massacre to go unpunished. Colonel Alexander of the Tenth and I had a
plan by which we would have destroyed Ink-pa-du-ta and his band without
a doubt, but just at the moment of putting it into execution an order
came for all the companies of the Tenth at Ridgely to leave at once for
Fort Bridger, in Utah, to join the expedition under General Albert
Sydney Johnson, against the Mormons, and that was the end of it.
Our raid was about as foolhardy and reckless a one as ever was
undertaken, and our escape can only be credited to providence or good
luck.
MUSCULAR LEGISLATION.
My attention was once arrested by a short editorial, under the caption
of "Gold Lace Lawmaking," which recalled an amusing incident in my
experience that occurred in 1856. The editorial said: "When the
lawmakers of the province of Manitoba met at Winnipeg, the occasion was
something to impress the voter. The Royal Canadian Dragoons paraded, and
the Thirteenth field battery roared a salute. Mark the contrast. On one
side of the line, ceremony, gold lace and honor. On the other, nothing
but a few clean collars and a camp-fire of the bobby."
It is not my intention to discuss the question of which is the better
method, but to relate an incident which will cast some light on the
views people of the two sections take of legislative etiquette and
ceremony, and the slight effect such ideas have on the practical subject
of legislation and the conduct of the legislators.
In the year 1856 I was elected by the people of the Minnesota valley to
the territorial council, which corresponds to the state senate under our
present political organization. At the same election a neighbor of mine,
George McLeod, was elected to the house of representatives from the same
district. George was a Scotch Canadian, who had passed his life in that
part of Canada where French is the dominant language, and it had become
his most familiar tongue. He was a giant in build, being much over six
feet in height, and correspondingly powerful. He was red headed, and
although well educated, preferred his fists to any other weapons in
argument, and generally carried his points. He was fond of good horses,
boasted of his skill as a hunter, and possessed all the requisites of a
successful frontiersman. He added to these accomplishments an extensive
knowledge of Scotch poetry and a varied repertoire of choice songs,
which he sang on all appropriate occasions. On the whole, George might
be classified as an all around good fellow. Another attribute which I
must not forget to mention was, that he was the brother of one of our
most distinguished first settlers, Martin McLeod, who was a member of
the first territorial council, which convened in 1849, and also the
brother of Rev. Norman McLeod, a plucky Presbyterian preacher, who
settled in Salt Lake City in the fifties, and preached the Gentile
religion when Mormonism was at its height and its disciples were in the
habit of killing people who differed from them.
After the excitement of the election was over, George naturally began to
reflect upon his exalted position, and, of course, all his conclusions
were reached from a Canadian point of view. Feeling a little doubt on
some questions, he decided to consult me, supposing I was more familiar
with the American way of doing things than he possibly could be; so one
day he came to see me on the all-engrossing subject. We found each other
in the regulation costume of the country, which consisted of blue
flannel shirts, cheap slop-shop trowsers, Red River moccasins, and the
whole finished off with a scarlet Hudson's Bay or a variegated Pembina
sash, all of which was picturesque, but carried with it no semblance of
pretentious aristocracy. I welcomed George with great cordiality, and he
at once opened his budget. He said: "Flaundreau," giving my name the
full French pronunciation, "when we get down to parliament, we will have
to set up a coach." My surprise may be well imagined, when I tell you a
journey of a hundred miles on foot was to either of us no unusual event,
and that neither McLeod nor I had been the owner of a boot or a shoe for
several years. I, however, restrained my astonishment, and asked: "What
makes you think so?" His reply was, that it was entirely inadmissible
for a member of parliament to walk from his hotel to the parliament
house or to ride in a public conveyance. The question of British or
Canadian etiquette flashed upon me, and explained McLeod's meaning; but
it required an immense effort on my part to control my laughter, when I
had fully taken in the ludicrous features of the proposition. I would no
more have given way to my inclinations, however, than I would have
yielded to the same desire when some ridiculous event happens at an
official Indian council. The picture of a coach with liveried coachman
and footman driving up to the door of the old American House in St.
Paul, and two half-savage looking men, shod in moccasins, climbing into
it, to be transported three or four blocks to the old capitol, with a
gaping crowd of half-breeds and ruffianly spectators looking on in
amazement, passed before my mind, and made me wonder what would be the
result of such a phenomenal spectacle; but I simply said: "We had better
wait until we get there, and see what the other fellows do; but there is
one thing I can promise you, and that is, that our district shall not
fall behind any of the rest of them if it takes a coach and six to hold
it up."
When we arrived at the parliament, of course McLeod's ideas of etiquette
and good form met with a rude check, and that was the last I ever heard
of the subject.
But it was not the last I heard of my colleague. His convivial and
belligerent characteristics led him into all sorts of scrapes. He was,
however, usually quite competent to take care of himself, and we each
followed our own trails without interference, until some political
question of more than ordinary interest came up in the house, and an
evening session was agreed upon for its discussion. McLeod was to speak
on the subject, and he spent nearly all day in preparation, which
consisted in dropping in at old Caulder's, a brother Scotchman, about
every hour and taking a drink, so when the time arrived he was loaded to
the guards with inspiration.
In the old capitol the halls of legislation were on the second floor,
the house on one side and the council on the other, with an open hall
between them and a stairway leading up from below. The height between
the floors was about sixteen feet. It had been arranged that a keg of
whisky should be put into the council chamber, to be presided over by
the sergeant-at-arms of the council, who was an enormous man, larger
even than McLeod.
The hour arrived, a large party attended the debate, among whom were Joe
Rolette and I, many ladies also gracing the occasion. McLeod spoke, and
after he had finished, he sauntered over to the council chamber to
refresh himself. While the custodian of the keg was getting him a drink,
McLeod asked if he had heard his speech, and how he liked it. The
sergeant ventured a not very flattering criticism on some remark he had
made, when George slapped him viciously across the face with a pair of
buckskin gauntlets he held in his hand. He had hardly struck the blow,
when the sergeant seized him, and rushed him across the hall to the
railing around the staircase, reaching which, over McLeod went backwards
to the bottom, sixteen feet below, with a crash that could be heard all
over the building. In a moment or two, my friend, Joe Rolette, came
running breathlessly to me, and gasped out, "Hiawatha, Hiawatha" [the
name he always called me], "McLeod is dead." I sprang to my feet, and
rushed down stairs, where I found McLeod laid out on a lounge in the
office of the secretary of the territory, with Doctor Le Boutillier, a
French member from St. Anthony, endeavoring to pacify him. The
conversation ran as follows:
Doctor: "Georges, mon ami; ne bouge pas, tu a le bras cassé."
McLeod: "Fiche-Moi la paix, on peut courber le bras à un
Ecossais; on ne peut pas le lui casser."
Which translated would read:
"George, my friend, be quiet, your arm is broken."
"Stand aside, you may bend a Scotchman's arms, but you can't
break them."
Poor McLeod's right arm was broken badly, which laid him up until the
end of the session.
A short time after the legislature had dissolved George was standing in
a saloon on Third street, with his right arm in a sling, and a glass of
whisky in his left hand, which he was about to drink, when who should
walk in but the big sergeant. Without a word George discharged the
contents of his glass into the face of the sergeant, and prepared for
battle, crippled as he was; but the interruption of friends and the
chivalry of the sergeant prevented an encounter, and so ended the
legislative career of the gentleman from Canada. Whether it would have
terminated otherwise had we set up our coach and livery and changed our
moccasins for patent leather boots I leave to the decision of the
reader.
He went with General Sibley's command to the Missouri, where I believe
he remained.
THE VIRGIN FEAST.
In all ages, and among all people who had progressed beyond absolute
individualism and gained any kind of government or community interests,
there must have been some kind of law to settle disputes and
controversies, whether of a public or private nature, and I remember
once, in the very early days of Minnesota, of witnessing a test which
bore a close resemblance to a trial by jury, and involved an important
question of individual character which would have been classified under
our jurisprudence as an action of slander. It occurred among the Sioux
Indians, and presented many features of much interest that made an
impression on me which I have never forgotten. The whole proceeding was
absolutely natural and aboriginal in its character and conduct, and free
from the technicalities which sometimes obstruct the progress of the
administration of justice in modern times.
It is well known that the value of the testimony of a witness depends
very much upon his demeanor and manner of delivering it in court, and
that the judge usually tells the jury that they must take these matters
into consideration in giving it its true weight; but in the case I am
about to relate there was nothing but the appearance and manner of the
witnesses testifying upon which to base a judgment of their truth or
falsity, and it was this novel feature that lent additional and peculiar
interest to the controversy.
The Sioux Indians have a rude kind of jurisprudence which gets at the
truth by a sort of natural intuition, and the case I witnessed convinced
me that justice had been reached with more certainty than in nine out of
ten of our jury trials. We have all heard of trial by battle, under the
old English law, and the trial of witches by water, where, if they sank
and drowned they were innocent, and if they floated they were guilty and
were hanged. But this trial was based on public sentiment or the ability
of bystanders to detect guilt or innocence from the appearance and
conduct of the litigants during the trial, which, although a crude
method, is, in my judgment, much safer than some of those practised by
our ancestors at no very remote date.
The trial I refer to is called the "Virgin Feast." It is brought about
in this way: Some gossip or scandal is started in a band about one of
the young women. It reaches the ears of her mother. In order to test its
truth or falsity, the mother commands her daughter to give a "Virgin
Feast." The accused cooks some rice, and invites all the maidens of the
band to come and partake. They appear, each with a red spot painted on
each cheek, as an emblem of virginity. They seat themselves in a
semi-circle on the prairie, and the hostess supplies each of them with a
bowl of rice which is set before her. A boulder, painted red, is placed
in front of them, about ten feet distant, and a large knife is thrust
into the ground in front of, and close up to, the stone. All the young
men attend as spectators. This ceremony is, on the part of the accused
and any girl who takes a place in the ring, a challenge to the world,
that, if any one has aught to say against her, he has the privilege of
saying it. If nothing is said, and the feast is eaten uninterruptedly,
the maiden who gave the feast is vindicated, and the gossip disbelieved;
but if the challenge is taken up by any young buck, he steps forward and
seizes the girl he accuses by the hand, pulls her out of the ring, and
makes his charges. She has the right of swearing on the stone and knife
to her innocence, which goes a great way in her vindication, but is not
conclusive. If she swears, and he persists, an altercation ensues, and
public sentiment is formed on view of the contestants' actions.
I remember once, at one of these trials, of seeing a young fellow of
about twenty-five, step forward and rudely grasp the hand of a girl of
about sixteen, jerk her to her feet, and make some scandalous charge
against her. The look she gave him was so full of righteous indignation,
scorn and offended virtue that no one could see it without being at once
enlisted in her favor. She glared on him for a moment, with a look that
only outraged innocence can assume, when shouts went up from the crowd,
"Swear! Swear!" She approached the stone with the bearing of a princess,
and placed her hand upon it with an air that could not be mistaken; then
throwing a look of triumph at the spectators, she strode back to face
her accuser with the confidence that bespeaks innocence. The fellow
began to weaken, and in less than a moment was in full flight with a
howling mob after him, hurling sticks and stones at him with no gentle
intent. He disappeared, and the girl took her place in the ring as fully
vindicated as if the lord chief justice of England had decided her case.
I recollect very distinctly that my convictions of her innocence induced
by the general features of the trial and conduct of the litigants were
as strong as any member of the court.
It probably would not do to depend upon such evidence in the more
complicated affairs of civilized life, and with a people educated in
dissimulation and the control of the emotions, but with a simple and
natural people I don't believe many mistakes were made in arriving at
just judgments.
"Innocence unmoved
At a false accusation doth the more
Confirm itself; and guilt is best discover'd
By its own fears."
THE ABORIGINAL WAR CORRESPONDENT.
From the earliest days of recorded history man has regarded his prowess
in war as the most valuable of his exploits, and success in war has
generally been measured by the number of slain on the battle-field. I
don't know how the facts were arrived at in ancient times, and whether
or not they had war correspondents who followed the armies and reported
their doings I can't say, but as the art of printing was unknown, and
the means of communication were very limited, it seems doubtful if the
results were arrived at in that way. From what I know of human nature
and character, I am convinced that, if the reports were made through the
commanders in the field, the lists of the enemy slain may fairly be
discounted about seventy-five per cent. Have we not had reports of the
most exaggerated character as to the number of prisoners captured and
enemies killed so recently as our Civil War? And have we ever read of a
battle with the Indians or other uncivilized people where, after giving
our own losses, we have not met with the old stereotyped report, "that
the loss of the enemy was far greater, but as they always remove their
dead and wounded, it is impossible to ascertain the exact number?" The
wars now raging in the Philippines and Samoa form no exception to this
familiar report. So far as our fights with the American Indians are
concerned, I feel quite confident that, where we have killed one Indian,
we have lost ten whites, take it through from the Atlantic to the
Pacific; but you can't figure out any such results from the reports
which have made up history. The temptation to exaggerate for the
purpose of hero-making and future political preferment is too great to
be resisted, and the consequence is that truth suffers amazingly.
Perhaps it is better for mankind that the slaughter should be on paper,
rather than in fact.
Modern warfare has introduced the new element of the war correspondent.
He is generally either a creature of the commander, or desirous of
flattering him for personal advantage or some other consideration, and
he piles on the praises of the side he represents, diminishes the credit
due the enemy, and resolves every doubt against him.
Now the Indian has a way of arriving at the truth of such matters which
is infinitely more satisfactory than that of his white brother. He knows
just as well as any one what boasters all men are on matters relating to
their own exploits, and especially those relating to war, and in order
that there shall be no humbug about such matters, he will give no
credence to any statement that is not accompanied by the most
irrefragable proof. When a warrior comes home and says, "I killed six
enemies on my last raid," he is confronted with the demand to produce
his evidence, and the only evidence admissible is the scalps of the dead
enemies. Should he make such an assertion without the proof, he would be
laughed out of the camp as a silly boaster.
Most people think the practice of scalping an enemy, generally indulged
in by the Sioux, is a wanton desire cruelly to mutilate the foe. Such is
not the case at all; he is prompted solely by the desire of procuring
proof of his success, and he will take more chances to get a scalp than
he would for any other object in life. Among the Sioux, and I believe
most of the tribes of North America, for every enemy killed a warrior
is entitled to wear a head-dress with an eagle feather in it, which to
him fills the same place in his character and reputation as the Victoria
cross or the medal of the legion of honor, or any other of the numerous
decorations bestowed upon white men for deeds of bravery and honor; and
to gain this distinction he is moved by the same impulse that actuated
Hobson in sinking the Merrimac in the harbor of Santiago, or the actors
in the thousand and one daring deeds in which men in all ages have
freely risked their lives.
Scalping is an art, and the manner in which it is done, depends wholly
upon the circumstances of the occasion. A complete and perfect scalp
embraces the whole hair of the head, with a margin of skin all round it
about two and a half inches in width, including both ears with all their
ornaments. This can only be obtained when the victor has abundant time
to operate leisurely. When he is beset by the enemy, all he can do, as a
general thing, is to seize the hair with the left hand and hold up the
scalp with it and then give a quick cut with his knife, and get as big a
piece as he can. By this hurried process he rarely gets a piece larger
than a small saucer, and generally not bigger than a silver dollar; but
no matter how small it may be, it entitles him to his feather. Among the
Sioux the killing of a full grown grizzly bear is equivalent to the
killing of an enemy, and entitles the victor to the same decoration. I
have known Indians who wore as many as sixteen feathers.
It is not alone the importance that these decorations give the wearer
which enters into their value. When he returns from the war path,
bearing scalps, he is received by all his band with demonstrations of
the greatest pride and honor. If you can imagine Dewey landing at New
York from the Philippines, you can form some idea of the honors that
would be heaped upon a victorious savage. If the weather is pleasant, he
strips to the waist, and paints his body jet black. He places on the top
of his head a round ball of pure white swan's down, about the size of a
large orange, and takes in his hand a staff, about five feet long, with
a buckskin fringe tacked on to the upper three feet of it. On the end of
each shred of the fringe is a piece of a deer's hoof, forming a rattle,
by striking together when shaken up and down. When arrayed in this
manner he marches up and down the village, recounting in a sort of a
chant the entire history of the events of the raid on the enemy, going
into the most minute details, and indulging in much imagination and
superstition. He tells what he dreamed, what animals he saw, and how all
these things influenced his conduct. He continues this ceremony for days
and days, and is the admiration of all his people. I have seen four or
five of them together promenading in this way, and have taken an
interpreter and marched with them by the hour listening to their
stories.
When this part of the performance is over, the scalps are tanned by the
women, as they would tan a buffalo-skin, the inside painted red, and the
whole stretched on a circular hoop, about the size of a barrel hoop, to
which is attached a straight handle, about four feet long, so that it
can be carried in the air above the heads of the people. It is also
decorated with all the trinkets found on the person of the slain.
Then begins the dancing. When night comes the men arrange themselves in
two lines, about fifteen feet apart, facing each other, all provided
with tom-toms, and musical instruments of all kinds known to the savage.
When everything is ready, they sing a kind of a weird chant, keeping
time with the instruments and their feet. Then the squaws, with the
scalps held aloft, dance in between the lines of men from opposite
directions, until they meet, when they chassé to the right and left,
then dance back and forward again, every once in a while emitting a
sharp little screech which I have never known to be successfully
imitated. During the dance, the men join in a kind of shuffle from right
to left, and back again, keeping the music going all the time. The whole
performance is one of the most savage and weird ceremonies I have ever
witnessed. It is kept up for weeks.
It was a frequent amusement for half a dozen of us to throw blankets
over our heads, and join in the dance for half an hour or so. I have
been lulled to sleep many times by this wild music, heard from a
distance of half a mile, on a still night.
It was supposed that when the scalp was taken while the leaves were on
the trees, it was danced over until they fell, and then buried, and when
taken in winter it was buried when the leaves came in the spring, but I
never was quite sure about this. I wanted one very much once, and a
party of us went in the night just back of St. Peter, where we supposed
they had been buried, and dug for them, and to our horror struck the
toes of a dead Indian. That cured my desire in this direction.
BRED IN THE BONE.