appointed by the United States government, and when New Year's day came
around, I found myself at the Yellow Medicine Agency, but was ignorant
of their peculiar ceremonies for the occasion. I proposed to make the
best of my isolation from my kind, and spend the day as pleasantly as
circumstances would permit. While debating the subject of what to do, I
was informed of the way the Indians celebrated the event, and told that
I would probably be called upon by a numerous delegation of squaws, and
that it would be expected that I should receive them by the bestowal of
some sort of present. Not wishing to be ungallant, and desiring to gain
information of the customs and manners of my savage wards, I ordered my
baker to prepare several barrels of ginger bread, and purchased many
yards of gaily colored calico, which I had cut into proper pieces for
women's dresses, and with this outfit, prepared to meet the enemy.
At this point I will say a word about the Sioux girl and woman. As a
general thing, the very young girl is by nature pretty and attractive. I
have seen many at the age of thirteen and fourteen who had graceful
figures, good carriage, and very beautiful faces; but they marry very
young, and as soon as married become pack-horses for their husbands,
carrying loads on their backs, by means of a head strap across the
forehead, that it takes two men to lift from the ground, and very often
when thus loaded babies, puppies, and many other things, will be put on
top of the pack. They will trudge fifteen or twenty miles a day with
this burden, bending forward, and staggering under its weight. The
result is to spoil the figure and gait, and deprive them of every
semblance of beauty. The awkward walk produced by this hard labor we
used to call "The Dakota shamble." Under this treatment they soon look
old, and become wrinkled, and are called "Wakonkas," which might be
translated to mean old witches.
With this visitation in prospect, I awaited quietly their coming. About
ten in the morning they began to assemble about the agency in groups of
all sizes and ages. I could hear a great deal of giggling among the
girls, and scolding by the elder women. They were apparently selecting
someone to break the ice by making the first assault. Presently a
venerable dame opened the door, and sidled in like a crab. She
approached me and kissed me on both cheeks, and received her presents.
Then they followed in a line, old and young, pretty and ugly, each
giving me a hearty kiss, which, in some cases, I returned with interest.
The ceremony continued with great hilarity and much frolicksome
tittering and fun, until forty-eight squaws had kissed and been kissed
by me. They all carried off their presents and seemed very happy.
Whether it was all caused by the presents or not, I am unable to say,
but I was not the grizzled old fellow then that I have since become. I
have celebrated a good many New Year's days, both before and since, but
none have left a more agreeable impression than the one I have
described. I have never known the exact figures of Hobson's Kansas
experience, nor can I make a just comparison between the Sioux and the
Kansas article, but from the general reputation of that state, I would
recommend the caress of the untutored aborigines.
If Hobson ever reads this story he will have to admit that there were
others.
A POLITICAL RUSE.
All people who keep the run of politics will remember that the
Republican party, now called the "Grand Old Party" (I suppose on account
of its extreme youth), had its birth in the year 1854, after the death
of the Whig party, and succeeded to the position in American politics
formerly occupied by the Whigs, with a strong tinge of abolition added.
It was, of course, largely recruited from the Whigs, but had quite
formidable acquisitions from the Free-soil Democrats. It sprang into
prominence and power with phenomenal rapidity, coming very near to
electing a president in 1856, and succeeding in 1860. Minnesota resisted
the attractions of the new party, and remained Democratic until 1857,
when the first state election occurred, and the whole Democratic state
ticket was elected. Since then the Democrats have never succeeded in our
state, unless the election of Governor Lind in 1898 may be called a
Democratic victory.
It was very natural that the politicians who had joined the new party
should be exceedingly zealous and enthusiastic for its success. Such is
usually the case, and verifies the old proverb, that "A converted Turk
makes the best Christian." This phase of political tendencies was fully
illustrated by the conduct of my old friend, Mr. James W. Lynd of
Henderson, more familiarly known by us as "Jim Lynd," which occurred at
the election of 1856, and forms the text for the present story.
In the early days of the territory much had been said, and generally
believed, about frauds being perpetrated by the Democrats in the
elections on the frontier. For instance, it was asserted that, at
Pembina and the Indian agencies, one pair of pantaloons would suffice
to civilize several hundred Indians, as, by putting them on, and thus
adopting the customs and habits of civilization, they would be entitled
to vote. There never was much truth about these rumors, and being on the
border, and having charge of an Indian agency, where hundreds of men
were employed, I knew a good deal about how these matters were
conducted, and I can conscientiously say that there never was much truth
in them. The nearest approach to a violation of the election laws that I
ever discovered was at Pembina, and that was free from any intention of
fraud. It would come about in this way: Election day would arrive, the
polls would open, and everybody who was at home would vote. It would
then occur to some one that Baptiste La Cour or Alexis La Tour had not
voted, and the question would be asked, why? It would be discovered that
they were out on a buffalo hunt, and the judges would say, "We all know
how they would vote if they were here," and they would be put down as
voting the Democratic ticket. Of course, this would be a violation of
the election laws, but who can say that it was not the expression of an
honest intention by a simple people. While I cannot approve such methods
in an election where the law and the necessities of civilization require
the voter to be present, I cannot avoid the wish that we were all honest
enough to make such a course possible as the one adopted by these simple
border people.
The Republicans being the "outs" and the Democrats being the "ins," of
course all the frauds were charged to the latter, and every movement of
either party was watched with zealous scrutiny. The law governing the
qualification of voters provided that soldiers enlisted in other states
or territories, coming into Minnesota under military orders, did not
gain a residence, and citizens of Minnesota enlisting in the army did
not lose their residence or right to vote as long as they remained in
the territory. It so happened, in 1856 or 1857, that there were at Fort
Ridgely a number of recruits who had enlisted in the territory, and had
not lost their right to vote; but there was no precinct or place to vote
where they could exercise their privilege. Knowing that they were
Democrats, we had a polling place established at the "Lone Cottonwood
Tree," a point about three miles above Fort Ridgely, for the purpose of
saving these votes.
Of course, it soon became known throughout the valley, and my friend Jim
Lynd, who resided at Henderson, about fifty miles down the river,
conceived the idea that it was the intention to vote the whole garrison
for the Democrats, and he determined to checkmate it by challenging
every soldier who cast his vote, laboring, as he did, under the
erroneous impression that an enlistment in the army disqualified the
soldiers as voters. So when the election day arrived, Jim, who had
walked all the way from Henderson, was on the ground early, fully
determined to exclude all soldiers from voting.
It so happened that I was at my Indian agency, at Redwood, and on the
morning of the election was to start for St. Paul. The agency was about
ten miles up the river from the "Lone Tree," and, starting early in the
morning, brought me to the voting place about the time the polls were
opened. I knew everybody in the valley and everybody knew me, and we
never passed each other on the road without a stop and a chat. When I
arrived at the polls all hands came out to greet me, and after the usual
inquiries as to how the election was progressing, the judges told me
that Lynd had challenged the first soldier who offered his vote, and
they, being in doubt as to the law, had agreed to leave it to me. I
gave my version of it, but Lynd still disputed it, and insisted that an
enlistment in the army disqualified the man as a voter. Being unable to
convince him, I, with a significant wink to the judges, suggested that
he should get into my wagon and go down to the post (where I knew the
sutler had a copy of the statutes), and we could readily settle the
controversy. He consented willingly to this proposition, and we started
for the post. When we arrived, I gave my team to the quartermaster's
sergeant, and we looked up the law in the sutler's store. I then began a
game of billiards with some of the officers, and accepted an invitation
to lunch. As noon approached, Lynd began to show signs of impatience,
and he asked me when I proposed to take him back to the polls. I quietly
informed him that my route lay in the opposite direction, and that I
would not go back at all. Instantly it flashed upon him that I had taken
him away from the polls for a purpose, and he fled like a scared deer
over the road we had just travelled, leaving me to pursue my journey
alone in the other direction. I afterwards learned that in the interval
between Lynd's departure and return, all the soldiers had voted the
Democratic ticket without challenge or obstruction. Whether my friend
Lynd walked back to Henderson or not, I never certainly ascertained. I
was sufficiently satisfied with the success of my ruse not to desire to
inflict any discomfort on my dear enemy.
This was the only political trick I remember of having perpetrated on
the enemy during my long participation in active politics, and I don't
believe any of my readers will regard it as transgressing the proverb
that "all is fair in love or war."
My friend Lynd was, like most of the characters in my frontier
experience, killed by the Indians in the outbreak of 1862.
THE HARDSHIPS OF EARLY LAW PRACTICE.
Prior to 1855 the public lands of Minnesota were unsurveyed, and no
title could be acquired to them. About that time, however, four United
States land districts were established, with a land office in each of
them. The districts were straight tracts of country extending from the
Mississippi due west to the Missouri, the exterior lines of which were
parallel to each other. The offices were at Brownsville, Winona, Red
Wing and Minneapolis. I was then living in Traverse des Sioux, which
place, together with Mankato, fell within the Winona district, so that
any land business we had in our region of the country compelled a trip
to Winona, a distance of nearly three hundred miles by water, or one
hundred and fifty by land. After the closing of the rivers by winter
there was no other way of getting there except to journey across the
country.
At the time I refer to there was little or no settlement between
Traverse des Sioux and Winona, and no roads. I remember that there were
one or two settlers on the Straight river, where now stands Owatonna,
and about the same number on the Zumbro, where now is Rochester, and one
house at a point called Utica, about fifty miles west of Winona, and a
small settlement at Stockton, on a trout stream which flows through the
bluffs a few miles west of Winona. The latter place, being on the
Mississippi and easy of access, was quite a flourishing town.
That fall I had been elected to the upper house of the territorial
legislature, called the council, and the news reached us that there
would be a contested seat in the council from some district in the
southern part of the territory, but we had no particulars as to the
locality or the person, and gave the matter very little attention.
A controversy had arisen between parties at Mankato as to the right to
enter a quarter section of land which was part of the town site, and
ultimately became a very valuable part of the city. I represented one
side of the fight, but cannot recall the name of my adversary. It was
customary in those days to lump matters by making up a party of those
who had claims to prove up before the land office, and act as witnesses
for each other. On the occasion of this Mankato contest we formed two
parties, one from Mankato and one from Traverse, and started with two
teams, on wheels, there being no snow, and the first day we reached a
point in the woods, somewhere near the present town of Elysian, and
there camped. When morning opened on us we found the ground covered with
from twelve to fifteen inches of snow, which made it impossible to
proceed further with our wagons. We did not hesitate, but accepted the
only alternative that presented itself, and decided to foot it to
Winona. We travelled light in those days, carrying only some blankets
and a change of clothes. We _cached_ our wagons in the timber, packed
our animals with our impedimenta, and started. Such a tramp would seem
appalling at the present time, but we were all accustomed to hardships,
and were equipped with good Red River winter moccasins, two or three
stout flannel shirts, and thought very little of the undertaking. We
drove the horses ahead of us to aid in making a trail, and made pretty
good progress. I think it took us about five days to accomplish the
journey, which we did without suffering, or even being seriously
incommoded, as we found shelter at the Straight river, the Zumbro,
Utica, and Stockton.
An amusing and interesting incident happened the night we arrived at
Utica which, as I have said, consisted of one small log house. Our march
that day had been a long and tiresome one, and I felt as if a good drink
of whisky would be very supporting and acceptable, our supplies in that
line having become exhausted by reason of the unexpected length of time
consumed in our journey; but the prospect of getting one was anything
but promising. While revolving the subject in my mind, and having all my
faculties concentrated on the much desired end, I, by some accident,
learned that the proprietor of the shanty was a doctor. At this
discovery my hopes went up several degrees, and I determined to test his
medicine chest. Putting on a look of utter exhaustion, with both my
hands on my abdomen, and assuming the most plaintive voice I could
muster, I said: "Doctor, I have made a long march to-day, and feel
utterly broken up; have you not some spirits in your medicine chest that
you could prescribe for me? I am sure it would be a great relief." He
looked me over with suspicion, and said: "No, I am an herb doctor." I
felt that my fate was sealed for the night, and prepared to seek my
couch on the softest plank I could find, between the two men who looked
the warmest of the party. While thus preparing my _toilette de nuit_, in
a state of mind bordering on desperation, I heard the jingling of
sleigh-bells, and a team dash up to the door, from which debarked two
men, each comfortably full, followed by hand-bags, blankets and a
two-gallon demijohn. They said they had driven from Winona that day, and
would stay all night. They ordered supper, and while it was in course of
preparation, indulged in a good deal of banter back and forth. Of
course, I had formed the determination of becoming acquainted with the
contents of that demijohn in some way, by fair means or foul, and became
deeply interested in their conversation, looking for a favorable chance
to carry my point. I noticed that one of them was very boastful about
what he was going to do when the legislature met, and the other saying
to him that "he would not be there three days before they would kick him
out and send him home." At these words, it flashed across my mind that
this must be the man whose seat was contested, and, waiting for a proper
opportunity, when his friend was loudest in his assertions that he would
not remain long in the legislature, I put in my oar, and said: "Maybe I
will have something to say about that." In an instant the legislator
gave me a most scrutinizing look, and said: "Are you in the
legislature?" I said "Yes." "In which house?" he inquired. "In the
council," I answered. I saw the man was bright and intelligent, and it
was a study to watch the workings of his mind while debating to himself
how I would be affected by his condition, whether favorably or
otherwise. Having weighed the matter carefully, he showed his experience
and good judgment of character by saying: "My friend, won't you take a
drink?" From what I have said, it is unnecessary to record my answer. We
spent the greater part of the night in pleasant social intercourse,
drawing inspiration from the depths of the demijohn, which had seemed so
far removed from my grasp but a short time before.
The man was the famous Bill Lowry, from the Rochester district. This
incident made us sworn friends for life, and singular as it may seem,
when the legislature convened, I found myself chairman of the committee
on contested elections in the council. It is unnecessary to go into the
details of the contest. Suffice it to say that the contestant had a very
weak case, and Lowry performed all he had boasted that he would do on
that eventful night in Utica.
We were engaged in trying our suit at Winona for several days. Captain
Upman was the register of the land office, and presided at the trial.
The captain was a jolly old German from Milwaukee, and a fairly good
drinker. There was a building in the town which had been a church, but
by the intervention of the evil one, had been turned into a saloon, and
was popularly known as "The Church." This was the captain's favorite
resort when thirsty, which physical condition occurred quite frequently,
and he would always say on such occasions: "The bells are ringing; come,
boys, we must go to church. It is unlawful to try cases on Sunday."
What influences dominated, I don't pretend to say, but I won for my
client three forties of the quarter section in dispute. We returned home
the way we went down,--on foot,--with the exception that at Stockton we
constructed a small sleigh, sufficient to carry our baggage, which much
relieved the animals. My client offered me one of the forty-acre tracts
for my fee, but I declined, and accepted a twenty dollar gold piece for
my services. The land which I refused became worth a quarter of a
million of dollars a few years afterwards, but I had a good deal of fun
out of the adventure, and never regretted the outcome.
TEMPERANCE AT TRAVERSE.
The first members of the judiciary of the Territory of Minnesota were
Aaron Goodrich, chief justice; Bradley B. Meeker and David Cooper,
associates, who were appointed in 1849. They were Whigs, and held their
positions until a change of administration gave the Democrats the power,
when William H. Welch became chief justice, with Andrew G. Chatfield and
Moses Sherburne as associates. The last named judges were in office when
I arrived in the territory, in 1853. Judge Chatfield presided mostly
over the courts held on the west side of the Mississippi. I made my
residence at Traverse des Sioux, in Nicollet county, which was within
the territory purchased from the Sioux Indians by the treaty of 1851,
proclaimed in 1853. The fifth article of this treaty kept in force,
within the territory ceded, all the laws of the United States
prohibiting the introduction and sale of spirituous liquors in the
Indian country, commonly known as the trade and intercourse laws. Of
course, this inhibition was intended to prevent liquor getting to the
Indians, but as the country began to be inhabited by whites, many of the
new comers regarded it as infringing upon their rights and privileges,
and serious questions arose as to whether the treaty-making power had
any jurisdiction of such questions after the country was opened to white
settlement. The courts, however, held the exclusion valid, and
indictments were occasionally found against the violators of these laws.
Traverse des Sioux was a missionary center, and the feeling against the
liquor traffic was very strong, but, as it always has been, and
probably always will be, men were found ready to invade the sacred
precincts for the expected profits, and a saloon or two were established
in defiance of law and public sentiment.
The judges were empowered to appoint the terms of court where and when
there was any probable necessity for them, and the sheriff would summon
a grand or petit jury as the business seemed to require. The United
States marshal was Colonel Irwin, and the United States district
attorney was Colonel Dustin, both of whom lived in St. Paul, and, as a
general thing, there were no county attorneys in the different counties.
When a term of court was to be held in my county, or any of the adjacent
ones, the marshal would send me a deputation to represent him, and a bag
of gold to pay the jurors and witnesses; the United States attorney
would empower me to appear for him, and on the opening of the court, the
judge would enter an order appointing me prosecuting attorney for the
county so the judge and I would constitute the entire force, federal and
territorial, judicial and administrative. If I procured an indictment
against a party at one term, in my capacity of prosecutor, and the
regular attorney should appear at the next term, it was more than likely
that I would be retained to defend; which would look a little irregular
at the present time, but as there was no other attorney but me, as a
usual thing, no questions were asked.
At a very early day, a party not having the fear of the law or public
opinion before him opened a saloon at Traverse des Sioux, much to the
dismay and indignation of the religious element of the community, and
went to selling whisky to the other element. The next grand jury
indicted him, but, before a court convened that could try him, a squad
composed of the temperance people headed by the sheriff, attacked his
place, and demolished his contraband stores. Being determined to test
the question of his rights, he sued the attacking party, and I was
retained to defend them. I devised the plea that the country was full of
savage Indians, whose passions became inflamed by whisky, which made
them dangerous to the lives of the whites, and that saloons were
consequently a nuisance which anyone had a right to abate. The case was
tried before Judge Chatfield, and my clients were vindicated. Of course,
the suit created a great sensation, not only on account of the feeling
engendered, but because of the novel questions involved, and in due
course of time the temperance ladies of the county sent to New York and
purchased a handsome combination gold pen and pencil, with a jewelled
head, and had it inscribed, "Charles E. Flandrau: Defender of the
Right." They also procured a handsome family Bible for the sheriff. When
all was ready, they held a public meeting, and made the presentations,
which were accompanied by the usual speeches. These ceremonies occurred
in the latter part of the year 1854, or early in 1855, and in the
meantime a small newspaper, called the _St. Peter Courier_, had been
established to boom the city, which contained an elaborate account of
the proceedings, together with all the speeches, and diligently
circulated them throughout the East, where they were caught up by Horace
Greely, in his _Tribune_, and many other papers, and repeated under the
head of "Moral Suasion in Minnesota," and came back to us enlarged and
improved.
Should I end the story here, it would leave me in the possession and
enjoyment of virtues which I cannot conscientiously claim as my own, and
would deprive the tale of its best and only amusing point; so as a
faithful narrator, I feel in duty bound to tell the other side of it.