an
immense trade in furs with St. Paul, by means of brigades of Red River
carts each summer and by dog trains in the winter, and the more you saw
of these people the more you were impressed with their savage appearance
and bearing.
The first state election, curious as it may appear, was held in 1857,
before the state was admitted into the Union, which latter event was
postponed until May 11, 1858, and when the votes from all the counties
except Pembina had been returned to the proper officer the result, as
far as could be ascertained before the official count was made, was
somewhat in doubt, which circumstance naturally excited great interest
in the Pembina election, as it was well known that all the votes from
that district would be Democratic, so the great question was, "How
many?"
While the country was holding its breath in suspense and expectancy, a
man in the Indian trade, named Madison Sweetzer, came to me about two
o'clock one night, or rather morning, and told me that Nat. Tyson, who
was a merchant in St. Paul and an enthusiastic Republican, had just
started for the north with a fast team and an outfit that looked as if
he contemplated a long journey, and his belief was that he intended to
capture Joe Rolette and the Pembina returns. I thought such might be the
case, and we immediately began to devise ways and means to circumvent
him. We hastened to the house of Henry M. Rice, who knew every trader
and half-breed between here and Pembina, and laid our suspicions before
him. He diagnosed the case in an instant, and sent us to Norman W.
Kittson, who lived in a stone house well up on Jackson street, with
instructions to him to send a mounted courier after Tyson, who was to
pass him on the road, and either find Rolette or Major Clitheral, who
was an Alabama man and one of the United States land officers in the
neighborhood of Crow Wing (and, of course, a reliable Democrat), and to
deliver a letter to the one first found, putting him on guard against
the supposed enemy. I prepared the letter, and Kittson in a few moments
had summoned a reliable Chippewa half-breed, mounted him on a fine
horse, fully explained his mission, and impressed upon him that he was
to reach Clitheral or Rolette ahead of Tyson, if he had to kill a dozen
horses in so doing. There is nothing a fine, active young half-breed
enjoys so much as an adventure of this kind; a ride of four hundred
miles had no terrors for him, and to serve his employer, no matter what
the duty or the danger, was his delight. When he was ready to start,
Kittson gave him a send-off in about the following words: "_Va, va,
vite, et ne t'arrette pas, même pour sauver la vie_" ("Go; go quick; and
don't stop even to save your life"), and giving his horse a vigorous
slap, he was off like the wind.
The result was that he passed Tyson before he had gone twenty miles,
found Clitheral a day and a half before Tyson reached Crow Wing, if he
ever did get there, delivered his letter, and the major immediately
started to find Rolette, which he succeeded in doing, took the returns
and put them in a belt around his person, and having relieved Joe of all
his responsibility, left him to his own devices, which meant painting
all the towns red that he visited on his way. We well knew that Joe
could no more resist the temptations of civilization than an old sailor
returning from a long voyage, and what we apprehended was that he might,
while in a too-convivial mood, either lose the returns, or have them
stolen from him.