that, under the rules, no business could be transacted while the council
was under a call, and that it required a two-thirds vote to dispense
with the call. As I have said before, the bill was passed in the council
by a vote of eight for and seven against, which was the full vote of the
body; but in the absence of Rolette there were only fourteen present.
Luckily for St. Paul, it takes as many to make two-thirds of fourteen as
it does to make two-thirds of fifteen, and the friends of the bill could
only muster nine on the motion to dispense with the call. Mr. John B.
Brisbin was president of the council, and a strong friend of St. Paul,
so no relaxation of the rules could be hoped for from him. In this
dilemma, the friends of removal were forced to desperate extremes, and
Mr. Balcombe actually made an extended argument to prove to the chair
that nine was two-thirds of fourteen. Both gentlemen were graduates of
Yale, and, on the completion of his argument, Mr. Brisbin said,
"Balcombe, we never figured that way at Yale; the motion is lost," and
the council found itself at a deadlock, with the call pending, and no
hope of transacting any business, unless some member of the five
yielded. They were all steadfast, however, and there was nothing to do
but to receive the daily report of the sergeant-at-arms that Mr. Rolette
could not be found. Sometimes he would report a rumor that Rolette had
been seen at some town up the river, making for Pembina with a dog
train, at the rate of fifteen miles an hour; again, that he had been
assassinated,--in fact, everything but the truth, which was that he was
luxuriously quartered in the upper story of the Fuller House, having the
jolliest time of his life, surrounded by friends, male and female, and
supplied with the best the town afforded, including buckets of
champagne.
The 5th of March was the last day of the session, and the council camped
in its chamber, theoretically handcuffed and hobbled, until midnight of
that day, when President Brisbin took the chair, and pronounced the
council adjourned _sine die_.
The sergeant-at-arms was John Lamb, well known to all old settlers. He
was a resident of St. Paul, and true to her interests, as his conduct
proved. I don't suppose any man ever spent five days and nights trying
harder how not to find his man than he did on this occasion. Whether his
fidelity was ever rewarded I am unable to say.
During the deadlock the friends of removal got a copy of the bill
through, but neither the speaker of the house nor the president of the
council would sign it. The governor, however, did approve it, but the
first time it was tested in court it was pronounced invalid, and set
aside. Other attempts at capital removal were made, but none of them
proved successful.
Rolette and I were close friends. We had served together in the council
at its preceding session, and afterwards in the constitutional
convention, and always roomed together when in St. Paul. I lived at
Traverse des Sioux, which is next door to St. Peter, at the time of this
attempt to remove the capital there, but vigorously opposed the measure.
Rolette's life was threatened by the friends of removal, and many is the
night I have played the part of bodyguard to him, armed to the teeth;
but fortunately he was not assailed.
As I rather admired the plucky manner in which my friend had stood by
St. Paul in this, the hour of her danger, I conceived the idea of
preserving the event to history by presenting his portrait to the
Historical Society of the state, which I did, in April, 1890, and also
hung one in the Minnesota Club. It is a capital likeness, representing
him, full life size, in the wild and picturesque costume of the border.
A brass tablet on the frame is inscribed with the following legend: "The
Hon. Joe Rolette, who saved the capital to St. Paul, by running away
with the bill removing it to St. Peter, in 1857."
Joe died at Pembina, and is buried in the graveyard of the old Catholic
church of Belencourt, under a cross of oak, which once bore the words:
"Here reposes Joseph Rolette.
"Born Oct. 23, 1820.
"Died May 16, 1871."
The simple chronicle is long since effaced.
"_Requiescat in pace!_" is the wish and hope of his historian and
friend.
[Illustration]
AN EDITOR INCOG.
In the years 1864 and 1865 I lived in Carson City, the capital of
Nevada, which recently became famous as the place where the great prize
fight between Bob Fitzsimmons and Gentleman Jim Corbett occurred. The
racecourse which became the arena on that occasion was during all the
time of my residence there used by me daily as a gymnasium for exercise.
I had very little to do with the actual politics of the country, because
I was, and had always been, a Democrat of the most uncompromising
character, and the party divisions out in that country were between the
Republicans and men from the Southern States, who were generally
outspoken rebels; and as it was in the midst of the Civil War, the
feeling was intense between them. I was a warm supporter of the war for
the Union, and found myself in the position of a man without a party.
The situation did not incommode me, however, as I was fully occupied
outside the realm of politics.
There were two daily newspapers published in the town,--one Republican,
which was called the _Carson Daily Appeal_, and the other Democratic,
called the _Evening Post_. There were no associated press dispatches,
although the telegraph had reached the Pacific Coast and the San
Francisco papers had the benefit of that great purveyor of news.
The proprietor of the plant of the Republican paper was an old Minnesota
man, and a friend of mine, with whom I frequently came in contact, both
in a business and social way. Under this condition of things, you may
imagine my surprise and consternation when I tell you that one day he
rushed into my office in a great state of excitement, and told me that
his editor had left him and gone to San Francisco, and that he could not
keep his paper going unless I would run it until he could arrange for
another editor, adding that a failure to publish it for a single day
would ruin him. At first I looked upon the proposition as utterly out of
the question, and said: "How can I edit a Republican newspaper, when I
am at swords' points with everything they believe and advocate?" It was
with him, however, "a groundhog case," as we used to call such
imperative occasions. He _had_ to get him, as he was out of meat. He was
persistent in his demands, and as the negotiations progressed, I began
to look upon the matter as a good joke, and finally promised that I
would undertake to keep the paper going if he would swear that he would
never disclose my identity, which condition he promised faithfully to
observe.
It was a matter that admitted of no delay. I had to prepare a column and
a half of editorial that night for the next morning's issue. What I
wrote about, I don't pretend to remember, but it was well received, and
its Republican orthodoxy was never questioned, and I repeated the dose
daily for some time with the same success, growing more and more violent
in my attacks on the Democracy in each successive issue. Carson was a
small town, and, as the old editor was missed by his friends, public
curiosity increased as to who had succeeded him, and I enrolled myself
among the guessers, and improved every occasion to criticise publicly
the editorials. It soon became very tiresome and difficult to maintain
my ground, with politics as the sole text for my editorials, and as news
was very scarce, I sought relief in any channel that opened a way. A
great race took place in San Francisco between Charley Brian's ever
victorious horse, Lodi, and a colt of the celebrated stallion Lexington,
named Norfolk, for which Joe Winters of Carson had paid fifteen thousand
and _one_ dollars to the owner of Lexington,--Lord Bob Alexander of
Kentucky,--especially to make the race with Lodi. The $15,001 was
exacted by the owner of Lexington, because he had been laughed at for
paying $15,000 for Lexington when he was old and blind, and had said he
would sell his colts for more than he had paid for their sire. This
race, of course, created an immense excitement. At least twenty thousand
people went to see it, and everybody on the Pacific Coast from the
forty-ninth parallel to the Mexican line had a bet on the result. Lodi
was beaten, and as Nevada was the victor, and I knew all about
Lexington, I wrote several essays on race horses in general and Norfolk
in particular.
The office of sheriff of our county was a very hazardous one, every
incumbent of it prior to the then holder having "died with his boots
on." Tim Smith, who filled the office when I was there, and had shown
desperate courage on several occasions in the performance of his duties,
had gained my admiration and friendship, and afforded me a good text,
and I wrote him up.
There was an ex-governor of California residing in Carson with whom I
became intimate, and on one occasion I wrote him up; and last, but not
least, I made the acquaintance of a beautiful and accomplished lady
living in the town, and as such a person was a phenomenon in that rude
land, I was inspired to write her up, and did so in the following poem:
"This descriptive epigram is dedicated to the most beautiful
woman in Carson City, by the editor:
"Gorgeous tresses, exquisitely arrayed;
Noble brow where intellect's displayed;
Liquid eyes that penetrate the heart;
Teeth of pearl, whose brilliancy impart
To the whole expression of the face
A ray of love, a fascinating sense of grace.
A bust--but here presumptuous mortal stay:
Let artist gods this beauteous bust portray;
Splendor, royalty, magnificence combined,
A Venus in Diana's arms entwined.
The tiny hand, so soft, so pure, so white,
Robs its emerald gem of half its light.
The secret charms beneath her robe-folds hidden,
Like heavens' joys to mortal eyes forbidden,
Are dimly outlined to our rapturous gaze,
Like veiled statues through a marble haze.
Her fairy foot, as in the graceful waltz it glides,
Our admiration equally divides.
And proves, that of her many charms of form and voice,
If one you had to choose, you could not make the choice.
Their perfect harmony is like the arch's span;
Displace one stone, you destroy the noble plan."
My political attacks did not seem to make much impression on my
Democratic contemporary, and he paid very little attention to what I
said, feeling, no doubt, indifferent in the overwhelming majority of the
Republican party, but when I branched out in the line I have indicated,
he opened on me savagely in several editorials. He said the _Appeal_ had
discovered a soft-soap mine, and had used it lavishly to lather
governors, sheriffs, ladies, and a great many other people, for the
purpose of gaining their support and patronage, all of which afforded me
a fine opportunity of getting back at him in a humorous, and at the same
time effective manner, so I shot at him in verse, which I will repeat;
but to a full understanding of it, I will explain that all mining claims
are measured by the number of feet the claimant owns on the ledge, and
the word "feet" became synonymous with the mine itself. This was my
answer:
"SOAP."
"Great renovator of the human race!
Great cleanser of the human face!
Thy potent art removes each stain
From dirtiest mortal on this sphere mundane.
'Tis sad to think thy mystic spell
Can't penetrate within the shell,
And to a soiled, perverted heart
Cleanliness and purity impart.
Thy subtle essence, heretofore confined
In bars of Windsor toilet cakes refined;
In Colgate's honey for the barber's brush,
And shapeless masses much resembling slush,
Has now, according to our evening sheet,
Been found in ledges, known as "_feet_."
To use the language of the _Post_, in fine,
The great _Appeal_ has found a mine;
And having now much soap to spare,
Soaps governors--sheriffs--ladies fair.
How sad it is, with all this soap,
To know there's not the slightest hope
If all the Chinamen in town
Should wash it up and wash it down,
And scrub 'till it gave up the ghost,
Of making clean the _Evening Post_."
The effect of my shot was equal to a thirteen-inch shell in the camp of
the enemy. The whole community laughed, and the _Post_ left me
studiously alone until the new editor came and relieved me. I had lots
of fun out of the experiment, besides getting the magnificent
compensation of twenty dollars a week for my services. I also had the
gratification of knowing that the exciting question of "Who edits the
_Appeal_?" remained unanswered until I answered it myself.
THE INK-PA-DU-TA WAR.
All old settlers will remember what in the history of Minnesota is known
as "The Ink-pa-du-ta War." It occurred in 1857, and, briefly described,
was something like the following: Near the northwest corner of the State
of Iowa, in the county of Dickinson, and near the southwest corner of
the State of Minnesota, in the county of Jackson, there are two large
and very beautiful lakes, called Spirit lake and Lake Okoboji. The
country about these lakes is surpassingly beautiful and fruitful, and
naturally attracted settlers in a very early day. In 1855 and 1857 a few
families settled on a small river which heads in Minnesota and flows
southward into Iowa, called in English Rock river, and in Sioux
In-yan-yan-ke. In 1856 Hon. William Freeborn of Red Wing, Minn., started
a settlement at Spirit lake, and near the same time another location was
made about ten or fifteen miles north of Spirit lake, and called
Springfield.
There was a small band of Indians, numbering ten or fifteen lodges,
under the chieftainship of Ink-pa-du-ta, or the "Scarlet Point," which
had for long years frequented the region of the Vermillion river, and
although Sioux, they had become separated from the bands that made
treaties with the United States in 1851, and were regarded as outlaws
and vagabonds. This band had planted in the neighborhood of Spirit lake
prior to 1857, and ranged the country from there to the Missouri.
Early in March, 1857, these Indians were hunting in the neighborhood of
Rock river settlement, and got into a row with the white people from
some trivial cause, and the treatment they received greatly angered
them. They proceeded north and massacred all the people at the Spirit
lake and Okoboji settlements, except four women, whom they captured and
carried off with them. They then attacked the settlers at Springfield,
and killed most of them. The result of the massacre was forty-two white
people killed and four white women taken as captives.
I was then United States agent for the Sioux, and the news of the
trouble reached me at my agency, on the Minnesota river, early in March,
1857, by two young men, who had escaped, and had travelled all the way
on foot through the deep snow, a distance of nearly one hundred miles.
Although the air was always full of rumors of Indian troubles in those
days, I was convinced that the news brought by these boys was true, so I
made a requisition on Colonel Alexander of the Tenth United States
Infantry, stationed at Fort Ridgely, for troops, and he sent me Company
"A," commanded by Captain Barnard E. Bee and Lieutenant Murray. I
supplied guides and interpreters from my Indians, and after a most
laborious and painful roundabout march of many days, we reached the
scene of the troubles, only to find, as I fully expected, the Indians
gone. The dead were buried, and the troops, after remaining for some
time, returned to the fort.
Now comes the most interesting part of the incident. The captured women
were Mrs. Noble, Mrs. Thatcher, Mrs. Marble and Miss Gardner. The
legislature of the territory was in session, and the news of the event
soon reached St. Paul, and, as might be expected, created great
excitement, and, of course, the principal interest centered in the
rescue of the prisoners. All the legislature could do was to appropriate
money to defray the expenses of the undertaking, and as nobody knew
what to do or how to do it, they appropriated $10,000 and wisely left
the whole matter to Governor Medary, who was then the governor of the
territory, with full power to do what he thought best about it. He,
being a practical man, and having no idea at all of how to proceed in
the matter, very sensibly turned the whole business over to me, with
_carte blanche_ to do whatever I thought best.
An accident controlled the situation, and shaped future events. Two of
my Indians, who had been hunting on the Big Sioux river, heard that
Ink-pa-du-ta was encamped at Skunk lake, about seventy-five miles west
of Spirit lake, and had some white captives in his camp; so they went to
see him, and succeeded in purchasing Mrs. Marble, for whom they paid
horses and rifles, and whatever they had, and brought her into the
Yellow Medicine agency and delivered her to me. I paid them $500 each
for their services, and immediately sent out another expedition to try
to rescue the other captives. I say I paid these two Indians $500 each.
The fact is, I could raise but $500 in money on the reservation, which I
gave them, and resorted to a financial scheme to get the rest, which has
since become quite the fashion when people or communities are short. I
issued a territorial bond, and as it is the first government bond that
ever was issued in all the country that lies between the Mississippi to
the Rocky Mountains, I give it in full.
"I, Stephen R. Riggs, missionary among the Sioux Indians, and I,
Charles E. Flandrau, United States Indian agent for the Sioux,
being satisfied that Mak-pi-ya-ka-ho-ton and Si-ha-ho-ta, two
Sioux Indians, have performed a valuable service to the
Territory of Minnesota and humanity, by rescuing from captivity
Mrs. Margaret Ann Marble, and delivering her to the Sioux
agent, and being further satisfied that the rescue of the two
remaining white women who are now in captivity among
Ink-pa-du-ta's band of Indians depends much upon the liberality
shown towards the said Indians who have recovered Mrs. Marble,
and having full confidence in the humanity and liberality of the
Territory of Minnesota, through its government and citizens,
have this day paid to the two said above named Indians, the sum
of five hundred dollars in money, and do hereby pledge to said
two Indians that the further sum of five hundred dollars will be
paid to them by the Territory of Minnesota or its citizens
within three months from the date hereof.
"Dated May 22nd, 1857, at Pa-Ku-ta Zi-zi, M. T.
"STEPHEN R. RIGGS,
"_Missionary A. B. C. F. M_.
"CHAS. E. FLANDRAU,
"_U. S. Indian Agent for Sioux._"
This bond differed materially from some that were issued by Minnesota
afterwards, in being paid promptly at maturity.
My expedition brought in Miss Gardner, but Mrs. Noble and Mrs. Thatcher
were killed before relief reached them.
All this occurred before I heard of the action of the legislature, and
was done wholly on my individual responsibility. I, however, reimbursed
myself for the outlay from the state funds, and covered the balance of
the appropriation into the treasury.
Very shortly after the rescue of Miss Gardner, while at the Redwood
agency, I received a note from Sam Brown, a trader at Yellow Medicine,
by an Indian courier, which informed me that Ink-pa-du-ta and several
of his band were at the Yellow Medicine river. I at once determined to
kill or capture them, and sent word back that I would be on hand with a
proper force on the morning of the second day, and that he must send an
Indian who knew where to find them, who would meet me at midnight on the
top of a butte half way between the Redwood and Yellow Medicine rivers,
and guide me in.
I then made a requisition for troops on the commander of the post at
Ridgely, who sent me a lieutenant and fifteen men. It chanced to be
Lieutenant Murray, who had accompanied the expedition to Spirit lake.
While waiting for the soldiers, I raised a volunteer force of about
twenty men, among whom was a son of the celebrated electrician,
Professor Morse, and some other young gentlemen who were visiting the
agency, all of whom insisted on going for the fun of the thing. The
balance consisted of employes, most of whom were half-breeds. The
soldiers arrived about five o'clock in the afternoon, and I put them in
wagons. I mounted my squad on good horses, and every man was furnished
with a double-barrelled shotgun and a revolver. We started about dark,
and at midnight arrived at the butte. I galloped to the top of it, and
found sitting there in the most composed manner possible smoking his
pipe, An-pe-tu-toka-sha, or John Otherday, who had been deputed by Brown
to guide us in. He said he knew where we could find the enemy, and
indicated six lodges standing together about four miles above the Yellow
Medicine Agency, on the open prairie. He left the road, and guided us
through the open country to a point on the river about a mile below the
lodges, they being on the other side of the river. We arrived at about
four o'clock in the morning, just as the light of day was breaking. It
was an engrossing study to observe how skillfully he kept us concealed
from view of the enemy, by keeping rolls of the prairie between us. All
his movements were like those of a wary animal, stealthy and noiseless.
The fact is, the education of a savage is learned from the wild animals
on which he lives, and that is what makes him such a good hunter and
fighter.
The river, with a narrow stretch of bottom land and a bluff of about
thirty feet in height, lay between us and the plateau on which was the
camp where Ink-pa-du-ta was supposed to be. Here we formed our plan of
attack. As soon as we crossed and attained the high prairie, and located
the enemy, we were to divide our force into two squads, one of which was
to be the soldiers and the other the mounted men. The soldiers were to
double-quick up the edge of the bluff, to intercept a retreat into the
river bottom, while the mounted men took the open prairie to cut off
escape in the other direction. Lieutenant Murray was to lead the
soldiers and I the horsemen. I said to Otherday and my interpreter: "How
are we to know the guilty parties?" The answer was: "Whoever runs from
the camp you may be sure of."
The scene presented when we reached the high land was beautiful,
inspiring, and frightfully alarming. As far as the eye could reach there
was an unbroken camp of savages, not less than eight or ten thousand of
them, representing all the Indians of my upper bands, and those from the
Missouri who always visited us at payment time. I knew many of them were
relatives of Ink-pa-du-ta and his people, and most of them his friends,
but there was no time for balancing chances, and, at the word, away we
went for the enemy's camp, which was the farthest up the river of them
all. The night had been very hot, and, as is the custom, the tepees had
been rolled up at the bottom, to allow a free circulation of air, which,
of course, allowed the inmates an open view of the prairie. When my
squad got within about two or three hundred yards of the lodges a young
Indian, holding the hand of a squaw and carrying a double-barrelled
shotgun, sprang out, and made for the river bluff as fast as his legs
would carry him. All the soldiers fired at him, but he did not seem to
be hit, and disappeared among the chaparral in the bottom. We surrounded
him. He fired four shots, and each time I looked to see a man fall, but
only one shot was effective, and that struck the cartridge box of a
young soldier, turning it completely inside out, but without injuring
the wearer. Whenever he shot, we poured a volley into the place
indicated by the smoke, and succeeded in killing him. We took his squaw
and put her into one of the wagons, more for the purpose of identifying
the man than anything else, and started down the river towards the
agency. We had to pass through the heart of all these camps, and the
squaw yelled as only a scared squaw can. The savages swarmed about our
party by the hundreds and thousands, threatening vengeance, and
flourishing their guns in a blood-curdling manner. A shot from one of
them, or from one of us, would have sent us all into heaven in less than
a moment. The shot was not fired, and we succeeded in reaching the
agency in safety. I have always attributed our escape to the moral force
of the government that was behind us.
At the agency there were great log buildings, in which we fortified
ourselves. I sent a courier to Fort Ridgely for reenforcements. The
commanding-officer sent us the old Sherman Buena Vista Battery, which
assisted us in letting go and getting out.
The Indian we killed turned out to be the eldest son of Ink-pa-du-ta,
who was one of the head devils in the Spirit lake massacre. He had
ventured in to see his sweetheart, and was the only one of the gang that
was present when we made our attack.